‘I would like to meet the man who has changed you from docility to such spirited rebellion. He must be quite remarkable.’
‘He is. He’s also faithless, unscrupulous and unprincipled,’ and then she had the grace to blush as she remembered to whom she was speaking.
Zia’s eyes sparkled. ‘My darling Nancy. With every word you make him even more irresistible.’ She twirled her crystal glass thoughtfully in her hands. ‘I hope your good intentions are firm. I have some news which might not be entirely welcome.’
For an insane moment Nancy thought she was speaking of Ramon and that her secret was a secret no longer.
‘Among yesterday’s cables for reservations was one from Washington,’ Zia said.
Nancy stared at her. ‘Jack?’ she asked incredulously.
Zia nodded.
‘Is he coming alone?’
‘I think so. I believe the reservation was only for him. And his secretary.’
Nancy’s face closed. ‘I take back what I said a minute ago,’ she said angrily. ‘He isn’t even clever: just monumentally stupid and incredibly selfish,’ and to Zia’s dismay she rose to her feet, kissed her hastily on the cheek, and walked quickly away, her eyes full of furious tears.
‘Among our fellow guests,’ Vere said, leaning elegantly against the flower-decked rails of the balcony, ‘are Prince Nicholas Vasileyev, Count Szapary and his countess who can’t be a day over seventeen, an exiled king who is theatrically insisting on being referred to as Mr Blenheim, and the usual Park Lane set. It’s really no different to being at Molesworth or Cliveden. The same people, the same gossip …’
‘But not the same climate,’ Nancy said, stretching luxuriously on her lounger.
He grinned, water from his swim glinting his hair a pale gold.
‘You’re really quite a child of nature, aren’t you? I bet you even swam at Hyannis.’
‘Every day, though the water is so cold it turns you blue, even in August.’
‘The Russians don’t swim,’ Vere said, nodding over the balcony in the direction of the exiles who reclined at the side of the pool, draped with rugs and a hundred other conveniences, while their manservants stood at attention three yards behind them, resplendent in livery and white cotton gloves. ‘There must be fifty years’difference in the Szaparys’ages. She’s still a mere child.’
‘Then she’ll have a lifespan of at least five years as countess. Old Szapary tires of his wives once they’ve reached their twenties. The last one was discarded at twenty-one.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She went to London and seduced Lord Studley, which was rather unfair of her as he was still on his honeymoon. Then she dropped him, which she must have thought redressed the balance, and married a crooner in Los Angeles.’
Vere wore a midnight-blue towelling robe over his swimming trunks. His legs were strong, his feet well-shaped. He lit a Dunhill and continued to survey the pool and gardens and the glittering expanse of jade and amethyst water that stretched to apparent infinity.
‘Costos is here. His companion is Madeleine Mancini, the beauty who was to have married King Zog. Sir Maxwell Meade and his wife are here. Ever since he was attached to the Belgian court he’s been hopelessly in love with the queen.’ He grinned. ‘A passion that is not reciprocated. Bobo is here, though not with her bandleader, thank God. Her new lover looks very Egyptian and very unsuitable.’
‘Bobo’s lovers always are.’
He laughed and sat down beside her, taking her hand and trapping it between his. ‘So, apparently, are yours.’
‘My lover was singular, not plural.’
His eyes held hers, the laughter dying, to be replaced by an emotion that quickened her pulse. She was wearing a swimming costume and for the first time was acutely aware of her near-nakedness. His eyes travelled to her lips, and then slowly downwards over her breasts and legs.
Despite herself, Nancy felt her body respond. He leaned towards her. ‘Then it’s about time you took another,’ he said, and his hands were warm and strong on her shoulders as he drew her to him. ‘Life’s short, Nancy.’
She uttered a little cry and he stifled it with a long, deep kiss.
She clung to him and he mistook her need, his hands moving downwards, cupping her breasts, his breath coming hot and hard.
She buried her hands in his hair, tugging his head away from hers, her violet-dark eyes helpless and despairing.
‘I’m not in love with you, Vere.’
His face was hardly recognizable. It was a mask of longing.
