The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  'Yvonne!' remonstrated Laurel in a shocked whisper. 'Keep your voice down—if you must make such unkind remarks.'

  'Well, it's true.' Yvonne had the grace to lower her voice. 'I didn't mean it that way.'

  'Then perhaps it might be better in future to make such frank observations with a little more discretion, seňorita.'

  The cool, reproving tones brought both girls' heads sharply round to the newcomer. Laurel's hand fluttered up to her throat as she encountered the dark mocking gaze that was beginning to haunt her both waking and sleeping. How long had he stood there? How had she not heard him come through the patio doors to stand immediately behind her chair? But Yvonne betrayed no such giveaway gesture after her first start of surprise. She stared back at him with resentful young eyes.

  'I don't usually make confidential remarks to strangers—especially if I know they're listening,' she said pointedly.

  Laurel's heart gave a lurch of dismay. She started to rise, but the Conde was not looking at her. His gaze was on Yvonne's indignant face, and suddenly he smiled.

  'Forgive me, seňorita—my lapse is far greater than your own. Allow me…' He reached for Yvonne's hand and raised it to his lips. 'Rodrigo de Renzi, at your service. And you, seňorita, must be…'

  Yvonne whispered her name, visibly warming to the dark, arrogant charm now turned full on her, and remembered to withdraw her hand from his clasp. She smiled beguilingly up into his face and said, 'I'll forgive you, seňor—you know I did not intend offence.'

  He inclined his head gravely. 'I am sure of it, seňorita. Alas, when one grows old there is often little left than appreciation of good food and wine, but one does not expect such perception from one so youthful.'

  At last he seemed to remember Laurel's presence. He said, 'May I join you?'

  'Of course.' Painfully aware that her poise had deserted her, Laurel sank back into her chair. How easily Yvonne was talking to him, all trace of her former boredom vanished and a warm vitality lighting her features and glowing in her eyes. She was basking in the sheer pleasure of monopolising the attention of the most attractive male within miles, and already the Conde was taking the serpent ring from his pocket in response to her sudden appealing enquiry.

  He leaned forward, murmuring that she should take care to place it somewhere safe, and she reached out one small slender hand. 'My finger would be the safest, I think!'

  He smiled, his dark brows quirking. 'May I?'

  Yvonne fluttered and giggled as he slid the ring on to her finger, then thanked him for restoring her property, adding in her uninhibited way that her father would have half-killed her if she'd lost it.

  Laurel tried to restrain a cynical smile at this last extravagance—Mr Searle was the last man to fit the stern Victorian father image—then she forgot her employer as the Conde's gaze swung to her face.

  He said, 'It is not me you should thank, seňorita. It is your friend to whom you owe the return of your ring.'

  'Oh, yes,' Yvonne said carelessly, 'poor Laurie got quite involved last night, I gather.'

  'Yes—poor Laurie, indeed.' His eyes had gone grave again and there was no more mockery in their dark depths. 'I trust you are quite recovered from your distressing experiences of yesterday, seňorita?'

  She nodded, aware of a strange little pang at hearing the diminutive of her name on his lips for the first time. 'Would you care for some tea?' she asked, belatedly remembering the eating and drinking that was going on in their vicinity.

  'Thank you, but it is already arranged, and I have also talked with Mrs Allen about the matter we discussed last evening.' He paused. 'She is in complete agreement with me. All that remains is to await your own assent, seňoritas, and arrange a suitable time for your journey to the castillo.'

  Yvonne's eyes sparkled, and Laurel tried to quell the small, persistent doubt that still persisted in its niggling. If only she could be sure they were doing the right thing in allowing the Conde to manage their affairs this way. Yet if Mrs Allen now knew and had agreed…

  Rosita arrived at that moment, wheeling the smaller trolley on which reposed a most attractive setting for afternoon tea. Yvonne made a small moue and whispered that this was sheer favouritism, which, judging by the surprised glances of the other guests, it was, and the Conde crossed elegantly clad knees, looking perfectly at home at Rosita handed round tea in the fragile bone china that was so essentially English despite the exotic setting. The man's a positive chameleon, Laurel thought. He could fit in anywhere, and Yvonne was completely won.

