‘What a busy man he must be,’ was all Troy could find to say, but it was enough. Madame replied with deep conviction:
‘Monsieur Lucien is a good man, mademoiselle, and a respected patron.’ She took the offered keys. ‘Do you need any assistance in preparing for bed, mademoiselle?’
Troy shook her head, smiling gratefully. ‘No, thank you. I’m sure I can manage.’
‘Very well, but if you need me you must call.’ Madame eyed the bandaged leg critically, passing on to Troy’s face. ‘You are feeling the reaction to your little adventure. Rest now, and I will bring you a light meal later on.’
‘You’re very kind, madame, and I’m sorry your son has the trouble of fetching my car …’
‘It is no trouble for JeanJacques, and Monsieur le Comte wishes it.’ Madame gave the room one last swift appraisal and finding everything to her satisfaction, she hurried out.
Monsieur le Comte wishes it …
Troy lay back with a troubled laugh. It was all too confusing to make any sense. How on earth had her grandmother come to be mixed up with the de Seves of Bellevigne? And what on earth was she to say to Lucien de Seve tomorrow? She pulled a face at the thought. Something like … I’m awfully sorry, Monsieur le Comte,. but I came to Seve because I thought I’d inherited Bellevigne!
Very funny! However, pondering the mystery would not solve it and it was time she undressed and got into bed properly or else Madame would be up, scolding her … no doubt saying firmly that Monsieur le Comte wished it!
Troy sat rather wearily up and slowly peeled off the borrowed sweater. It was still warm from her body, and holding it pensively in her hands she found she liked the idea of wearing something of his, something that had touched his skin and still carried with it his unmistakable body smell. Liked the idea of mixing her own shape and smell with his.
She threw the sweater to the bottom of the bed, exasperation sweeping over her. She unzipped the jumpsuit, and as she did so her cheeks grew warm as she remembered those grey eyes giving her the once-over, insultingly impersonal in their appraisal, and heard again the impatient ‘Can you get that thing off?’
‘I ought to have taken it off,’ she muttered crossly, struggling out of it now with difficulty. ‘That would have shown him!’ and she paused in the fight, giving a strangled laugh, self-mockingly thinking that it would indeed! and rather more than propriety demanded! At last she was free of the jumpsuit and with a new, critical awareness she studied herself in the angled mirror on the chest of drawers, seeing what Lucien de Seve would have seen .… the tousled hair, a mass of rust waves and curls, the oval face, pale now with dark brown eyes predominant, the sloping shoulders, high firm breasts, flat stomach, curved hips and long legs.
With a grimace at her reflection Troy tossed the mutilated suit on to the floor. How silly to be mooning over what Lucien de Seve would have seen, or would have thought. She supposed, sarcastically, that he was familiar with the female shape and form and no doubt not starved of women’s company.
By the time she had donned the nightgown and scrambled between the sheets she was glad to be in bed. Her body relaxed but her mind could not. She went over the events of the day, the encounter on the Descartes’ balcony, her grandmother’s involvement with Bellevigne, returning persistently to Lucien Valery Charon, Comte de Seve.
His face seemed indelibly imprinted on the back of her lids. Annoyingly so. It was one thing to meet a man, briefly, at a party and be attracted, and quite another to come up against him in the cold, clear light of day. Especially in such a stupid manner, especially losing one’s temper! Forget Lucien Charon and consider Lucien de Seve … quite another kettle of fish.
She stirred uneasily. Her breathing deepened and slowed. On the edge of sleep the thought drifted over her of what it would be like to be carried in his arms because he wanted her there and not out of a sense of duty… ‘
CHAPTER THREE
‘I HAVE come to take you to the Chateau, Mademoiselle Troy.’
It was after breakfast the following morning. The sun spilled in through the window of Madame Marin’s ‘best’ room, and Troy was wondering what to do. Her thoughts had been struggling with what had happened the day before and by the time JeanJacques Marin arrived, she was all twisted up with the ironies of fate that had landed her in this odd and extremely embarrassing predicament.
Only one thing had she managed to salvage from her reflections— that it would be dangerous to become emotionally involved with Lucien de Seve, even in her thoughts. A quirk of chance had brought her back into his orbit. She would find out about her grandmother’s connection with the de Seves and then be on her way. She had work to do.