‘I’m in love with you, Nancy. I’ve loved you since I was seventeen. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Let me love you, Nancy. Please.’ He was kissing her neck, her throat.
Her voice was trembling. ‘I can’t, Vere. Not without loving you.’
His fingers dug deep into her shoulders. ‘I’ll make you love me,’ he said fiercely.
‘Oh Vere, I wish you could.’ It was a cry of such pain that it halted him.
‘What did he do to you?’ he asked wonderingly. She looked as young and vulnerable as the Russian countess.
‘I thought he’d freed me,’ she said with a shaky smile. ‘But for what I’m no longer sure.’
He kissed her forehead and rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps we can find out, given time.’
She felt an overwhelming rush of tenderness for him. ‘Perhaps. You’re very kind to me, Vere.’
‘I love you. I’m always kind to people I love.’ He was smiling again. ‘As there are so many old cronies here I’m holding a dinner party on the Rosslyn tonight. Prince Nicholas is gracing us with his presence. I’m not happy about the seating arrangements, though. Will our ex-monarch want to be seated as such, or as plain Mr Blenheim? And if I invite Bobo, I’ll be obliged to invite her Egyptian.‘
‘It could get even more complicated in future. Jack is on his way here.’
He paused, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. ‘For a reconciliation?’
‘I doubt it. He’s bringing his mistress with him.’
Vere relaxed slightly. The Egyptian paled into insignificance. ‘Perhaps we’ll have to seek sanctuary in the Canaries after all.’
‘I’m not going to be chased away by Jack. Or intimidated into going home,’ Nancy said spiritedly. ‘If he’d talked to me when I wanted him to, he could have saved himself a long trip.’
‘Perhaps he likes the sun,’ Vere said, handing her an iced Punt-es-Mes.
Her soft lips curved in a smile as she banished her ghosts and fears to a far recess of her mind.
‘I think it’s more likely that he wants a wife beside him on his official trips. I hadn’t realized just how indispensable I was to Jack’s career. There are evidently some things a mistress can’t stand in for.’
The telephone rang in the room behind them. There was a short pause and then Vere’s valet coughed discreetly and stepped out on to the balcony. ‘Her Royal Highness, the Princess Louise, requests the pleasure of your company in Suite 206 for afternoon tea.’
‘Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches,’ Vere said disrespectfully. ‘She’s been a teetotaller ever since the prince fell into a vat of wine and drowned.’
Nancy giggled, her dark shadows vanquished. ‘Which explains why her entourage carry hip flasks as though there was still prohibition.’ She swung her legs on to the ground and rose to her feet in one easy movement. ‘I think I’m going to follow Zia’s example and relegate my fashionable clothes to the back of my wardrobe. I’m tired of looking sleek and streamlined. No more squared shoulders and skirts flapping inches above the ankle. I’m going to dress how I feel from now on.’
‘And how is that?’ he asked, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled across at her.
‘Dreamy and romantic.’ To her surprise and his, she kissed him full on the lips before walking swiftly away into the privacy of her oyster-silk-lined bedroom.
‘You realize you are crossing the
point of no return by openly hostessing for Vere tonight?’ Zia said as her Hispania-Suzia swept them down the curving coast road towards the harbour.
‘Why? We’re not lovers.’ Nancy wore a dress that would have prematurely aged Jack; a lilac-sequined, seductively clinging halter-neck that skimmed her breasts and plunged nearly to the base of her spine. Her skin was already taking on a soft honey tone from the sun, perfectly complementing her violet-dark eyes and the feathery cap of her hair.
‘There were no other guests aboard the Rosslyn. Your suites are adjoining.’
‘We’re cousins.’
Zia shrugged and re-adjusted the inch-deep diamond bracelet on her wrist. ‘Half of Vere’s guests are married to cousins. It’s the only way they can continue to marry within their class. The Americans are just as bad. Lady Astor’s famous four hundred hasn’t changed that much. Poor Breda Farning was ostracized after she married her nice Scotsman. I’m very grateful for my North End upbringing. It gives me a sense of proportion so many of my friends lack.’