  She sipped her tea and tried resolutely to banish her doubts. When the news got round the guest house, as it did within moments of the Conde's. departure, the general opinion seemed to be that she and Yvonne were two especially favoured and fortunate girls actually to be invited to stay at the home of none other than the master of Destino himself. But strangely, the one reason for genuine doubt did not even enter Laurel's mind as she packed her things and prepared to leave with Yvonne when the Conde's car arrived at the appointed hour that evening to take them to Castillo Valderosa.

  By the time the car entered the great gates and swept up to the imposing entrance some of Yvonne's elation had infected Laurel, and she was conscious of a quickening heartbeat when she stepped out of the car and the Conde came forward to bid her welcome.

  He suggested the two girls might prefer to be shown to their rooms first and then rejoin him a little later for an aperitif. 'We shall be dining at nine this evening,' he added, 'but quite informally while Doňa Costenza is away.'

  'I wonder what his idea is of informality,' Yvonne murmured, once they were alone together in the spacious bedroom that had been allotted to Laurel. 'Do we roll down in jeans or full regalia?'

  'I'm playing safe with my velvet skirt and lace top.'

  'Mm, shall I wear my new gear—I haven't dared wear it so far?' Yvonne smiled wickedly. 'Why not? Let's give His Majesty a treat. Perhaps he needs it if he has to suffer eating with an autocratic old aunt all the time.'

  Laurel's expression at the thought of Yvonne's long slim legs whisking down to dinner beneath the semi-transparent skirts of the red and black creation so disapproved by her father was enough to send Yvonne into peals of mirth. 'Don't worry—I was only teasing,' she cried. 'Isn't it super having our own rooms? Come and see mine—it's like a young ballroom, and I've got my own balcony overlooking the sea.'

  Certainly the bedrooms were luxurious and furnished with both taste and thoughtfulness for a guest's every need. Laurel's had silver-grey wall-to-wall carpet, deep rose curtains and quilt, white and gilt fitted furniture against a pale rose and silver striped wallpaper, and an onyx vanity unit with big crystal taps, while Yvonne's was laid out in a similar pattern, but this time in lime green, silver and palest primrose.

  'I expected black oak and fourposters, and ancient conquistadors leering down from the walls,' Yvonne giggled. 'Though I think there'll be lots of that downstairs, judging by ye olde baronial hall where we came in. I say, Laurie,' she turned from the wardrobe, 'wouldn't this make a super hotel for Daddy's tours?'

  Laurel gave a stifled exclamation, and Yvonne stared. 'What's the matter?'

  The dress on its hanger still over her arm, Yvonne took a step towards Laurel, who had sunk on to the end of the bed, her face clouded with dismay. Laurel looked up at the younger girl. 'I'd forgotten! How on earth could I forget that?'

  Yvonne frowned. 'Forget what?'

  'The job. My work for your father.'

  Puzzlement increased in Yvonne's eyes. 'But you haven't forgotten! What do you mean?'

  Laurel shook her head, almost as though she did not hear. 'How on earth am I going to tell him?'

  Yvonne stared at her, then suddenly comprehension flooded her face. 'You mean the Conde? You mean you haven't told him why we're here on Destino?'

  'No,' Laurel groaned. 'So much has happened the last two days it just went right out of my head. Heavens, what am I going to do? I mean, how does one suddenly break the news
to one's host that one's virtually spying out the lie of his land?'

  Yvonne drew a deep breath and went to hang up the dress in her wardrobe, then she came back to where Laurel still sat. 'You can't,' she said simply.

  'Can't? I must! I've no other alternative.'

  'Yes, you have. Don't say a word.' Yvonne leaned forward earnestly. 'Don't you see, it's a marvellous opportunity—it couldn't have worked out better. Being his guests, he'll talk to us, show us round, tell us everything we want to know. Think of the trouble it'll save.'

  'Yvonne! I couldn't! It would be deliberate deception.'

  'Not really. After all, if might turn out to be another of Daddy's non-starters. So the Conde wouldn't know in any case.'

  'I still can't let him think I'm just an ordinary tourist. No,' Laurel stood up and paced to the window, 'I'll tell him when we go down. What he'll say, I hate to think.'