JeanJacques’ arrival was a welcome respite from knowing what she should do and doing what she wanted to do.
He stood before her, an articulate, intelligent man in his late twenties, with a pleasant face. She had been expecting someone different from this immaculately dressed, composed man whose polite, rather formal manner reminded her that to be the estate manager of such a large and flourishing vineyard as the Charon Vineyard was a position that needed someone extremely competent.
He had obviously been given his orders this morning. Go and fetch Victoria Maitland and bring her to me. Just like that. Snap the fingers and come running.
A feeling of exasperated amusement swept over her. Since the Chateau was the very place she had travelled all this way to see, it would be ridiculous to refuse now, and shrugging aside the feeling that she was a puppet and Lucien master of the strings, she said innocently:
‘I suppose it’s a case of when Monsieur le Comte says “jump”, we “jump”?’ and wondered if the self-possessed, so earnest JeanJacques had a sense of humour.
‘Monsieur Lucien is a busy man, mademoiselle. If you do not feel well enough this morning, I am sure he will understand.’
Not only had JeanJacques inherited his mother’s hazel eyes, he had her reverence for Monsieur le Comte as well. It was what she would have expected of Lucien de Seve’s ‘right-hand man’. She said gravely:
‘I’m sure I can manage … so long as I don’t have to walk to the Chateau.’
JeanJacques looked relieved and horrified at the same time.
‘I assure you there is no necessity to walk, mademoiselle! Everything is arranged for your comfort.’ He smiled. ‘Lucien considered the Beaufighter to be the most accommodating vehicle available, and as I do not often get the chance to drive it myself I am much obliged to you.’
‘I’m glad you’re pleased, but I haven’t the remotest idea what a Beaufighter is,’ Troy laughingly confessed.
‘I shall show you.’ He paused and asked diffidently: ‘Will you allow me to carry you out?’
Troy eyed him with resignation. ‘I walked down the stairs this morning and I’m sure I can get to this Beaufighter, whatever it is, but I suppose Monsieur le Comte said I was not to walk?’ She took pity on him and gave a cheerful sigh. ‘Oh, very well. I should hate you to be shot for not obeying orders,’ and her eyes danced with amusement.
JeanJacques did not seem as if he knew how to take her teasing. Perhaps Lucien de Seve was not allowed to be mocked? As he carried her through the farmhouse it was expected that Troy should recall someone else’s arms, remember another occasion, and she said quickly:
‘I understand from your mother that you live at the Chateau?’
‘Yes. I have a set of rooms. It is more convenient for me to be on the spot,’ acknowledged JeanJacques, and Troy added:
‘You speak very good English.’
‘Thank you. I have Lucien’s father, Philippe de Seve, to thank for my education. Unfortunately, he was killed in a riding accident some ten years ago. It was a great shock to us all.’
‘You have known Monsieur Lucien for a long time?’
‘For all of my life, mademoiselle,’ JeanJacques replied simply. He twisted sideways and negotiated the back -door. ‘There she is—the Bristol Beaufighter!’ They crossed the yard a
nd Troy looked with curiosity at the large, expensive-looking four-seater coupe parked beyond the gate. Incongruous against the farm setting, it stood, angular and distinctive, the cream bodywork and shining chrome sparkling in the sunshine. Difficult not to be impressed.
‘It’s a British car,’ JeanJacques told her, setting her on her feet and opening the passenger door. ‘It really is a splendid vehicle. Will you be comfortable in the front?’
Troy eyed a passenger seat that was as broad and as high as an armchair with enough leg room for a giant, and gave a laugh.
‘I’m sure I shall be… we could hold a party in here.’ While JeanJacques helped her in she glanced appreciatively round the walnut veneer and pale cream leather, and when he climbed in beside her, she went on: ‘I bet she goes like the wind.’
He nodded. ‘It is the power and speed that is useful. Lucien drives regularly to Paris and Bordeaux. Please connect the belt, Mademoiselle Troy. It is against the law in our country to drive without the seat-belt fastened.’ He waited while this was done and then began to drive down the drive and out on to the road.
