Strange Adventure
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

THE last triumphant chords of the sonata died a lingering death, as Lacey stayed her fingers on the piano keys, savouring their harmony.

For a moment she sat motionless as silence surged back into the small room set aside for music practice at the convent of Our Lady of Grace, then with an impatient movement she thrust back under her Alice band the long lock of silver-gilt hair which had come loose while she gave herself to her music. She was thankful that Sister Thérèse had not been within earshot of this particular performance. Too much passion, too much feeling and too little technique would have been her verdict.

She got up from the piano stool and walked across to the square-paned window that overlooked a small corner of the convent garden and the high wall that surrounded it.

She thought, as she had begun to think so often in those long months since her seventeenth birthday, ‘I could be safe here always.’ And, as before, she noted ironically that she had said ‘safe’ and not ‘happy’.

To the other girls at this convent boarding school, it would have seemed incredible that Lacey Vernon, cherished only daughter of an English merchant banker, could possibly lack any kind of security. Lacey could see a dim reflection of herself in the wintry panes. The dark blue dress with its decorously fashionable length and neat white collar. The dark band holding the smooth, shining fall of hair hanging below her shoulders.

Alice in nowhere land, since … Since when?

Since that terrible day at the Conservatoire when the so-eminent professor had dismissed kindly but quite finally her hardly expressed hope to become a concert pianist?

‘A charming talent—but not the steel, the fire that takes one to the top. For that one requires a special genius which few possess. Which you, ma soeur,’ he threw a darkling look at Sister Thérèse, quietly self-contained in her dark habit, ‘might have possessed, had it not been for this—calling of yours.

‘But for you, my child.’ He laid a hand for an instant on the bowed fair head. ‘I must speak the truth. Look at that little hand. It can span an octave at the most. For many of the great works, more facility would be needed. Content yourself that you will always play better than most of those you will meet, and leave the concert platform for those with the strength to bear its demands.’

She had not cried. The nuns would have deplored such an unseemly display of emotion. Even Sister Thérèse had not shown a flicker of reaction to this crushing of the hopes of her star pupil—or even regret for the career that might have been hers, Lacey recalled wryly. All she had said on the long drive back to the convent had been, ‘It is God’s will, my child.’

Lacey had often wished since that she could achieve that kind of acceptance. It had been hard not to rebel when she had written to ask her father if she could opt for the commercial training offered to the older pupils instead of the more usual course in the higher flights of home economics designed to prepare the majority of the girls for the day when they became wives and hostesses. But the reply from home had been as unexpected as it was unwelcome. There were no plans, ran her father’s letter, for her to be employed in a secretarial capacity in his firm, or any other, for that matter, and any such training would be a complete waste of time. She would please him far better if she concentrated on the domestic side of the course in her last months at the convent as Michelle would no doubt be glad of some help with the entertaining.

When some of the hurt had died down from this rejection of her attempt to carve out a career for herself, Lacey was able to smile a little at the thought of her glamorous French stepmother permitting her to meddle in any of the domestic details in London or at their country home. Michelle ruled a small but efficient staff with absolute sway and she would not welcome any interference from anyone.

Lacey had often begged to be allowed to help even in a menial capacity when guests were expected, but all her offers had been met with a fairly brusque refusal until her father had intervened before one minor dinner party and suggested that she should be allowed to do the flowers for the centrepiece. She had spent time and thought on her arrangement, floating a mass of full-blown roses around the bases of delicately tapering candles in a shallow but exquisitely shaped dish. Just before the guests had arrived she had peeped into the dining room to see the table in all its finished glory. Her flowers had disappeared and a bowl of long-stemmed hothouse beauties stood in their place. Lacey had looked and bitten her lip, and later, when her father congratulated her boisterously on her efforts, she had given a little noncommittal smile.

She had been twelve years old when her father married again and she had soon learned that to fight Michelle was to lose. But there had been battles in the early days. Lacey, used to being first in her father’s affections since her mother’s death, could not reconcile herself to the fact that this slender, dark stranger with her beautiful face and incredible chic had simply taken over. And when her initial hostility had given way to genuine admiration for all that glamour and she was prepared to become a worshipper at her stepmother’s shrine, she had discovered with bewilderment that her adoration was unwanted. That in fact her own small person was the one flaw in Michelle’s vast contentment at having married a man as wealthy and easygoing as James Vernon.

Which, of course, was why she was here at the convent where Michelle herself had been educated. Her friend Vanessa, both of whose parents had embarked on other marriages, had explained it succinctly.

‘It’s “being got out of the way”. If I’d been a baby or a three-year-old my stepmother could have dressed up for photographs with bows in my hair, it might have been O.K. At our age, we’re just a pain in the neck. Della said it made her feel old just to look at me.’

As it was, Lacey had grown accustomed to being ‘out of the way’. She had learned that it was not always convenient for her to go home for her vacations, but as the alternatives had included carefully selected parties for skiing, sailing and sightseeing, she could not feel too hard done by.

But now she had to face the fact that her schooldays were strictly numbered, and that her future was by no means clear cut. Her father was being over-optimistic, she thought, in envisaging any role-sharing between Michelle and herself, and yet what else was there, if she was not to be allowed to work for her living?

Lacey sighed and leaned her forehead against the cold glass for a moment. There was an alternative which she had come to consider with increasing seriousness as the weeks had passed. She could ask Reverend Mother to allow her to enter the novitiate of the order. It was not an ideal solution, and there were immediate snags. Lacey was not yet eighteen or indeed a Roman Catholic, but none of these obstacles seemed as insuperable as the prospect of being an unwanted third in her stepmother’s home. She knew too that the nuns considered a sense of vocation as essential for the religious life, but she also knew from books she had read in the convent library that in bygone times many girls had become nuns because they were unwanted by their families and had become excellent religious. Lacey supposed, rather dubiously, that this could happen to her in time.

She looked again at the high wall, which as Sister Thérèse had often commented, was not to keep the nuns from the world but the world from the nuns.

Lacey sometimes wondered what this ‘world’ was like that had to be kept at bay, but she had never shared with the other boarders any burning desire to come to terms with it as soon as possible. She knew that many of the other girls were already sexually experienced, although she was rarely invited to join the little groups that gathered secretly late at night to discuss boy-friends and sex, and she realised wryly that she would have had little to contribute if she had been.

Lacey had never had a boy-friend, unless she counted Alan Trevor, the son of neighbours of theirs in the country, whom she had known since her early childhood. Lacey rode with him sometimes in the holidays and found him attractive with a sense of humour, but he had never attempted even to kiss her, and Lacey was secretly relieved that he had not. But it did not prevent her from speculating on how she would cope if and when that momentous occasion ever came about.

The worldly-wise Vanessa had told her that it was rarely the kiss that counted—more what men expected to follow it, but Lacey had never been able to apply any of this information to herself. Her body was something that she bathed and clothed and which obeyed the demands she put upon it without effort. The realisation that there were demands that others might make of it was utterly alien to her. At the convent her studies and her music filled her life. At home, usually in the country, she enjoyed the open air, often in Alan’s relaxed company or that of his sister Fran.

