‘Me?’ She looked at Nancy with a dazed expression. That the Americans were a strange breed of people she already knew. She was married to one and was no nearer to understanding him now than she had been ten years ago.
‘Yes. I want you to put on every single piece of jewellery and return them to Prince Nicholas Vasileyev. There is a message. It is here.’
A small envelope lay on the corner of the dressing table. On the card inside she had written: Thank you for the time we shared together and today’s ridiculous peep into fairyland. As I’m deeply in love elsewhere I must return your jewels with a jewel. Nancy.
‘Oh, but I couldn’t,’ the pretty Frenchwoman was saying, picking up a necklace with shaking hands and fastening it around her throat as she spoke. ‘I couldn’t possibly …’ A broad gold bracelet studded with sapphires slipped over her wrist. ‘Not under any circumstances …’ A ruby-centered gold pin was fastened on her shoulderstrap. She was threading the pearls through her hair.
Nancy and Maria began to laugh, diving into the pile of necklaces and bracelets like children, adorning the intoxicated Madame Molière until she resembled a petite, dazzling Christmas tree. She glittered from the top of her head to her gold-sandalled feet where two diamond earrings had been clipped on to the ankle straps of her shoes.
‘I think I am dreaming. At this moment I must be wearing more jewellery than any other woman in the world! What should I say to him? What should I do?’
‘You say nothing. You knock on his door and then enter. You hand him my card and you look demure. As to what you should do … The prince will no doubt inform you if he wants you to do anything.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ Fleur Molière said, allowing Maria to lead her towards the door. ‘Am I awake or am I asleep? Perhaps I have been smoking Luke Golding’s marijuana …’
Maria did not know what the message was in the envelope that Nancy was placing in Fleure Molière’s dainty hand, but she had a very good idea. Eyes alight with mischief, she led the glittering Madame Molière down the thickly carpeted, mirrored corridor towards the suite occupied by the prince.
Lavinia Meade stepped from her suite en route to the Bridge Room and her husband and fell backwards, unable to believe her eyes. When she summoned the strength to take another look and see if her eyes had been deceiving her or not, the corridor was empty.
‘The Malmsy,’ Lavinia said to herself weakly. ‘I’ve been drinking too much Malmsy.’
Glittering and sparkling, Madame Molière stood at Maria’s side as Maria informed the prince’s valet that Mrs Cameron had a message for him. Then, as the astounded valet escorted Madame Molière over the threshhold, she scurried laughingly back to the Garden Suite. How she would have loved to see the prince’s face. She paused. What if he were angry? No. He couldn’t possibly be angry. The jewels had to be returned. As to whether Madame Molière proved compensation for the loss of Nancy Cameron, only the prince would know. If she did not, she would be none the wiser and no feelings would be hurt. She hoped most fervently that the prince was enchanted by the delightful Frenchwoman. She knew that Madame Molière would be more than enchanted with the prince.
Luis was walking towards her, walking in a part of the hotel he had no business to be in. All thoughts of the prince and Madame Molière vanished.
Nicki wheeled round, expecting to see Nancy. It took him less than a second to take in the situation. He knew what was in Nancy’s note even before he read it. His disappointment was acute but well hidden. One could not always win, but if one lost it was best to lose with style.
‘Allow me, madame,’ he said with a click of his heels and a sweeping bow, and began to remove his family heirlooms slowly, one by one. As the last of the jewels was deposited in the jewel case, his hands did not stop their slow, unhurried movement and Madame Molière did not protest as shimmering silk and exquisite French lingerie skilfully followed jewels.
Chapter Fourteen
As Nancy approached the sumptuous dining room in which cocktails were to be served, she could hear the rise and fall of voices, laughter and coquettish giggles. She entered and there was a momentary hush. Not many women were beautiful enough to silence a room in which kings and princes rubbed shoulders with the world’s most famous film stars. Nancy succeeded effortlessly. Ramon was talking to Charles and Georgina Montcalm, introducing them to an Indian lady, her silken sky-blue sari embroidered with complementing sapphires. His eyes met hers and he excused himself from the Montcalms and moved across to her, taking her openly by the arm.