Nancy smiled and leant back against the soft leather of her seat. She felt almost happy as they rounded the last of the bends and the Rosslyn came into view, glittering from stem to stern with gaily coloured fairylights. Far out in the darkness a sleek, ocean-going yacht was fast approaching Funchal Bay. Nancy barely noticed it.
She was dancing with Vere when the Kezia slid into harbour and Ramon strode angrily down the hastily-lowered gangplank.
Chapter Eight
Headlights flaring, Ramon recklessly drove his waiting Daimler up the dark and twisting road that led to the clifftops and the brilliant splendour of his hotel. The scurrying sense of excitement he generated in his impeccably-mannered staff was electric.
Guests strolling from the ballroom to the Palm Court caught a fleeting glimpse of him as he strode, iron-faced, towards the gilded lift that served his suite of rooms alone. The over-eager smiles of the ladies were quickly quashed as Ramon ignored their existence.
‘Send Villiers to me immediately,’ he ordered as hurrying minions opened doors, silver-salvered trollies appeared instantaneously with a vast range of cold meats and exotic salads and fruits. A bath was run, towels warmed, champagne chilled. Anything and everything that he could possibly request was prepared with lightning speed.
Villiers, the secretary permanently based at Sanfords, entered the suite only seconds behind Ramon, pinstriped suit immaculate, silk handkerchief falling from his breast pocket, a carnation in his lapel. Four minutes previously he had been in bed, reading an Edgar Wallace novel. The liveried underlings disappeared silently and swiftly. Ramon threw his jacket on to a chair, loosened his tie, ignored the champagne and poured himself a Courvoisier.
‘What suite is Mrs Cameron occupying?’ he shot at Villiers, as the Courvoisier was swallowed in a gulp and another quickly poured.
‘The Garden Suite, sir.’
‘And adjoining?’ His voice was like the crack of a whip.
‘The Duke of Meldon. Prince Vasileyev is in Suite 204 and the Earl and Countess of Montcalm are in the Lilac Suite.’
Ramon was not remotely interested in the prince or the earl.
‘Did Mrs Cameron arrive with the duke?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Villiers said, concealing his alarm. Mr Sanford’s face was ashy-white, his eyes black hollows above gaunt cheekbones. He looked pale and haggard and most unwell.
‘The Duke of Meldon arrived without his usual party, sir,’ Villiers offered. ‘There was only Mrs Cameron, Mrs Cameron’s maid and the Duke’s usual staff.’
Ramon strode across to the heavy velvet drapes and pulled them back. Far below, the lights of Funchal glittered and the myriad coloured lights of the Rosslyn shimmered against the backdrop of the inky water.
‘The duke is entertaining aboard his yacht, this evening,’ Villiers continued uncomfortably. ‘Prince Vasileyev is in attendance and Count and Countess Szapary and …’
Ramon cut him short. ‘And Mrs Cameron?’
‘Mrs Cameron is also in attendance.’
Villiers had known his employer for over twenty years. That his unusual behaviour was somehow caused by the Duke of Meldon and Mrs Cameron was obvious. He said hesitantly:
‘I believe Mrs Cameron is the Duke of Meldon’s cousin. I was told it was a family party, sir.’
Ramon’s eyes narrowed as he stared broodingly down at the distant harbour.
‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Villiers.’
As the secretary departed, Ramon’s hand was already reaching for the bottle of Courvoisier again. A family party. It was possible. Vere Winterton did not have the reputation of a womanizer. He was too passionately enthralled with his cool and self-contained duchess. Ramon wished him well of her. His tastes ran to women of flesh and blood; not marble statues. He picked up one of the telephones on his desk.
‘Villiers?’
Villiers, who was once more esconsed under the sheets and about to discover the identity of the murderer, stifled a groan and said passionlessly, ‘Yes, sir?’
‘The Duchess of Meldon. Whereabouts is she?’
Villiers was not secretary extraordinaire at Sanfords for nothing. The rich and the famous, the titled and the royal, all were, if they cared to know it, meticulously filed and indexed in Villiers’balding head: their likes and dislikes, foibles and eccentricities were as well known to him as they were to their loved ones. Their whereabouts too were of paramount importance to Villiers. If a regular client should suddenly abandon his yearly retreat to Sanfords for pastures new, Villiers had to be aware of it – and rectify it.
