She stepped out of the espadrilles, dropped the wrap to the sand and pulled on her cap. She stood there for a moment, hoping to add to the pale tan which was giving a truly beautiful sheen to her body, and then the heat of the sun was too much. She ran down into the sea, found the water just cold enough to catch at her breath, and struck out. For twenty minutes she swam lazily and forgot everything else. There was an empty boat at anchor, and she floated round it, debating whether to go on board and look round. The temptation was not strong enough, however, and she headed slowly back to the shore.
She went up the back steps of the villa far more happily than she had descended them, and hesitated in the raised patio. She was sandy and ought to go through the kitchen, but it was possible that Luisa might like that less than finding sand in the dining-room tomorrow morning. So she turned right, towards the french door, caught sight suddenly of the front path, and the black car standing in the shade of a tree. Before she could decide what to do, the Conde was there, looking along the side of the house from the edge of the patio.
“Good afternoon,” she awkwardly.
“Good afternoon, Miss Darrell,” he answered coolly. “I was right in my conjecture; you do not take siesta. Instead, it seems, you have the British habit of preferring extremes. You take exercise.”
“I can have the beach to myself at this time of day. I ... did you want something, senor?”
“Just a word with you, but I think you had better dress before we talk. I will wait.”
These people and their conventions, she fumed to herself, as she ran lightly up the stairs. He seemed in a mood to take fire easily, which was rather strange. Perhaps the spirited Lupita had upset some of his calculations. For some reason, Juliet hoped she had.
She got into a pink frock which had deep white scallops at the round neck and fitted sleekly at the waist, combed up the short hair and pressed a couple of damp waves into the front of it. She used lipstick, fastened her white sandals and went down again, bracing herself unconsciously as she came to the door of the sitting-room.
He was standing just inside the open door, his hands behind him, his head back, and as she paused in the centre of the room he slid a glance over her which Juliet didn’t like at all. She was sure he’d noticed that she had left the salt bloom on her cheeks, and disapproved. Really, he was a most exacting man!
“You look very pretty,” he said politely. “Please sit down.”
This was the second time today that a man had given her permission to sit in what was temporarily her own drawing-room, but now Juliet ignored it. She said calmly, leaning towards the box on the table,
“I always like a cigarette after I bathe. Do you mind?”
He flicked open his own platinum case and proffered it. He lit the cigarette, took one for himself. “I come with an invitation from my sister. She is giving a dinner on my yacht tomorrow night and would like you to be there.”
Juliet’s brain felt rather light. It might be something to remember—dinner on the yacht of the Conde de Vallos. On the other hand, she didn’t own that sort of evening-dress.
"The senora is very thoughtful,” she said, “but I’m afraid I can’t accept. It would mean keeping Luisa in the house with the children, and that wouldn’t be fair.”
“Luisa, I am sure, would not mind in the least. She expects to do such duties occasionally. Is there, perhaps, some other reason?”
One had to be careful with this man; it had never occurred to her seriously before that he might be hot-tempered or even cruel. Now, she saw that the hardness in him might easily take the shape of implacable anger; he was both frightening and incomprehensible.
“Well, I don’t know your friends, senor. I know you mean it kindly, but...”
“We are not patronizing you, Miss Darrell!”
Heavens, he was touchy. Juliet thought of something else she might put forward but decided to keep silent. She drew on the cigarette, looked round for an ashtray and saw that he had already placed one on a side table near where she stood. A clean ashtray, which he had set alongside one which had not been emptied since this morning. She looked quickly at the couple of stubs in that other tray, saw that one of them was of a thickish, khaki type which no woman would ever smoke. Well, it wasn’t the Conde’s business.
He said, very smoothly, “One would not, of course, wear one’s best gown aboard the yacht. Inez also wishes me to tell you that your English friend will be welcome.”
This, Juliet knew, must be handled delicately, yet her tongue felt clumsy and inadequate. “I have no English friends here,” she said stiffly.
“No? Perhaps we were misinformed.” He inhaled slowly, then tapped away ash as he said deliberately, “I think you will like the yacht. You must certainly bring this friend of yours, if he will come.”
She said again, “I have no English friends here, senor, and I think it would be best if I do not come myself. I’m very grateful to the senora, of course.”
He snapped his fingers negligently. “It seems you find no bond with Inez, yet I believe she likes you. I have a very particular desire to see her happy at the moment, and that is why I hope you will come to the yacht and tolerate the evening. There will be many other guests—some you have already met, such as the de Mendozas and the young Mario Perez. My sister is also inviting the family of da Silva and several more.”
Juliet smiled warily. “I think the senora mentioned that you were on the yacht this morning with Senorita da Silva. I remembered it because I’m rather fond of the sea in the rain myself.”
He said suavely, “What a pity we did not take you with us! But there will be more rain before you leave us. Lupita, I am afraid, had un vahido ... what you call a giddiness. She was not the good sailor she imagined!”