‘Have you any idea what you do to my blood pressure, dressed like that?’
‘Have you any idea what you do to mine, touching me like that?’
For one precious moment they were in their own private world. They laughed and turned, host and hostess, conscious of a score of curious eyes and whispered speculations.
‘Countess Zmitsky,’ Ramon was saying, and Nancy’s fingers touched the white-gloved hand of a massively built lady with several chins. Pleasantries were exchanged and as they moved away Ramon whispered to Nancy:
‘She’s Czech and extremely active for her age.’
‘She doesn’t look as if she would be active with all that weight on her. I’ve never seen her down at the pool.’
Ramon was laughing, but at what Nancy did not understand. ‘Countess Zmitsky’s sports are of the indoor variety.’
‘No, I went to Wellesly,’ Bobo was saying as a sultry-eyed Italian in a heavily beaded dress asked if she had attended the Sacred Heart Convent in Rome.
Nancy thought Bobo was beginning to look strained and determined to seek her out later on and see if anything was wrong. She had already forgotten any jealousy she had momentarily experienced by the knowledge that Bobo had been one of Ramon’s ex-escorts. If she went through the remainder of her life conscious of who all the females were who had once clung to his arm, then she would never be able to attend any function without torturing herself needlessly. The past was past. Only the present mattered.
Princess Louise clung to her glass of tonic and lemon amid a sea of champagne and asked Mr Blenheim for news of King Carol of Romania.
An ex-world-heavyweight champion was surprisingly tête à tête with Countess Szapary, who had forgone her virginal white for coffee-coloured chiffon which clung to her bosom, black velvet ribbon circling her hand-span waist and hanging in streamers to the ground. A black silk rose was pinned at her throat. She no longer looked a child, but Nancy noticed that her hands fluttered nervously as she talked and that her eyes were in constant search of her husband.
Mrs Minnie Peckwin-Peake wore a million dollars of diamonds on her fingers, neck and wrists. She had more money than all the royals and ex-royals put together and was flaunting it. Mr Peckwin-Peake had left strict instructions in his will that she was to enjoy herself and she was doing just that. She gazed across at Countess Zmitsky with distaste. She had the uncomfortable feeling that the white mound of ugly flesh was also enjoying herself and in the same manner and at the same hands. If so, it would have to stop. Minnie had long experience of keeping her young men in line. With the kind of money she had, there was always another willing young gentleman to be found if the present one proved inadequate or unsuitable. Luis Chavez was more than adequate but might, just might, be unsuitable, which would be a pity.
Viscountess Lothermere was standing at the side of her husband, her exquisitely boned face devoid of expression as he discussed the reversing American financial tide with the president of the Chetwynd Cork Company.
‘Don’t you find Serena’s mysterious detachment intriguing?’ asked Ramon, as they moved deftly from one group to another.
‘I don’t know,’ Nancy answered. ‘I’ve never thought about it. Would you prefer if I withdrew into a private world and had to be coaxed into conversation?’
‘I would prefer it if we hadn’t to go into dinner, and I could take you straight to bed.’
Lavinia Meade turned on them, her heavy eyebr
ows rising. Surely she had not heard aright? But then, she had not seen aright earlier in the evening. She needed a complete medical check up. Sir Guthro Moone in Harley Street would be the best man to see. She would speak to Maxwell about it when they retired later that night.
Madeleine Mancini wore a dress of palest gold lamé and viewed Bobo’s strained face with female satisfaction. Hassan was proving a welcome diversion from Costas and it was pleasurable to know that his attention had been temporarily withdrawn from his official companion.
Dinner was announced and the crème de la crème made their way into the mirrored dining room reserved for Ramon’s and Zia’s hand-picked dinner guests. As on the previous evening, Ramon sat at one end of the table and Nancy at the other. Georgina wondered how much longer Jack Cameron would remain out of sight and relatively silent and thought it might be better to leave and journey south to the Canaries before Sanfords erupted like a volcano.