Troy could hardly hear the engine and they seemed to just glide along. She said:
‘I can understand why you like to drive this, she goes like a dream.’ Even while she spoke, she could tell that they were winding their way round the lower slopes of the Seve hill. ‘Why is it called the Beaufighter?’
‘The Bristol Aeroplane Company built a fighting machine called the Beaufighter in the last war and it has been named after that.’ He threw her a quick grin, his face becoming, for an instant, boyish. ‘I owe my place behind the wheel today to an important telephone call that Lucien was obliged to wait in for.’ He nodded ahead. ‘We’re nearly there.’
Troy’s eyes eagerly scanned their direction. Swinging through a walled boundary gateway, the tall iron gates open to accommodate them, the car left the rows of vines growing either side of the road. She caught sight of a pair of exotic stone beasts, wings outstretched, perched ominously on the gateposts as they passed, and then the drive curved and with increasing pulse rate she encountered her first view of the Chateau Bellevigne.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’ She did not realise that she had spoken the words out loud until JeanJacques replied complacently:
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’
The Chateau was no Gothic or Baroque castle but rather a country mansion built on noble proportions. The sun was shining on the weathered stone, lighting it to good effect, and as they drove through the surrounding parkland and the Chateau drew nearer Troy could see that the architecture was of a style predominant in the eighteenth century, with Corinthian columns and traditional high roofs and slender chimneys. The forecourt, which fronted a flight of stone steps leading to the main entrance, was itself flanked by a curving stone balustrade, and centred by a fountain. The whole was backclothed by trees, and higher still, a sweep of vines, severely ridged, finally topped by Seve itself.
Troy was enchanted. Bellevigne was all, and more than, she could have wished for, and Lucien de Seve and his way of life more unapproachable. It was almost a relief.
JeanJacques negotiated the gentle curve of the drive round the fountain, and ignoring the main entrance, turned the corner to pull slowly to a halt at a side door.
‘This is the office wing, my rooms are above,’ he explained as he helped her out. He carried her into the Chateau, halting at a beautifully carved door, slightly ajar. Shouldering it open, he went into the room beyond.
Bookshelves, pictures, polished wood, crystal decanters and glasses on silver trays met Troy’s swivelling gaze. Dominating the room was a desk, the surface neatly organised but dominated by three telephones. Lucien de Seve came round the desk to meet them. He was dressed in a dark suit and looked every inch a Count. A ripple of unease gripped Troy. Each time she met him he seemed a different person. To date this man was the most formidable.
His voice was polite, his expression enigmatic. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Maitland. I hope JeanJacques has looked after you well?’ He took her hand in a firm greeting. His touch showed that nothing was changed. The unease deepened into panic.
‘He has been splendid,’ replied Troy, her enthusiasm surprising even herself, but’ it sprang from an instinctive desire to cover up. She turned her head to smile, hoping her eyes did not mirror her panic, and added directly to JeanJacques: ‘And most kind.’ Now there were two enigmatic faces. Poor JeanJacques!
Lucien said smoothly: ‘Good. I can always rely upon JeanJacques to be a most accomplished emissary. Now, where shall we put you? The wing-chair, I think, JeanJacques, with the footstool.’ He waited while she was made comfortable. ‘That’s all for the moment, JeanJacques. I’ll ring if I want you.’
JeanJacques gave Troy a polite: ‘A bientot, Mademoiselle Troy,’ and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Before either of them could speak, the telephone rang and while Lucien answered it Troy sat quietly, absorbing the atmosphere. She guessed there was nothing false about this room. It was totally in character with this Lucien de Seve, just as the world-weary cynic of the Descartes’ party and the countryman of yesterday were real. She heard him say a crisp: ‘Send him along when he’s ready,’ and then he was crossing the beautiful Aubusson carpet and leaning against the front of the desk, arms straight, hands gripping the edge. His hands had been almost the first thing she had noticed about him—strong and lean with neat, rounded nails and no rings.
‘You had an easy night, I trust?’ he asked.
Troy lifted her eyes from his hands to his face. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good. You took the painkillers that Marcel Dubois prescribed?’
A sense of humour came to one’s aid in the most unlikely situations. Troy’s eyebrows rose a fraction.