  Yvonne's sigh was clearly audible. 'I thought it was too good to be true. Well, I guess I'd better start shoving these back into my case.'

  Laurel made no reply, and after a moment the younger girl crossed the room and touched her shoulder. 'Laurie…'

  'Yes?'

  'Does a stranger really mean more to you than Daddy and me?'

  'No, of course not!' Laurel swung round fiercely. 'Can't you see, it isn't a case of who means more to me —I hope I'll always be loyal to your father—but I can't deceive a man who has offered us hospitality, not in this unusual circumstance.'

  'Listen, it isn't as bad as you think.' Yvonne protested. 'The Conde isn't having us here simply out of the goodness of his heart, Laurie. He has an axe of his own to grind. He needs somebody to amuse his wayward cousin, doesn't he? And we happened to be handy. So doesn't that cancel out our side of the business?'

  'Oh, it isn't as easy as that, Yvonne. I wish it were.'

  Yvonne looked at her troubled face and gave a shrug of despair. 'I suppose you're right. But I don't know what Daddy's going to say when we land home and say it's all off.'

  Laurel's head jerked round. She was beginning to comprehend Yvonne's line of thought and the dismay of realisation showed plainly in her eyes. Yvonne stared back grimly.

  'You didn't think we could go back to Mrs Allen's, did you?' she cried. 'Once he knows we'll have to leave the island, never mind the castillo. And Daddy's going to want to know why. And I'll have to tell him. He'll say it's all my fault!'

  'But it isn't!' Amazement chased dismay from Laurel's face. 'How could you know it would turn out like this?'

  'It is my fault.' The tears began to glisten in Yvonne's eyes. 'If it hadn't been for me and my silly ring, and Renaldo, and everything, none of this would have happened. And it's no use saying you won't tell Daddy,' she cried bitterly, 'because he'll know that I was to blame without being told. And—well, I've caused him enough trouble lately, I suppose.'

  Her shoulders began to tremble, and she groped towards the container on the dressing table for a tissue. She blew her nose and sniffed miserably. 'I don't think I want to go down to dinner, Laurie.'

  Laurel closed her eyes despairingly. If only there were some way out of this impasse! Whichever course she chose would lead to trouble. Yvonne had pointed out the very real risk that the truth would bring, for almost certainly the Conde would ask them to leave the island. Laurel had only to remember his anger and his high-handed attitude towards herself when she had literally plunged into disaster the previous afternoon. Just the memory was enough to suffuse her cheeks with the crimson of shame; and then last night… He certainly had left her in no doubt as to his opinion of girls who flouted his own rules of convention. And then there was her employer to consider. He would be hurt and disappointed if she landed back to report failure.

  Laurel sighed and dragged herself back to the present. She said firmly, 'You must come down to dinner, Yvonne, even if only out of courtesy to our host and not because I'll have to face it and him by myself.'

  'Are—are you going to tell him?'

  'I—I don't know.' Laurel moved towards the door. 'I'll have to think it over.'

  'Promise you won't blurt it out while I'm there? Because it'd be even worse for me,' Yvonne begged. 'It's my father who wants to develop the island for tourism —after all, you're simply following orders.'

  Yvonne looked so woebegone Laurel could only nod and give the required promise, but her heart was heavy when eventually she and Yvonne went downstairs and were shown into the vast sala where the Conde awaited. It went against every principle Laurel had been taught, and yet if she did not stay silent she could cause a chain reaction in Mr Searle's plans. And Yvonne's mother was in such poor health…

  If the Conde had chosen to live up to the first, daunting impressions Laurel had received it might have made it easier for her to be swayed towards Yvonne's way of thinking, but he didn't. It was almost as though he set out deliberately to charm, even enchant his two young guests. There was wine and soft music in the gracious room, and then a leisurely meal in the candlelit dining hall, a great panelled place of mellow old furniture, gleaming with centuries of polishing, and finely chased silver, and superb food served by a soft-footed manservant in black. There was iced melon, a seafood salad, little potato curls and tender flaking croquettes, an apricot flambé, and then cheeses and fruit and coffee, and finally liqueurs to set the seal on a magnificent feast.