Down the vast length of the table, Ramon’s eyes sought her face and travelled suggestively to her lips. He was the only man she had ever met who could make love with his eyes. She felt the familiar rise of pleasure and turned to Venetia Bessbrook who was seated on her right.
‘What were you saying, Venetia? I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.’
‘I was saying that Jennifer Alleynian’s broken engagement and her subsequent marriage to Freddie Bingham was remarkably sudden. Between Tatler and Tatler, so to speak.’
Nancy giggled and Venetia found it infectious. Luke could go to damnation for all she cared. She was going to spend no more time pining over him. Or paying for him … which would curtail his activities considerably.
She slid her eyes across to Reggie and wondered if he remembered their heady romance of the previous year in Amalfi. By the gleam in his eyes he did. An old lover was less work than a new one, and for once in her life Venetia was tired. She wished Henry hadn’t died. He hadn’t been the most exciting of lovers, but as a husband he had been dependable and kind – qualities she had so far failed to find elsewhere.
It was a successful dinner party. Minnie Peckwin-Peake’s risqué comments were entertaining. Costas had loaded Princess Louise’s innocuous drink with vodka and the princess found herself recounting stories of her youth that she had almost forgotten herself. Why, she had been quite the toast of Vienna and Paris. A renowned beauty who had received sixty proposals of marriage before the age of eighteen.
Hassan, whose back was more than a trifle sore from Madeleine’s passionate scratchmarks, was once more giving his undivided attention to the less tigerish Bobo, and Bobo was glowing with her old radiance.
Margot Alleynian’s intelligent remarks about the present political situation in Europe lifted the conversation above the usual trivia and Charles Montcalm and the viscount joined in the talk with more than usual zest.
The only cloud on Nancy’s horizon was the knowledge that when the party broke up and ventured into the ballroom to mix with the other guests, she would have to return to Jack’s suite and another painful discussion.
Ramon had not been pleased. He had insisted that she have nothing more to do with her husband and that she allow him to deal with the situation. Nancy had not dared. She knew Ramon’s idea of dealing tactfully with such a situation. With his total lack of regard for what others might say or think, he would have ejected Jack forcibly from the hotel and had him loaded aboard the Aquitania bound and gagged, if necessary.
Luke Golding had been unable to tear his eyes away from her all through dinner. The president of the Chetwynd Cork Company had been so mesmerized by her that he had eaten his fish course with his meat knife and been none the wiser. Even Charles Montcalm had regarded her with a new light in his deep grey eyes. Ramon had watched them and pitied them. She was his. No other man would ever possess her. She knew of his thoughts and she ached for his touch. The orange blaze of his shirt brought out the golden lights that lay hidden deep in his eyes. His black hair tumbled low over straight brows, curling decadently in the nape of his neck. It was impossible to see him and not want to reach out and feel the heat of his flesh against hers.
Far too soon the footmen pulled away the chairs, doors were opened and the distant sound of Sanfords’resident crooner could be heard singing a Rudi Vallee song, ‘Life is just a bowl of cherries.’
It wouldn’t be for the next few minutes.
‘One hour,’ Ramon said grimly. ‘I’ll give you just one hour with him and that’s all. If you’re not back by my side by then I shall come for you.’ It was no idle threat.
‘One hour.’ She promised and hoped that Jack would prove reasonable. She had so not wanted him to be hurt by her behaviour. When she had decided to leave him for Ramon, it had been with the conviction that she could do so without harming his career. It was still possible, but only just. She had resolved long ago not to tell him the truth about her condition and so explain things the easy way. They had lived together for seventeen years and no confidences had been shared. Now was not the time to begin. Besides, if she told Jack he would tell Ramon … She pushed the thought from her mind and made her way towards her husband’s suite.
‘I simply don’t understand,’ Syrie said, crushing out one cigarette and lighting another. ‘What on earth is Nancy doing with a man like Ramon Sanford?’
‘Sleeping with him,’ Jack said, with the coarseness he never showed in public.
‘And before? In New York and Boston and Washington? Who was she sleeping with then?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Syrie. No one. Sanford swept her off her feet. Turned her head …’
Syrie sat down and crossed her silk-stockinged legs, smoothing her tailored skirt as she said, ‘Are you quite sure of that, darling?’