Convent life, she supposed vaguely, would go on in much the same way, except that Alan would not be there, and if she was honest that would be no great deprivation although she was fond of him.

She wandered back to the piano and perching on the stool began to pick out a melody with one finger. What, she wondered, was it like to be in love? Her cheeks flushed as she recalled some of the more lurid discussions she had heard from the others, but what had that to do with love?

And this was where one province where even her usual mentor, Sister Thérèse, would not be able to help her, she thought, then started guiltily as Sister herself suddenly spoke from the doorway.

‘So you are here, Lacey. Reverend Mother has asked to see you, and I guessed where you might be.’

Lacey closed the piano and rose bewilderedly, shaking out her skirt.

‘Reverend Mother? But why? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’

Sister Thérèse gave a slight smile. ‘Now why should you all imagine that Reverend Mother only sends for you when you have been in some kind of mischief?’ she asked chidingly. Then, after a slight hesitation, ‘You have a visitor, Lacey.’

‘A visitor?’ Lacey stared at the older woman with sudden joyous disbelief. ‘It’s Father. It must be,’ she blurted out, and regardless of Sister Thérèse’s restraining ‘Lacey!’, she ran out of the room and along the spacious panelled corridor to the main staircase.

The door of Reverend Mother’s study was slightly ajar, but Lacey still knocked and waited for the word to enter in spite of her inner excitement. Then she slid through the door and dropped a slight curtsey to Reverend Mother, her eyes turning eagerly to see who else was in the room.

Her hands clasped involuntarily in front of her and she stood quite still with all the joy and laughter fading from her piquant little face as Michelle rose from a high-backed chair, a formal smile barely curving her exquisitely made up mouth.

Questions were beating and tearing at Lacey’s brain as she forced herself to reply to Michelle’s polite greeting and pecked obediently at one scented cheek. One that had to be answered forced its way into speech. ‘Father—he is all right?’

Michelle’s brows rose. ‘Perfectly, but very busy, as he no doubt explained in his last letter. That is why he asked me to perform this errand for him.’ She glanced at her wristwatch, then turned to Reverend Mother who was standing, her usually calm face a little troubled. ‘If the child’s things could be packed, ma très révérende mère.’

‘Mais oui, ma chère enfant. I will give the necessary instructions and leave you to talk.’

She moved past Lacey as she spoke and the girl with great daring touched her sleeve.

‘But why must my things be packed, Reverend Mother?’

The nun hesitated, sending a swift glance towards Michelle.

‘Because the time has come for you to leave us, my child,’ she replied. ‘Your stepmother will explain all to you now, sans doute.’ She looked down into Lacey’s stricken face and her own softened perceptibly. ‘It is not the end of the world, ma petite,’ she said gently, and moved to the door.

‘But it is!’ Lacey cried, almost hysterically. ‘I—I don’t want to leave, Reverend Mother. I was going to see you and ask if I could stay here always——’

‘How would that be possible, my child?’ Reverend Mother stared at her. ‘Unless you obtained some teaching qualification, and even then …’

Lacey shook her head, almost pleadingly. ‘I didn’t mean that, Reverend Mother. I intended to ask you to accept me as a novice—to permit me to become a nun.’

There was a stunned silence for a moment, then Michelle exclaimed furiously ‘Quelle bětise!’ only to be halted by Reverend Mother’s upraised hand. Her calm eyes bored into Lacey’s flushed, unhappy face.

‘So you think you are called to the religious life, my child. Sit down and we will discuss the matter.’

‘Reverend Mother,’ Michelle protested, and the nun gave her a faint smile.

‘If you would be good enough to wait in the parlour, ma chère. Sister Monique will bring you some coffee and cakes.’

Michelle hesitated, but Reverend Mother’s authority was still absolute and after a moment she left the room with obvious ill grace. Reverend Mother gave an almost imperceptible sigh, then moved briskly back to her large desk and sat down.

‘Now, Lacey,’ she said gently. ‘Why do you think you have a vocation?’

There was a long silence. Lacey’s hands twisted together in her lap as she tried desperately to marshall her whirling thoughts into reasoned arguments that would convince Reverend Mother of her sincerity, but no words would come and the only sound in the hushed room was the steady tick of the small clock that stood on Reverend Mother’s desk.

At last, it was Reverend Mother who spoke. ‘Many people have a mistaken idea of what it is to be a nun. They see it as a refuge—an escape from the pressure that life in the world imposes. But they are wrong, Lacey, and you too will be wrong if you are looking for a sanctuary, as I suspect.’

Lacey looked at her tormentedly. ‘Oh, Reverend Mother, everything is such a mess!’

‘But running away will solve nothing, my dear child. Even if I believed you had a genuine vocation, I would be very reluctant to accept you at present. One thing that we do require of our novices is peace of mind, and you are too confused at the moment to know what it is you truly want. I feel you should do as your stepmother asks and go home with her.’

‘But she doesn’t really want me,’ Lacey burst out.

‘How can you know that? Would she have come if that was the case? Besides, there is your father to consider.’ Reverend Mother seemed oddly to hesitate for a moment. ‘Perhaps he may need you, ma chère. Have you considered that?’

Lacey was unhappily silent. Reverend Mother rose, tall in her dark robes, and came round the desk, laying a hand almost in blessing on the girl’s head.

‘Go home, my child,’ she advised quietly. ‘Find out what life may have in store for you, and if you still feel it is not enough after a year or two, and that your place is here, then you can write to me.’

Lacey looked at her steadily. ‘But you don’t believe I will, do you, Reverend Mother?’

‘No, my dear. I have an instinct in these things and it tells me that your future lies outside these walls. Now I must see about your packing before your stepmother loses her patience entirely. Shall I ask Vanessa to help you?’

‘Please, Reverend Mother.’ Lacey’s voice was subdued. ‘I didn’t know whether I would be able to say goodbye to her.’

‘But why not? You are not leaving the convent under a cloud, my dear, and we shall all miss you and pray for you. Now come along.’

Lacey had already emptied her clothes cupboard on to the bed by the time Vanessa arrived.

‘So it’s true,’ she observed, as she bounced into the room. ‘Cheer up, flower. You look shattered. I’d be turning cartwheels if my people sent for me!’

‘I’ll be all right.’ Lacey summoned up a wan smile. ‘It’s all been rather a shock, that’s all.’

Vanessa’s shrewd eyes went over her friend as she began folding the clothes and packing them neatly and economically into the open cases.

‘I don’t want to interfere, Lacey, but is everything—quite all right at home?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Lacey smoothing sweaters into a polythene bag looked at her in surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Oh,’ Vanessa shrugged rather vaguely, ‘there’ve been odd rumours in the newspaper lately, that’s all.’

Lacey rarely bothered to glance at the supply of English papers delivered daily to the convent for the pupils, but she knew Vanessa was an avid reader.

‘What sort of rumours?’

‘Just hints that all might not be well with Vernon–Carey—among others, of course.’

Lacey gave a little perplexed frown. ‘Well, Daddy hasn’t mentioned anything in his letters, and he seemed quite cheerful when I was home at Christmas. What did the papers say?’