  The scene held a dreamlike quality, Laurel reflected. The Conde looked more handsome than ever in dark evening clothes, a moiré silk cummerbund and white ruffled shirt enhancing his Latin elegance and dark features, and the occasional flickers of the candlelight lent an air of mysticism that was dangerously fascinating. He told them that his grandmother, the aged Condesa, sent them her greetings of welcome and hoped to have the pleasure of meeting the two girls the following morning.

  'She is very frail, and at times finds the evening meal beyond her strength,' he explained. 'Of late she keeps more and more to her own suite where Maria guards and cossets her like a child.'

  He offered no further information, and Laurel wondered how many more members of the Conde's family lived at the Castillo. How would they receive the two strangers he had chosen to invite under his roof? But no such doubt seemed to trouble Yvonne as they moved out to the terrace, there to watch the lights winking down in the little port and the great silver moon rising over the sea. The Conde made conversation easily, encouraging Yvonne to blossom forth vivaciously, and apparently not noticing that Laurel was still strained and withdrawn.

  It was after midnight when the Conde glanced at his watch and exclaimed with seeming reluctance, 'I fear I have monopolised your evening—you will wish to unpack and settle in. Forgive me.'

  He escorted them to the foot of the broad staircase and bade them a courteous goodnight. The girls began to ascend, Yvonne a stair or two ahead of Laurel, and then the Conde's attractively accented voice came suddenly:

  'Miss Daneway—perdone usted—there is something I forget!'

  She stopped, aware of Yvonne also pausing, and then realising that he wished her to rejoin him she went slowly down to where he waited.

  He indicated a broad panelled doorway directly to his right, and after a moment of hesitation she obeyed the gesture which bade her enter. Again she was conscious of the quickening of her heartbeat and something like fear as he followed her into the large book-lined room and closed the door. Now what was wrong? What had she said or done?

  'Seňorita, does something trouble you?' he asked without preamble.

  Laurel started. 'N-no, Seňor, Conde. Why do you ask?'

  'You seemed unusually quiet this evening.'

  'Was I? It—it wasn't intentional,' she said awkwardly.

  His brows arched slightly. 'I wondered if perhaps I had offended you in some way?'

  This was the return to la galanteria—though the air of enquiry was strongly denned—and Laurel felt puzzled. Perhaps it was her guilty conscience, but she almost preferred his anger and his arrogance to this display of the trad
itional suave gallant, at least to that she could retort with spirit and know where she stood. She said warily, 'How could you offend me, seňor? On the contrary, I am overwhelmed by your hospitality. You have spared nothing for our welcome.'

  'That is as it should be.' His dark head was proud and erect, every inch of him the grandee who would take it as a personal affront were his guests to find his hospitality wanting in the minutest respect. 'I wish your stay with us to be as pleasant as it is within my power to make it. That is why tonight I feel concerned that something seems not—not as it should be, seňorita.'

  He waited, his gaze compelling her to meet its intensity, and the tight knot of tension within Laurel hardened its grip. The cold prompting of conscience told her that this was the moment to tell him the truth behind her presence on the island, that if she allowed this opportunity to pass there might never be another. She struggled to frame words with which to begin, and saw his expression change. The mocking lights began to dance in the dark eyes and the quirks touched the corners of the handsome, sensuous mouth.

  'Come, chica, there is nothing to be afraid of! Where is that fighting spirit that flared to attack me from all-sides yesterday?' The quirks gave way to a smile in which the now familiar devilry lurked. 'Or is it that you feel bowed down by responsibility for your charming companion and the need to be on your best behaviour?

  'Perhaps,' said Laurel tonelessly. The moment had gone, and in its place came the pricking of danger signals. She had known this man for little more than twenty-four hours, but already she recognised the complex facets of his personality. He would stimulate her into retaliation, she would say things she would bitterly regret afterwards, and his mocking air of teasing would fire rapidly into anger.

  He still smiled. 'We are human, seňorita, and I at least do not expect an English girl to don the airs of her Spanish counterpart.'

  She shook her head. 'I would not dream of attempting to do so, seňor. But I can only hope that you will find your first impressions of me prove false. I would be a poor guest who wished to attack so generous a host.'