No doubt he had comforted her, thought Juliet offhandedly; he’d be remarkably good at that. Why was he dallying here, when she herself was so obviously not to his taste?
The next moment she had her answer. Without warning, he brought up the hand which had been loosely closed behind him, held it out between them so that she could see the pea-sized dark red stone which lay in it. Juliet gazed at it, found her fingers crushing her cigarette. She exclaimed suddenly, dropped the stub and rubbed the burn with the pad of her thumb. The Conde bent swiftly to retrieve the cigarette, pressed it down into the ashtray. Then, with deliberation, he once more displayed the stone in the palm of his hand.
“You have seen this before?” he asked coldly.
“I ... I don’t know. I saw some like it. Is it yours?”
“No. I found it as I came into this room. It was on the floor under the table. Are you quite sure it does not belong to you?”
“Of course I am!” said Juliet warmly. “I don’t even know what it is.”
“It is what is known as a cat’s eye ruby,” he said. “In English money it is worth perhaps eighty pounds. Where did you see these stones?”
“I was shown them by someone who ... who owns a collection.”
“And he gave you this one?”
She was furious. “Please, senor! I don’t accept that kind of gift. It must have rolled on to the floor when he was...” She broke off, then added tremulously, “I’ll send it to him.”
He said aloofly, “I will send it to him myself. Who is he?”
“Someone I met by ... accident this morning.”
“Here in this house?” with a subtle sarcasm in his voice. “That must have been a strange accident, senorita. I have the right to demand of you his name.”
“I’m sorry,” she said unevenly, “but I must refuse to give it.”
There was a silence, one of those quivering, electric silences which are much more trying than speech. The Conde’s expression was non-committal, but his eyes had the glint of steel. He dropped the ruby into the top pocket of his immaculate cream jacket.
“Let us understand each other, Miss Darrell. Up to a point you are entirely independent here. During the proper hours you may receive whom you wis
h—within reason. But on no account should you permit any man into the house whom you do not know.”
Juliet’s chin went up. “I knew of this man, senor. That’s all I can tell you.”
“But you had not seen him before this morning?”
“No.”
He said shrewdly, “Yet very soon you are such old friends that he shows you his collection of unset gems. I would not have believed you could be so foolish.”
“I was not foolish!”
“It was not foolish because this man happened to be an Englishman—is that what you mean? He is English—so for you it is made safe!”
Wondering how on earth this was going to end, Juliet remembered something, and answered weakly, “He’s half-Spanish, half-English. Now do you feel you can trust him?”
His glance was sharp. “Spanish? Then you can give me his name. I will get him to come and see me. As it happens, I am interested in such collections myself.”
“Very well. When he returns to ask for this stone you may tell him it is in my possession, that I will gladly give it back to him—in person.”
Juliet drew in her lip. She bent to the cigarette box on the table, and then changed her mind; it wasn’t another cigarette she needed, but a couple of good ideas! If only she weren’t trembling so absurdly. If only she could think! This was too extraordinary altogether.
“You’re making things very awkward for me, Senor Conde.”
‘That is not my intention. If, as you say, your visitor was a Spaniard, he will understand perfectly my reasons for acting as your guardian in this matter; he will not hesitate to approach me, to explain and apologize. And it would be as well for you, Miss Darrell, to comprehend fully your position here.” His words came crisply, sounding clipped and foreign. “You are young and a stranger, and you have charge of two children.”
“And I must state, senor, that it is no concern of yours. I don’t mind admitting that I feel badly about your ... your action.”
He moved again, and his contour was etched sharply against the bright outdoors. He said quietly, “I would do a great deal for you, senorita; I will help you in any way I possibly can while you are here. You are sweet and young, you take responsibility happily and I admire your courage and sense of duty. But there are things which you are incapable of understanding, things which you must accept.” He paused. “Your cousin asked that Inez should watch over you, but Inez is a woman. So,” with the familiar shrug, “I take it on myself. If this collector of uncut stones comes again to the house, you will not admit him. It is understood?”
“I’m afraid I can’t be bound by your rules, senor!”
“In this you will obey,” he commanded. “You have made a further appointment with him?”
“No, but...”
“Then for you it will be easy. Let him know by a messenger where he may find the stone, and forget the matter. I insist upon this for your own good.”
By now, Juliet was spent. In spite of his repeated indications that he wanted her to sit, she had determinedly stayed on her feet, but now she was beginning to feel a need to collapse. Half of her wanted to obey the man; the other half was militantly against capitulation in any degree at all. She had the odd conviction that if she gave in now to his potent personality she was lost. She gathered herself for a final effort, but before she could speak he said with maddening gentleness,
“You are tired, little one. Go and lie down and I will find Luisa and tell her to bring you tea.” As she made to protest, he added quickly, “Come, now, you will find it pleasant to be compliant for once. We are not enemies, you and I. It is merely that we disagree on one or two vital points. Go, child—at once.”