Vanessa folded some tissue paper around a dress with rather exaggerated care.

‘I can’t really remember. Nothing specific, of course. Just an impression, really.’

‘Just vile innuendoes, you mean,’ Lacey said heatedly. ‘Some of these financial journalists are the limit! They’re quite capable of starting trouble for a company just to get a story.’

‘This wasn’t the gutter press,’ Vanessa said slowly, ‘or I might have agreed with you. But I daresay it is just a rumour. Things are tough for everyone these days.’

They worked for a few moments in silence and Lacey thought over what had just been said with a growing feeling of unease. She recalled the strangeness in Reverend Mother’s voice when she had said that her father might need her. Was there trouble brewing for Vernon–Carey of which she was the only one in ignorance? She made up her mind to ask Michelle about it at the earliest convenient opportunity.

After a pause, Vanessa began to chat of everyday things—of the senior pupils’ concert that Lacey would now miss, of whether she would continue her musical studies at Kings Winston and how she would otherwise fill her day.

‘Perhaps they’ll have a change of heart when you get home and let you train for something,’ she suggested cheerfully. ‘Or you could help Fran Trevor with the stables, perhaps. You’ve always got on well with her, haven’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ Lacey agreed abstractedly. It occurred to her that if she was living at home for good, she would probably be thrust more into the limited social life around Kings Winston and would be seeing more of Alan as well, but the thought didn’t generate any enthusiasm.

‘And you will write, won’t you, Lacey?’ Vanessa persisted. There was a glint of tears in her blue eyes as she stared at her friend. ‘I—I shall miss you, you know.’

Lacey shook off her brooding mood and smiled warmly at her.

‘Of course I will, Van. And better than that, I’ll ask Michelle if you can come and stay at Kings Winston for Easter.’

She could see no real reason for Michelle to refuse and the thought gave her a touch of optimism as she carried her cases downstairs to the entrance hall where Michelle waited, her foot tapping impatiently on the parquet floor.

The driver of the hired limousine stowed the baggage away in the boot while Lacey made her round of goodbyes to the Sisters and girls. Reverend Mother was last, accompanying them out on to the steps, ignoring the chill of the wind that made Michelle pull up the collar on her fur coat.

‘Goodbye, ma petite.’ Reverend Mother traced a firm sign of the cross on Lacey’s forehead. ‘Think of us sometimes, and never be afraid of the richness of life.’

Lacey’s eyes were hot and blurred with tears as she walked down the shallow flight of steps and got into the back of the big car where Michelle was already waiting. She looked back once as the car turned slowly down the winding drive between the bare branches of the trees, registering like someone in a dream the tall, solid building and the tiny group of black-clad figures waving from the doorway, then the car rounded a bend and they were gone.

She sank back into the soft upholstery feeling utterly bereft. Beside her Michelle was fishing in her handbag for the inevitable cigarette and clicking her lighter irritably.

‘What an age you made me wait!’ she exclaimed. ‘We will have to abandon any notion of an afternoon plane and fly back tomorrow instead. It will not be such a bad thing anyway. Perhaps we will do some shopping in Paris,’ she added with a disparaging sideways look at Lacey’s neat grey flannel coat and plain dark shoes.

‘But I’ve got plenty of clothes,’ Lacey protested.

‘For a schoolgirl, yes,’ Michelle gestured dismissively. ‘But now you are a woman, ma chère, and you must learn to dress yourself accordingly. Your hair must be styled too.’

‘Oh, no.’ Lacey clutched protectively at a strand of her rain-straight silvery fair hair and Michelle looked grudging.

‘Well, perhaps not,’ she conceded. ‘It has a certain—charm, I suppose, comme ça. And you can always wear it up when you wish to look older.’

‘Why should I wish to do that?’ Lacey stared at her.

Michelle gave a negligent shrug and looked at her sideways, her glance oddly speculative. ‘If you do not, ma chère, then you will be the first girl not to wish to be so. Besides, your father will not wish you to appear at parties looking like a child.’

‘I’ll be going to parties, then?’ Lacey said questioningly, and her stepmother raised her eyebrows.

‘Mais certainement,’ she replied sharply. ‘What else did you expect?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Lacey wriggled her fingers out of the gloves that every convent-trained girl wore as a matter of course when she went out. She had never cared for the feel of gloves on her hands even in the coldest weather, and it occurred to her that she no longer had to trouble about this little bit of discipline. She stole a glance at her stepmother, who was smoking rather jerkily and staring out of the window at the rather drab landscape with a slight frown. ‘Michelle, is everything—all right? At home—with Father, I mean?’

‘Naturally.’ Michelle gave her a long look. ‘Why should it not be?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ It was Lacey’s turn to shrug. ‘One—just hears things and I wondered …’

‘You have heard what?’ Her stepmother’s tone sharpened.

‘Who has been talking to you? What has been said?’

‘Well, nothing really,’ Lacey hastened to assure her, feeling oddly perturbed. ‘But Reverend Mother said something odd—about me being needed, and Vanessa said there had been hints in the papers about the bank—that something might be wrong.’ She paused, but Michelle made no immediate reply. Her frown, however, had deepened. ‘If there is something wrong, I wish you’d tell me. You’ve just said I’m not a child any longer, so please don’t treat me like one if there’s something I should know.’

There was silence for a moment, then Michelle gave a harsh little laugh and muttered, ‘Touchée,’ as she stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray beside her. Then she faced the girl sitting tensely beside her.

‘To begin with,’ she said, ‘your father has not been well. He saw a specialist last week and has been told he has a bad heart and must take care. I did not intend to tell you until we reached England, but you wished me to be honest, and I do not agree with your father that you must any longer be protected and sheltered from life. There are realities that very soon you must face, and this is one of them.’

Lacey sat stunned. She moistened her lips. ‘Is—Father isn’t going to die?’ It was a heartrending little cry.

Michelle moved irritably. ‘Mon dieu, non. At least, we must all hope—and pray too, as the good Sisters have promised to do at the convent, that he will live for many years. But he must avoid shocks and any sort of worry, so this—trouble at the bank could not have happened at a worse time for him.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Lack of foreign investment—some unwise investments of his own. The world of finance is full of these ups and down and always your father has been able to weather any storms that came. People had confidence in him—in his name. But now it is whispered that he is a sick man, confidence is failing. There have been one or two resignations from the board, allegedly for other reasons, it is true, but it causes talk, and then the rumours appear in the newspapers.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘So—you will come home, and we will give a dance for you and on the surface all will be well. This is the façade that we must present to the world, and you must help.’

Lacey lifted haunted eyes to meet her stepmother’s. ‘What’s going to happen, Michelle?’

Michelle blew a reflective smoke ring and looked at the girl through narrowed eyes. ‘We shall—overcome this crisis, or we shall be ruined,’ she said almost idly. ‘It is as simple as that, ma chère.’

‘I must get a job,’ Lacey said half to herself. ‘I—I don’t want a dance or any of that nonsense. I want to earn money—and help Father …’

She bit back a cry as Michelle’s fingers gripped her slender arms.