‘Of course I’m sure of it! Nancy’s reputation was spotless. Christ! She didn’t even sleep with me!’
‘Forgive me for saying so, but that makes it all the more likely she’s been sleeping elsewhere.’
‘Not Nancy,’ Jack said firmly, pacing the room as he tried to form a plan of action. ‘She hated being touched. She couldn’t bear it.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that she and Sanford are doing an Abelard and Heloise routine because I just don’t believe it. I doubt if Sanford knows what the word celibate means.’
‘Never mind the witticisms. What do we do? She’s adamantly refusing to board the Aquitania on Wednesday, and with Sanford here I can hardly force her.’
Syrie had already formed a plan that would ensure Mrs Nancy Leigh Cameron boarded the Aquitania, but she had no intention of informing Jack of it yet. It would do him good to sweat a little. He would be all the more grateful when she solved his problem. Her eavesdropping had paid off. It had also taught her a lesson she would always remember. Never make assumptions: about anything or anyone. She had assumed about Nancy Leigh Cameron and she had been wrong. It was only human nature that she give herself the pleasure of informing Jack of the true nature of his so virtuous, so spotless wife. She ignored his questions and said:
‘Nancy may have been discreet in America but she’s thrown caution to the winds here.’
‘I know that. That is why she has to be removed from Sanford’s presence as quickly as possible.’
‘I’m not talking just about Sanford.’
Jack stopped his pacing. When Syrie used that tone of voice it was sensible to listen.
‘Sanford is only one of many.’
Jack’s agile mind let him down for once. ‘One what of many?’
‘One lover,’ Syrie answered complacently, taking care not to let her pleasure at what she was saying show. ‘She came here with the Duke of Meldon. No aged dodderer, but a rather dishy Nordic type in his early thirties.’
‘They’re cousins,’ Jack snapped.
‘Kissing cousins,’ Syrie agreed. ‘I overheard the Countess of Montcalm telling her husband that Vere was deeply in love with Nancy. Vere being an unusual name, and the duke’s name, I put two and two together and decided to confirm it.
A small financial outlay induced the bellboy to tell me that not only are their suites adjoining, but that the duke has been seen entering and leaving Nancy’s room at somewhat irregular hours.’
‘It isn’t possible. She’s as cold as the Arctic.’
‘Russia doesn’t think so.’
‘What the devil are you talking about, Syrie? Come to the point, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Prince Nicholas Vasileyev. He’s Nancy’s lover, too.’
‘Rubbish,’ Jack said, and sat down wearily. He was accustomed to sense from Syrie and she was letting him down badly.
‘Bellboys are a useful breed of people when handled correctly,’ Syrie said, withdrawing two pieces of card from her pocket and handing them to him. He didn’t even have to fit them together to read what they said.
I burn with the memory of our night together and kiss you a thousand times. Your adoring Nicki.
‘It wasn’t heartburn he was suffering from,’ Syrie said drily. ‘It was lust.’
Jack flipped the cards angrily against his fingers. He couldn’t speak. A red mist was building up behind his eyes. What had men like Sanford and Vasileyev found in his wife that he had not? She was reserved, inhibited, self-conscious. Her lack of bedroom expertize had driven him back into his mistress’arms the first night they had returned from their honeymoon. Yet Sanford could have his pick of women. Any women. He thought of the photographs he had seen of Princess Marinsky and Lady Linderdowne. What the devil was he doing wasting his time on Nancy? Vasileyev was almost as predatory. A man who bed-hopped international beauties with effortless ease. And Meldon as well? He wondered if nymphomania was a disease that could be caught like pneumonia, and dismissed the idea as absurd. If his wife was a nymphomaniac now, she had always been one and she hadn’t been. She couldn’t have been. He would have known. He hadn’t known about Vasileyev and Meldon. It was Syrie he had to thank for that information.
‘Any others?’ he asked harshly. ‘Any footmen or butlers you haven’t accounted for?’
The Flower Garden Page 26