‘Rajasathan,’ he said, with only a moment’s hesitation. ‘A tiger-shoot with the Maharajah of Jathshur. I believe it is to be an extended trip. The polo in that country is excellent and I think the duchess is a keen horsewoman.’
Ramon replaced the telephone and pondered darkly. Villiers allowed himself a sigh and returned to Edgar Wallace. The duchess’ long absences from England had caused some speculation in the press. Discreet speculation, but speculation all the same. If all was not well with the Winterton marriage it was possible that Vere was at last beginning to look elsewhere for feminine comforts. On the other hand, what was more natural than that his cousin should be his guest? A muscle throbbed in his cheek. The bedding of cousins was hardly incestuous. It had been the norm in England for generations. It was a prime means of consolidating family wealth and land. His head pounded. He stripped off his clothes and showered, turning the cold jet on for a full minute after he had soaped his body. Why in God’s name had she left as she had? Even more unfathomable, why was she here? Was she mad or was he?
The shower had revived him. It was nearly two in the morning but he dressed again. He had travelled thousands of miles to see her; it was not a meeting that would wait until morning.
He stepped out on to the verandah and stared down at the Rosslyn. Over the water the sound of music and laughter carried faintly: a band was playing Cole Porter’s ‘Miss Otis regrets’. It changed to the dreamy, romantic ‘Night and Day’and he wondered whose arms she was in and resisted the urge to charge down and board the Rosslyn like an avenging fury. He was leaping to conclusions. She had been emotionally disturbed in New York and, despite the fierceness of their love-making, he had never succeeded in discovering the reason for her paralyzing distress on the day they had met. Something had happened between his leaving Hyannis and the day they were to have met in New York. He paced the room, unable to settle; the personification of his nickname. A panther without a leash.
Had Jack Cameron flown suddenly to Hyannis? Had there been a scene between husband and wife that he knew nothing about? He dismissed the idea immediately. The talkative Morris would have told him that when he had told him of Mrs Cameron’s destination. What else could have happened in the short interval between their passionate goodbyes and her mysterious flight?
Boston’s mayor had suffered a heart attack. Ramon swore audibly. That might we
ll have caused her to postpone her plans, but could not possibly be an explanation for her abrupt departure. The mere fact that she had left when Chips was only hours out of hospital was a further deepening of the mystery. It was out of character. He lit a black Sobraine, inhaled twice and crushed it out in an onyx ashtray. What did he know of her character? He barely knew her. A night in New York and an afternoon in Hyannis; was that enough to build a world on? He groaned and ran his fingers through his shock of dark hair. It had been enough to fall in love; they hadn’t needed any more time – it had been instinctive, primeval. She was his and he was hers. The one without the other was incomplete. He wasn’t a boy to be besotted by a pretty face; to be seduced by feminine wiles. He had seen her, he had wanted her and he had taken her … she was his.
Why then had she fled from him? For the whole day of their arranged reunion he had waited for her. First in joyous anticipation, then growing anxiety, then bewilderment. In the early hours of the following morning he had driven to Hyannis like a bat out of hell. The housekeeper had been terrified when he had thundered on the door, pushing past her, mounting the stairs two at a time, calling Nancy’s name. The house, apart from its permanent staff, had been empty. Shakily Morris had informed him of the mayor’s collapse and then, as Ramon had sprinted to his car, had called after him that Madame was not in Boston but had left for Europe – for Madeira.
He had felt as if he was in a bizarre dream from which he could not wake. The hospital authorities had informed him that the mayor was under nursing supervision at his Beacon Hill home. Seamus Flannery had mercifully deflected him from confronting Chips in person. The mayor’s daughter had sailed aboard the Mauretania. The Boston Courier carried the same information; the shipping line confirmed it.
He had ignored the massive pile of correspondence in his New York apartment; Gloria’s desperately scrawled letters were left unread. He had sailed on the Bremen for Southampton, shunning his fellow passengers and standing hour upon hour on the deck, smoking endlessly, his face an inscrutable mask that deterred any approaches. At Southampton the Kezia had been undergoing her annual overhaul and he had ordered her to sail immediately.
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