‘And what money could you earn? A drop in the ocean compared to what! is needed,’ Michelle said contemptuously. ‘Be content, Lacey, and do as you are asked. Do not further complicate matters, I beg you.’

Lacey flushed painfully. ‘I’ll do anything, of course,’ she managed.

‘Will you?’ That reflective note had returned to Michelle’s voice and it puzzled Lacey. ‘Perhaps I will remind you of that—one day, ma chère.’

The remainder of the journey into Paris was accomplished in silence. Lacey was glad to be left in peace with her churning thoughts. In the space of a few hours her entire world had been turned upside down, she thought confusedly. Even the security of her background which she had always taken for granted was no longer certain. Was it conceivable that her father could be ruined? He had always seemed so confident of his ability to keep ahead of the game even in difficult times that it did not seem possible that he could now be facing disaster. But other banks had collapsed, she knew. It was a chilling thought. Michelle had spoken calmly, but Lacey found herself wondering what private thoughts her stepmother might be harbouring. She had relished being the wife of a wealthy and successful man. How would she react to being married to a failure? Lacey shook herself mentally. Poor Father! She was condemning him unheard, treating him as if ruin was staring them in the face already.

But it was the news about his bad heart that had really disturbed her. He had always been so proud of his health and energy, as if it were some private lodestar. Now he was sick and his business too was ailing. It was like some ill omen.

When they arrived at the hotel, Lacey allowed herself to be shepherded up to the palatial suite reserved for them while Michelle went to the reception desk to arrange for an extension of the reservation. They lunched together in the suite on clear soup, followed by grilled trout, but Lacey was too disturbed and upset to eat very much. She was not keen either on the suggested shopping expedition, but Michelle was adamant that she should accompany her, so she gave in with a little sigh.

In the end it was rather fun, she discovered. She would never be wholly at her ease with Michelle, but she had to admit that her stepmother had an unerring eye for colour and line and as the elegantly wrapped boxes began to mount up, Lacey experienced all the genuine pleasures that the possession of new and elegant clothes could give any young woman. She could not feel any real regret when her grey coat was replaced by smooth cream suede trimmed with fur, with high-heeled matching boots.

‘Aren’t you going to buy anything for yourself?’ she asked curiously when they were back in the loaded car and returning to the hotel.

‘Hmm.’ Michelle consulted her wristwatch, then leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition separating the driver from the passengers. ‘Driver!’ Briefly she directed him to take them instead to Jean Louis, the fashion house where, Lacey knew, she acquired most of her clothes.

Lacey had always considered it was an odd way to buy clothes, to go into a showroom where there were no racks to pore over but just a few gilt chairs where you sat and watched incredibly slender mannequins parade in the latest creations until you saw something that took your eye.

Today it seemed that Michelle was in the market for evening dresses. Lacey admired the models being paraded with pure objectivity. There was nothing that would have suited her anyway. The models being shown were far too old and sophisticated, and Michelle and the vendeuse had their heads together in close consultation.

Then, as the next model appeared on the catwalk, she sat up and gave a little gasp, wondering which of Jean Louis’ wealthy clients would have the daring—or the figure—to wear such a gown. It was plain stark black with a long floating skirt that clung revealingly to the girl’s hips. But it was the bodice that was the really eye-catching feature, consisting as it did of hardly more than two broad straps of the softly swathed material which barely covered the girl’s breasts.

Michelle sat up, her face animated, talking rapidly in French and gesturing to the vendeuse who hovered attentively at her side.

Lacey’s first shock gave way to disbelief. Surely—surely Michelle could not be thinking of buying such a dress? Whatever would Daddy say when he saw her in it? It was true she had an almost perfect figure, but still … It would be almost too much for one of their sophisticated London gatherings, while for the quiet dinner parties that entertaining usually amounted to at Kings Winston it would be totally outrageous.

The black gown disappeared and was replaced by a mass of floating panels in printed chiffon without half the impact. It was obvious Michelle thought so too, for she was picking up her handbag and preparing to leave. Lacey would have liked to have asked which dress she had ordered, but her stepmother had a distinctly preoccupied air as they re-emerged on to the pavement, and Lacey decided to remain silent.

Back at the hotel, Michelle asked if Lacey would care to dine with her downstairs in the hotel restaurant, but she refused politely, saying that she preferred to have an early bath and watch television in her dressing gown. She was not altogether surprised when Michelle changed into a dinner gown and disappeared on a cloud of expensive perfume, leaving her alone and not entirely sorry either. Certainly her stepmother would find the busy dining room and the passing crowds of far more interest than a quiet evening’s television in the seclusion of her room.

Lacey decided she would try on some of her new clothes after her bath. The bathroom to the suite was warm and luxurious and she revelled in it unashamedly. Bathing at the convent had been a hurried business of necessity, for there was always someone waiting more or less patiently to take your place. It was fun too to sample the various bath oils and soaps set out on the glass shelves. Such luxuries had been scorned as worldly vanities by the nuns, who had not encouraged their use by the boarders.

When she had soaked for long enough, feeling some of her worries and tensions dissolve away under the soothing influence of the warm water, she climbed out, reaching for the white fluffy towel awaiting her on the heated rail. But as her wet foot encountered the bathroom carpet she felt something hard and sharp press into her sole and gave a little cry, hobbling sideways to escape the pressure. Wrapping herself in the towel, she felt about on the floor until she discovered what it was. It was part of a man’s cuff link, an expensive trinket in gold and enamel in an elegant chequered pattern. Lacey pursed her lips as she stared at it lying in the palm of her hand. It must have belonged to the previous tenant of the suite, she thought disapprovingly, and it did not say much for the standard of cleanliness at one of Paris’s top hotels that it had not been discovered during the changeover.

She decided that rather than mention it to Michelle, who would probably make a fuss out of all proportion to the incident, she would simply ring for a chambermaid and hand it over. The owner would probably want it back anyway. It was a distinctive design and it was only one of the links that had given away. It could probably be easily repaired.

Still wrapped in the towel, she went into the sitting room of the suite and was just about to press the bell when the telephone on a table near the door rang with a suddenness that made her gasp. Without a doubt the call was not for her, and she picked up the receiver rather hesitantly. She was about to say, ‘Madame Vernon’s suite’, when a deep, imperious masculine voice said, ‘Michelle’?

‘Er—non.’ Lacey transferred the receiver to her other hand and made an ineffectual grab at her slipping towel.

There was a sound suspiciously like a muttered curse from the other end of the telephone, and then the voice said, ‘Mé sinhoríte’ and a click and the dialling tone told her that the anonymous caller had hung up.

Lacey replaced her own receiver with a little slam. He had had no need to be quite so abrupt, she thought. After all, she was perfectly capable of taking a message for her stepmother, and in French—only his parting shot hadn’t sounded at all French but some other far less familiar language. She shrugged and trailed into her bedroom to get her pyjamas and dressing gown before tackling the chambermaid, who was more than inclined to take offence at the suggestion that the bathroom had not been properly cleaned. Had she not vacuumed the carpet with her own hands? she demanded of the room at large, and Lacey in particular. Lacey, who was beginning to long for her bed after a long and wearying day, was glad to hand over the broken cuff link and close the door on the woman’s virtuous and slightly aggrieved insistence that it should be handed over to the manager on that instant.