She quivered, turned a little blindly and with a murmured, “Thank you, Senor Conde,” she stumbled into the hall and up the stairs.
But in her room she did not lie down. She went to the window and watched the path. She saw him appear and take the two steps in one stride, saw him with the sun across the shining dark hair, an erect, distinctively handsome figure as he went to the car and slid behind the wheel. The car moved away with insolent ease, its coat of arms bright as it turned on to the road, and then it was only a gleaming black roof disappearing into the trees.
She was seated when Luisa brought the tea.
“You will not leave the cakes as you left the lunch,” the old servant said severely. “It is not every young woman who has the Senor Conde giving instructions that she must be made to eat!”
“Luisa! You didn’t tell him I wasn’t hungry at lunch time?”
“But, yes, I did. He says you have been distressed today and must not be worried. Naturally, I could not argue with the Senor Conde, but I would like to know what it is you have to worry about. The children are well, you yourself are well and growing bonita in the sunshine, and you are in a smiling country where people like you. There is no room here at the Villa Massina for sadness!”
Juliet didn’t explain that she wasn’t sad because that might have entailed putting into words just how she did feel—which was impossible. The only things she knew clearly were that Lyle Whitman, dissipated, attractive, perhaps slightly wounded from being scorned by Norma, had not promised that he would leave her alone; that he had inadvertently spilled one of his collection of stones on to the floor of the sitting-room, and that the jewel was now in Ramiro’s possession. Beyond that...
Juliet pulled herself up jerkily. She had thought of the Conde as Ramiro. How very odd!
Mario Perez was not the usual dashing young Latin. His eyes sparkled and his teeth flashed whitely when he smiled, he was extremely courteous and not a little susceptible, which were all Spanish qualities; but he also had an engaging shyness which was difficult for his own people to accept and understand, particularly as his father was a partner with the Conde de Vallos in a wolfram mine which yielded fabulous profits. To be normal, Mario should have serenaded one senorita after another, showered gifts and eventually have chosen a stunning wife to set off the jewels he would be able to buy her.
But at twenty-five, Mario had examined girls only from a distance, without interest. Then his pulses betrayed him, for they had begun to throb faster in a most inexplicable manner when he was placed next to the English girl for lunch at the Castillo. Covertly, he had absorbed her looks; she was golden of skin and the hair, the hair rather remarkable because it had ashen streaks in it. She looked thin and willowy, without the promise of ripe fullness to which he was accustomed. Her tones were light and quick, her smile devastatingly frank, but he was aware of a modesty in her which bore no relation to the seductive demureness of his own countrywomen.
She was in Spain, he learned, for only a short time. Because to him she was an enigma, an extremely fascinating one, he felt he should make the most of that short time, but as he knew nothing about relationships between unmarried English people, he had to wait impatiently for his chance. It came in the shape of a note from Inez de Vedro, inviting him to dinner on the yacht. “As you have already met Senorita Darrell, I will ask you to be good enough to escort her,” she ended. “Perhaps you should present yourself at the Villa Massina at seven-forty-five.” Actually, he bowed his way into the villa half an hour earlier.
Juliet was already dressed for the evening. She wore stiff tan silk which left her shoulders bare, and a filmy stole, and she came down to him from saying goodnight to the children. She was deliciously flushed from hurrying, looked slightly harassed as she came into the sitting-room and greeted him.
He bent over her hand, a good-looking young man with smooth regular features and black glistening hair. “Please, senorita ... do not disturb yourself. I am early and deserve to be kept waiting.”
“Yes, you are rather early, but I happen to be ready. Would you care for a drink?”
He looked apprehensive. “I hardly think we should drink together like this. Perhaps...” he hesitated. “It would give me great pleasure if you would take a drive with me to fill the time.”
Juliet couldn’t s
ee that there was any more harm in talking over a glass of wine than in driving alone with him, but she was willing to acquiesce. She took up her silver bag, called goodnight to Luisa, who was sitting with a crony in the kitchen, and preceded Mario to his dignified car. He put her into the front seat and came beside her, leaving several inches between them, and they drove out and made for the coastal road.
It was the usual soft evening, but a few clouds trailed across the stars. Mario drove without speed and made polite conversation.
“You have not yet explored the district, senorita?” he queried politely. “There are many things you must see—things which I am sure you do not have in England. On this road, for instance, there is a nut farm and also the residence of one who breeds magnificent cage birds. In Spain, we are fond of cage birds, you know?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t care for them at all.”
“Oh.” This apparently shook him. “They are full of color—very beautiful, and they would not sing if they were unhappy.”
“But I can’t bear to see anything imprisoned. I know that these particular birds would die if they were freed, but I wouldn’t want to own any of them myself.”
“It is a matter of custom, I suppose,” he said, and tried another topic. “You are anticipating with pleasure this evening on the yacht?”
“Well ... yes. Are you?”
“Immensely.” A pause, before he added, “I have very much wanted to see you again.”
At the Villa Massina Page 5