‘But of course. Madame Marin would have felt that she had failed in her duty if I had not. She stood over me while I swallowed them down and when the deed was done she could then relax. Monsieur le Comte’s orders had been obeyed.’
His lips twitched slightly as he contemplated her innocent face.
‘Hm … And you are comfortable at the Home Farm?’
She was able to answer truthfully and enthusiastically. ‘Very. The Marins are most kind, and the food is excellent.’
Lucien nodded, his face softening. ‘I’m glad, but not surprised. Modestine has filled many a lonely boy’s stomach with her delicious yeast buns and newly baked bread in her day.’
Troy had the fleeting image of a dark-haired little boy, living in the large Chateau, going over to the Home Farm for some motherly love and comfort. She squashed the picture as quickly as it came. He need not have been speaking of himself, and it would not do to confuse the vulnerable little boy with this self-assured adult.
‘Monsieur le Comte …’ Troy began, when he interrupted her.
‘What is all this Monsieur le Comte business? Yesterday you were quite happy with Monsieur Charon, and I believe you did not find Lucien difficult on the Descartes’ balcony.’
Troy felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘What happened there was not usual. If you remember, it was your birthday, and I was feeling …’ she struggled for a word, ‘. .. charitable.’ It was the best she could do on the spur of the moment.
Again, his lips twitched. ‘Ah, charitable!’ He gave a shrug. ‘But even so, as I have rescued you from two unfortunate incidents, I consider we have a bond which precludes formality.’
Oh, you do, do you? thought Troy grimly. Well, that bond is too dangerous, Monsieur le Comte, and your title makes a good barrier! She replied equably:
‘I have to thank you for sending your magnificent Beaufighter to bring me here. It is most impressive.’
A flicker of annoyance passed over his face. ‘My dear girl, I did not intend it to impress you. It was the most comfortable…’ A knock sounded on the door and he called: ‘Come in. Ah, Marcel, bonjour . ..'
Doctor Dubois exchanged a greeting and then looked critically at Troy.
&nbs
p; ‘Good morning, mademoiselle, and how are you feeling today?’ The bushy brows met and giving her no time to answer, he went on briskly: ‘I shall be obliged if you would send for Zenobie, Lucien. She is aware I shall need her and should be close by.’ He began to unwind the bandage and as the wound was revealed gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Good, good … coming along nicely. Ah, Zenobie, you have my bag, thank you.’
Troy looked up to find an elderly woman standing beside him. Grey hair was caught back into a bun; thin and straight-backed, she could have been any age over sixty. Troy smiled at her tentatively and received a quiet: ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ in return.
Lucien had’ cut himself off from the trio, his back towards them as he answered the telephone. For this, Troy was grateful. She had chosen to wear a simple, sleeveless blouse and a floral full skirt, the soft material of the skirt being the most comfortable for her injured leg. For the doctor to redress the wound it was necessary to show a large expanse of bare leg, and here, in this businesslike atmosphere, she was gripped with a ridiculous sense of embarrassment. She wanted to clear up something else that gave her misgivings and asked persuasively:
‘I do hope you’re, going to allow me to walk on this leg of mine, Doctor?’
He worked in silence for a moment, Zenobie passing him his requirements, and replied bluntly:
‘So long as you use the sense the good Lord gave you. Not too much today, and then resting when necessary. Thank you, Zenobie, that will be all. Tell Madame la Comtesse I shall be with her in a few minutes.’ Zenobie silently left the room. The doctor continued to rebandage his patient’s leg and while doing so lapsed into his own language, saying:
‘I saw Philippe briefly as I came in. How is he?’
Lucien shrugged. ‘Bored. Looking for trouble.’
‘His mother suffocates the lad. He should be at school. I tell her that his delicate days are over and that he needs the company of other boys his age, but my advice goes for nought.’
‘It is difficult,’ stated Lucien, frowning. ‘Grand’-mere sits in isolation in her rooms, pretending to know and see nothing, but knows and sees everything, Zenobie being her ears and eyes. You realise, Marcel, that my hands are virtually tied.’ He gave an exasperated sigh and swung round, abandoning that line of conversation. ‘You will be taking sherry with Grand’mere before you go?’
A House Called Bellevigne Page 5