‘I hope she wasn’t expecting a tip,’ she muttered to herself as she went into her bedroom and closed the door. She had left a note for Michelle beside the telephone. ‘Someone rang. Wouldn’t leave his name.’

She did not find it easy to rest the first night in a strange bed, but this time she was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. It was a long time later when she opened bewildered and sleepy eyes, wondering what had woken her. Then she heard the sound again. It was Michelle laughing, that uncharacteristic full-throated, sexy laugh that belied her chic, rather cool appearance. For a moment she wondered drowsily who her stepmother could be talking to at this time of night, then she heard the sound of a telephone receiver being replaced. So Michelle had got the message and probably identified the mystery man. All well and good, Lacey thought briefly before sleep claimed her once again.

CHAPTER TWO

‘DEAR Vanessa,’ wrote Lacey, ‘It’s hard to believe that I’ve only been at home for two weeks. It seems much longer. I was so happy to get your letter and know that you really are coming here for Easter. Kings Winston should be at its best by then.’

She laid down her fountain pen and stared reflectively out of the window at the smooth rolling lawn below the terrace. She was finding this letter unexpectedly difficult to write. It was very different from the carefree correspondence that she and Vanessa had enjoyed so far during their schooldays, because there was so much she was forced to leave unsaid.

She couldn’t tell Vanessa how shocked she had been by the change in her father when she had arrived home a fortnight before. Michelle had warned her that he had been ordered to lose weight by his doctors, but this had not prepared her for the stoop in his shoulders and the way his clothes seemed to hang on his tall, once-burly frame. His face too was lined and almost haggard. But it was the subtle alteration in his personality which had most disturbed her. Where he had been bluff and good-humoured, now his temper was uncertain and inclined to be querulous. Michelle handled him with kid-gloves, and Lacey, rather subdued, followed her lead.

She had had little private conversation with her stepmother since the revelations in the car on the way to Paris, but if Michelle was worried about the immediate prospects facing the family, she kept it well concealed. Occasionally her manner seemed slightly abstracted, but that was all. Again, this was something that she could not confide in Vanessa, nor her increasing feeling of uneasiness that there were still things that were being kept from her.

She sighed and put the unfinished letter back inside her writing case. It was a pretty lame effort so far, but they were giving a dinner party that evening and perhaps something would happen there that she could turn into an amusing story for Vanessa.

She was a little surprised as she went up to her room to find Mrs Osborne the housekeeper and one of the women who came in from the village to help with the cleaning engaged in turning out one of the guest bedrooms, and making up the bed. As far as she knew, tonight’s guests were all local people, and she hesitated in the doorway, watching them curiously.

‘Who’s coming to stay, Mrs Osborne?’ she asked at last.

‘Madame didn’t tell me the gentleman’s name, Miss Lacey.’

So it’s a man, Lacey thought as she went on her way. That explained it. It must be one of the bank’s directors, all of whom had been frequent guests in the past. Only the room was obviously being got ready for a single occupant—and all the directors were married men who usually brought their wives with them.

She had hoped the preparations for the dinner would have added a touch of excitement to an existence which had so far proved boring to the point of monotony. But nothing had changed. Her tentative offers of help were waved irritably away by Michelle, who seemed unusually on edge for such an experienced and accomplished hostess.

Lacey, rather huffily, decided she would take herself off to the village. At least Fran Trevor would welcome her help at the stables, she thought defiantly.

But even in this she was thwarted, for when she arrived at the stables, the place was deserted except for the girl who came in a couple of days a week to do the accounts and the bookwork, and she informed Lacey that Miss Trevor had taken out a group of people staying at the Bull who had welcomed the chance of an afternoon’s hacking round lanes and fields. So there was nothing for it but to trudge back to the house again and try to keep out of everyone’s way.

The guest bedroom looked very nice, she thought, poking her head round the door for a critical peep, but Mrs Osborne hadn’t put any flowers in there. It was too early in the year for the gardens to yield very much, but Lacey knew there were some early daffodils in a sheltered corner and she decided to pick some as a welcoming gesture of her own.

But just as she was going into the garden she was stopped by Mrs Osborne with a request to help clean some silver, and it was late in the afternoon by the time she could decently escape and find her flowers. It was pleasant in the garden. The day’s cold wind had dropped at the onset of dusk, and, wrapped warmly in an ancient duffel coat, Lacey enjoyed quite a leisurely stroll before she headed back to the house with her armful of flowers.

She collected a suitable container from the china cupboard, and went upstairs to the bathroom adjoining the guest room where she filled the vase and arranged her blooms. She had overfilled the vase a little and she picked it up with great care, holding it steadily as she opened the door that communicated with the bedroom and stepped forward.

But the room was no longer in its pristinely unoccupied state. There was an expensive leather suitcase open on the bed, clothes spilling out of it carelessly, and beside it a man was standing, stripped to the waist, as Lacey’s stunned eyes immediately registered. She started violently and some of the water in the vase splashed down her faded denim skirt and on to the bedroom carpet.

She was aware of a pair of intensely dark eyes taking her in, from the tangle of pale hair on her shoulders to her drenched skirt and flat shoes. She felt she was being assessed and dismissed, and the colour surged up into her pale skin.

When he spoke, his voice was deep with an intonation that puzzled her. It seemed to hold a faint transatlantic drawl overlaid by a trace of something more foreign, and she wrinkled her brow trying to recognise it until he repeated his remark with a kind of weary patience, that arrested her attention instantly.

‘I said, hadn’t you better get a cloth and mop up that mess?’

Lacey stared at him, dimly aware that she was most certainly not accustomed to being spoken to in that way. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but he was her father’s guest and it was her duty to be courteous however lacking in that respect he himself might be.

She walked over to the chest of drawers, intending to leave her flowers before she went to look for a cloth, but he halted her in her tracks.

‘Are you proposing to put a wet vase down on polished wood? You haven’t a great deal of idea about how to look after antique furniture.’

Lacey’s blood boiled. Of course she knew better than that, but the shock of finding this—creature already installed and half naked had driven her usual common sense from her mind.

He had a shirt in his hand. Why didn’t he put it on and and cover himself up? she thought angrily, looking with dislike at his broad brown chest with the black mat of hair, but that was obviously the last thing on his mind, because just then he rolled the shirt into a ball and tossed it back into the case.

‘I’ll—I’ll just put them on the floor for a moment,’ she said hastily, averting her gaze.

‘Better still, why not take them back where they came from?’ He stood watching her, his hands on his hips. ‘I don’t need flowers in my room, or anywhere around me. I prefer to see them in their natural state.’

Lacey’s eyes held an obvious glint. She said, ‘Then I think I’ll take them to my own room. I don’t happen to share your prejudice.’

He looked at her, his piercing dark eyes narrowed, raking her from head to foot.

‘Does Lady Vernon usually allow her employees your sort of latitude?’ he drawled.

Lacey stood very still, her thoughts whirling. ‘Heavens,’ she thought, a giggle bubbling up inside her which she instantly suppressed, ‘he thinks I’m the upstairs maid or something!’

As if he had read her thoughts, his voice broke in on them with swift abruptness. ‘Just who are you?’

She shrugged, deliberately vague. ‘Oh, I help in the house.’

‘Do you?’ he said, rather grimly. ‘Well, perhaps you’ll go and—help somewhere else. I’m waiting to take a bath—unless you include washing guests’ backs among your duties.’

He began lazily to unbuckle the belt on the dark, close-fitting trousers, and Lacey observed the manoeuvre with alarm, her cheeks already flushed at what his words had implied.

‘I’m sorry to have disturbed your privacy,’ she said rather haughtily, turning abruptly towards the bedroom door to make her escape.

His mocking laugh followed her as she closed the door carefully behind her, and she bit her lip angrily as she walked down the corridor to get to her own room. The encounter had totally disconcerted her. No man had ever spoken to her or looked at her like that before, and she was aware that her pulses had quickened and that her mouth felt oddly dry.

She felt almost vindictively glad to picture his embarrassment when they met again later at her father’s dinner table. It would teach him to jump to conclusions, she told herself. But at the same time she was uncomfortably aware that the arrogant set of those muscular brown shoulders and the assurance of his heavy-lidded eyes had not suggested a man who would embarrass easily, or respond in any of the conventional ways. Lacey had to admit that she would have been happier if he had remained a totally unknown quantity to her—if, in fact, they had never met at all, and the prospect of the dinner party ahead, not to mention the entire weekend that faced her, filled her with a strange sense of dread.

When Lacey emerged from her bath that evening, she was surprised to find her stepmother’s maid waiting for her in her room.

‘Madame’s asked me to put your hair up for you, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara announced, setting a china bowl full of hairpins down on the dressing table.

‘Oh.’ Lacey digested this, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead. She usually wore her hair very simply, either hanging loose on her shoulders or in two bunches, as she had planned to wear it that night, the fastenings masked by small bunches of artificial daisies. The style was intended to complement the simplicity of the deep blue Empire line dress laid across the bed, and she wondered doubtfully whether a more sophisticated style would suit either her or the dress.

But Barbara was certainly skilful, she decided, as she watched the girl’s fingers transform her swathe of hair into a smooth coronet on top of her head, softening the severity of the style with two softly curling strands allowed to rest against her ears. It was the first time she had ever been offered Barbara’s services, which were usually Michelle’s exclusive prerogative and jealously guarded as such, and she wondered curiously why an exception had been made on this particular evening. Nor did Barbara’s ministrations stop at her hair. She gave Lacey a light but effective make-up as well, moisturising her skin and shadowing her eyelids, as well as applying lip gloss to the soft curve of her mouth.

When she had finished, Lacey gazed at herself in astonishment. She hardly recognised herself in this cool, aloof young woman with the mysterious eyes and shining crown of fair hair.

‘There, Miss Lacey.’ Barbara’s tone was plainly self-congratulatory. ‘Now if you’ll just get into your undies, I’ll fetch your dress.’ She handed Lacey a pair of briefs and some filmy tights.

‘Er—thank you, Barbara.’ Lacey flushed a little awkwardly, telling herself that she was perfectly able to dress herself unaided. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

Barbara stared at her. ‘That’s all, miss. You couldn’t wear anything else with this dress.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. I always have in the past,’ Lacey swung round vexedly on the dressing stool and gasped as she saw the mass of clinging black fabric Barbara was holding carefully over her arm. ‘What’s that?’

‘Your dress, miss.’ Barbara sounded surprised. ‘Didn’t you think it would arrive in time?’

Lacey’s lips parted helplessly as she recognised that Barbara was holding out the daring gown with the minimal bodice that she had seen modelled at Jean Louis.

‘There’s been some mistake,’ she said eventually. ‘That dress is for Madame. I—I couldn’t wear anything like that.’

‘It’s definitely your dress, Miss Lacey. Madame said so when I unpacked the box, and besides, this isn’t her fitting. It must be a little surprise for you,’ she added encouragingly.

Lacey’s lips tightened. ‘Well, I still don’t intend to wear it,’ she declared. ‘Please take it away and bring me my blue dress instead.’

‘But, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara’s voice was anxious, ‘Madame said you had to wear it tonight. I don’t know what she’ll say if …’

‘That isn’t your problem, Barbara,’ Lacey said gently. ‘I’ll see my stepmother before I go down and explain. I’m sure there’s been a mistake of some kind.’

‘Mistake? What mistake?’ Michelle’s cool voice spoke from the doorway. She came gliding across the carpet, elegant in a silver gown, a cigarette held tensely in her fingers, and carrying a glass filled with some pale liquid in her other hand.

‘Miss Lacey doesn’t want to wear the Jean Louis model, madame.’ Barbara sounded subdued, as if she felt she would be blamed for Lacey’s rebellion.

Michelle’s eyebrows rose. ‘Eh bien? You may go, Barbara. I will deal with this.’

When the door had closed behind the girl, she set the glass down on the dressing table near the bowl of daffodils and stood, looking grimly down at her stepdaughter.

‘Were my instructions not clear?’ she asked.

‘Michelle!’ Lacey was totally appalled. ‘You surely can’t expect me to go downstairs wearing—that.’

‘Pourquoi pas?’ Michelle gave her a hard look. ‘It is an an expensive dress, and black will set off your hair and skin admirably.’

Slow colour crept up Lacey’s face. ‘You know why not,’ she protested.

Michelle gave a brief, metallic laugh. ‘A prude, ma chère? You are no longer at the convent, tu sais. Most girls of your age would give much to wear such a dress. What have you to be ashamed of? Your body is young, and your breasts are firm. You have the perfect figure for the gown, which is why I bought it for you. Now please dress yourself in it without further arguments. It is getting late.’

‘But, Michelle, what will people think—what will my father say?’

Michelle shrugged. ‘What should they think? That you look—charming. And your father will say nothing. He not only approves of the gown but he particularly wishes you to wear it tonight.’

‘But why?’

Michelle sighed elaborately. ‘It is his wish that you should make a favourable impression on one of his guests.’

‘By appearing half naked?’ Lacey’s mouth twisted in a sudden cynicism that belied her youth. ‘And who is this very important person—or am I not allowed to ask?’

But as soon as the words were uttered, she knew. There was only one person it could be—the strange man into whose room she had blundered with her unwanted welcome offering of flowers. She felt suddenly cold and sick, remembering how his eyes had assessed her earlier with all the assurance of a man for whom the female body held few secrets. To have to appear in front of him wearing the black dress would be a total humiliation.

‘You asked to be treated as a woman, but you persist in behaving like a child.’ Her stepmother’s tone was icy. ‘His name is Troy Andreakis.’

Lacey had been staring at the bowl of daffodils, trying to fight back her tears, but at the name her head came up sharply and she stared at Michelle disbelievingly.

‘The oil and shipping magnate? But what is he doing here? He has no interest in Vernon–Carey.’

‘Not yet.’ Michelle picked up a hairbrush and studied it with over-absorbed interest. ‘Yet—who knows? By the time the weekend is at an end …’ She shrugged again, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Lacey stared at her bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, it’s quite simple, ma chère. A large-scale investment by a man of Andreakis’ status would restore confidence in Vernon–Carey. Without it, there could well be a catastrophe—quite soon.’

Lacey gripped the edge of the dressing table. ‘Things are that bad?’ she managed, her green eyes enormous in her pale face.

‘They are that bad,’ Michelle corroborated tautly. ‘And, believe me, there are no lengths to which I will not go to ensure that your father gets that investment from Andreakis. That is why, ma chère, you are going to wear that dress tonight, because you are going to help me—you are going to be an asset to your father for the first time in your life instead of a liability.’

Lacey flinched a little, but her stepmother went on unheeding. ‘This is why you are being dressed as an attractive woman, instead of a child. A man like Andreakis does not want to dine in the company of a gawky schoolgirl. You once hoped to occupy a concert platform, and for that you would have needed an ability to act, to project your personality as well as your music. Tonight your father needs that performance from you. He wants you to relax Andreakis, to charm him if you can.’

Lacey closed her eyes for a moment. Now was not the time to confess that she and Troy Andreakis had already encountered and failed to charm each other. Would the transformation from gawky schoolgirl to sophisticate be sufficiently complete to render her unrecognisable? She doubted it, and knew that she was going to need every scrap of social grace that had been imparted to her at the convent to get through the evening without disaster.

‘If it’s what Daddy wants,’ she said wearily, at last.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say precisely that.’ Michelle’s voice was ironic. ‘But he appreciates the necessity at least, and he is depending on you.’ Her eyes skimmed Lacey’s wilting figure appraisingly. ‘Barbara has done her work well. Make sure you do the same. Now please hurry. The others will be arriving soon.’

As she turned to go, she indicated the glass on the dressing table. ‘Pour toi. For you—a dry Martini,’ she said.

‘But I only drink fruit juice,’ Lacey protested.

Michelle smiled a little. ‘Call it Dutch courage. You may need it.’ And she was gone on a cloud of Balmain perfume.

Lacey tasted the drink gingerly, grimacing slightly at the taste, but it had a warming effect which served to chase away some of the unpleasant butterflies which appeared to have taken up residence in her abdomen.

When she was finally ready, she stood and stared at herself in the full-length mirror, resisting an impulse to cover the upper part of her body with her hands. It was true, she thought detachedly—she did not have to be ashamed of her figure. The stark black of the material made her white skin look almost translucent and gave her slender curves a frank enticement. She just prayed that her untried poise would be able to cope with the promise of almost total revelation that the gown exuded.

But in spite of its provocation, and the sophistication of her shadowed eyes, glowing mouth and softly piled hair, Lacey felt desperately inadequate. Unwillingly she forced her mind back to that earlier encounter, visualising the ruthlessness of his dark face. Not a man who would suffer fools gladly, she surmised, and one for whom a woman would need more than a glossy façade to arouse his interest. What could she find to say that would engage the attention of a man like Andreakis?

With a little groan, she tried to think of what little she knew about him—mostly gleaned from rare newspaper stories, and generally illustrating his loathing of personal publicity. But there had been a story recently—something to do with litigation over a trusteeship involving his young sister— which he had won, she recalled with a slight curl of her lip. She could remember there had been pictures of his beautiful villa on the Ionian island of Theros, taken presumably with a long-range lens out of respect for his dislike of the Press. She could recall gossipy items, too, about beautiful women who had been his guests on Theros for varying periods of time.

A little shiver ran through her body. She felt like a novice swimmer who suddenly finds the water too deep, and too cold.

She gave a shaky little sigh and turned reluctantly towards the door. Better to make her entrance downstairs as inconspicuous as possible than linger, and have Michelle coming in search of her.

As she came slowly down the wide, polished staircase to the hall, Mrs Osborne was just admitting a latecomer. As he shugged off his overcoat and handed it to the housekeeper, Lacey realised it was Alan Trevor and in spite of herself she felt a wave of self-conscious colour rising in her face and had to crush an impulse to turn and run back to her room.

When she spoke, she was amazed to hear how normal, even prim, she sounded. ‘Good evening, Alan.’

He swung round. ‘Er—hello, Lacey. Am I the last? I had to stay behind because the vet was coming to look at Domino. She’s due to foal any time, but he doesn’t think there’ll be anything doing tonight.’

‘Well, I’m glad you were able to make it.’ She moved forward from the foot of the stairs, aware that his eyes were taking in the transformation in her appearance with evident puzzlement. ‘Is something the matter?’ She looked up at him innocently.

‘No—oh, no. It’s just …’ He stared down at her, frowning a little. ‘Hell, Lacey, what have you done to yourself?’

‘Don’t you approve?’

‘No—yes. I don’t know.’ He pushed his hair back impatiently. ‘What’s more important, will your parents approve? I mean, have they seen that dress?’

‘Of course.’ Lacey twirled round slowly, letting the filmy skirt float out and settle back against her slender legs. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, it’s fine—what there is of it,’ he said, heavily sarcastic. ‘And black. I’ve never seen you in black before.’

‘And you don’t like it?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. It just takes a bit of getting used to.’ His eyes went over her again. They held censure and something less easy to define. ‘You just look so—different.’

‘Well, I can’t always wear jeans and gymslips,’ she said defensively. ‘I have to grow up some time.’

‘We all have to do that,’ he muttered. ‘Come on. We’d better go in.’ He offered her his arm with a strange formality.

‘Oh, Alan!’ She ignored the gesture, slipping her hand into his with all the confidence of long familiarity. ‘I haven’t changed that much, believe me. I’m the same person I always was.’

‘Are you, Lacey?’ He gave her fingers a quick squeeze. ‘I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.’

She was glad she did not have to enter the drawing room by herself. Even though her appearance did not cause the sensation she had feared, she was conscious of a number of curious glances, particularly from guests who had known her since childhood. There was admiration mixed with the curiosity too from most of the men, and after a moment or two Lacey felt some of the tension begin to leave her body. Alan released her hand, murmuring that he would fetch her a drink, and she stood alone, looking round the room and returning smiling nods and greetings.

Then she saw him. He was standing by the ornate marble mantelpiece, his arm casually resting along the shelf. He seemed to be paying minute attention to the glowing butt of his cheroot, but as if aware of her scrutiny he raised his head, and their eyes met across the room. Lacey felt the polite smile fading on her lips as she encountered his look. It held recognition bordering on disbelief, and a frankly sensual assessment that brought the colour flaring to her face and an angry light to her eyes. For a moment she stood motionless, then, as she saw him fling the remains of his cheroot on to the blazing logs in the hearth and move away from the fireplace in one swift impatient movement, she realised he was coming towards her and panicked, turning towards the door, regardless of the curious glances she was attracting from the group of people nearest to her.

But the way was blocked by Mrs Osborne’s comfortable figure, telling Michelle that dinner was served, and escape was impossible. She gave a swift glance around, searching vainly for Alan, as her father reached her side.

‘So there you are, Lacey.’ She knew she was not imagining the impatient, anxious note in his voice and turned towards him reluctantly. ‘Mr Andreakis has been waiting to meet you, my dear.’

Her hand was encompassed by lean, brown fingers. It was the most conventional of salutes, so it was nonsense to imagine that she could still feel the pressure of his hand, long after he had released her. Dry-throated, she acknowledged his greeting in a small husky voice, registering that he was treating her as a complete stranger although there was no doubt that he had recognised her from that brief encounter in his room earlier. She supposed she should be grateful to him for saving them both from awkward explanations, but whereas she had hoped to be able to make him feel foolish, she now felt at a disadvantage. Resentment kept her silent as he took her arm and escorted her into the dining room, holding her chair as she sat down with a courtesy that she was certain masked—what? Something as simple as mockery? She could not be sure and it irked her as she unfolded the exquisite damask napkin, and picked up her soup spoon.

To her relief, Michael Fairclough, a leading member of the local hunt, was her other neighbour at the table and she was able to start a conversation with him about the forthcoming point-to-point, even pretend for a while that the dark, sardonic figure at her other side did not exist, but a glacial look from Michelle at the end of the table brought her up with a jerk, reminding her of her duties. She turned towards him to find, disconcertingly, that he was watching her. Her colour rose, and the trite remark she had been planning on the weather prospects for the weekend died on her lips.

Wonderingly her eyes searched his face, marking the strongly arched eyebrows above those impenetrably dark eyes, and the hard lines of his mouth and jaw. In spite of the formal elegance of dinner jacket and befrilled white shirt, she was aware of the muscular strength of the chest and shoulders they concealed, and the air of restless, barely controlled energy that suggested these civilised trappings were merely a veneer.

‘Do you read characters from faces, Miss Vernon?’

Her nerves jumped both at the appositeness of his question, and at the realisation that she had been guilty of staring at him.

She shook her head, transferring her gaze swiftly back to her plate.

‘You must think me very rude,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

‘You’re no thought-reader either.’ He picked up his glass and drank some of the wine it contained. ‘You’ve barely touched yours,’ he commented. ‘It’s hardly a compliment to such a fine vintage.’

‘I—I don’t know a great deal about wine,’ she confessed, and his brows rose.

‘No? I would have thought such occasions as this would have been second nature to you.’

Was that an edge to his voice or was it her imagination running riot again? she wondered desperately. His remark proved one thing at least—Michelle’s outward grooming of her had been impeccable. He obviously thought she was much older than she was. Now all she had to do was to live up to that belief—provide him with the light-hearted flirtation that he would expect from a female companion at dinner.

‘Perhaps I find wine of less interest than people,’ she ventured, making herself smile at him.

‘And some people of more interest than others,’ he said, and this time there was no mistaking the satirical note in his voice. ‘It’s a pity, for example, that I don’t share Mr—er—Fairclough’s interest in hunting matters. Perhaps that might make me more acceptable to you as a companion.’

Oh God, what a mess she was making of it all! Lacey put down her knife and fork, feeling she would choke if she took another mouthful. She realised her father was watching them, a slight anxious frown wrinkling his forehead, and she felt a pang of self-recrimination as she realised the stress he was undergoing and the importance that the success of this weekend had assumed his mind. Somehow she must make an effort to do and be what he wanted, and to win over this unsmiling man who was totally outside her admittedly limited experience.

Frantically she searched her memory for some of the scraps of worldly wisdom that the girls at the convent had let drop when they were recounting the details of their latest conquests. Hadn’t someone said it was sexy to look straight into a man’s eyes as you smiled at him? Deliberately she caught and held his gaze, allowing her eyes to widen endlessly while her mouth curved slowly into warmth and charm.

‘Horses aren’t my sole preoccupation,’ she protested with a little shrug.

For a moment as he returned her look unwaveringly, she thought painfully that she had failed, then he smiled too—a cynical twist of her lips, but a smile—and lifted his glass to her in a toast to which she was forced to respond.

‘My last doubt is removed,’ he said musingly.

‘Doubt?’ Lacey looked at him from under her lashes, a favourite trick of Vanessa’s.

‘That you and I will eventually find a topic that will arouse the—interest of us both.’

A little quiver of uncertainty jangled the nerve-endings along her spine and curled around the nape of her neck. Almost involuntarily she lifted her hand to rub her neck, and remembered too late the revealing nature of her dress. She hurriedly folded her hands in her lap again, stealing a glance at Troy Andreakis, but his attention seemed to be centred on his wine glass.

‘Is this your first visit to Kings Winston, Mr Andreakis?’ Surely that was a safe subject.

‘No, I was here last autumn, but only for a day or two. I am glad to have a chance of a longer visit so that I can see something of the surrounding countryside.’

Lacey’s heart sank. It seemed that his visit might not be confined to simply a weekend after all.

‘I’m surprised at your interest. I didn’t picture you as a nature-lover,’ she said more tartly than she had intended.

His mouth curled slightly again. ‘Because I rejected your flowers? On the contrary, I can appreciate beauty as well as any man. However’—the dark eyes swept over her again—‘as I said, I prefer it in its natural state.’ Her eyes met his, frankly indignant, and he laughed softly. ‘What a creature of contrasts you are, pethi mou—from gamine to femme fatale in the course of an hour or so. What is real about you, I wonder, and what is an illusion?’

She was thankful that the arrival of the sweet course diverted his attention momentarily and gave her a chance to regain her equilibrium. So much for Michelle’s efforts to transform her, she thought wretchedly. The scheme had been doomed to failure from the start. She simply did not have the poise and confidence to hoodwink a man like Troy Andreakis. She was staring miserably at the untouched portion of Crème Chantilly on her plate when she realised he was speaking to her again.

‘I think you owe me something for spilling water all over my bedroom and then running away,’ he said. ‘I’m willing to settle for a tour of the local beauty spots in your company tomorrow—unless you object and prefer to buy my silence in some other way.’

‘I don’t object,’ she said rather woodenly. ‘It—it will be delightful.’

There was a disturbing pause while he looked at her again with that faint, cynical amusement.

‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘you have almost convinced me that it will be.’

She was thankful that her family still adhered to the old custom of leaving the men to enjoy brandy and cigars while the women drank coffee in the drawing room. She was kept busy handing round cups and when everyone was served found herself a seat beside Fran Trevor, who was looking like a vivacious robin in her long cherry-coloured dress.

‘Hello, love,’ she exclaimed as Lacey sat down. ‘What a gorgeous dress! Is that what comes of having a French stepmother? I envy you, if so. Mother took one look at me in this and started muttering direly about modesty vests—whatever they are.’

Lacey sighed. ‘I think my sympathies are with your mother,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘I feel an absolute fool.’

Fran looked at her shrewdly. ‘Well, I assure you, you don’t look one. And that terrifying Mr Andreakis obviously didn’t think so. I’m glad he’s your guest, and not ours. I wouldn’t have a clue what to say to him. Does he ride, by the way?’

‘I don’t think so. He—he said he wasn’t interested in hunting, at any rate.’

Fran shrugged. ‘Ah well, you can’t have everything. Are you going to come and exercise Starlight for me tomorrow? I’m going to be tied up with these people from the Bull.’

Lacey gave a little groan. ‘Oh Fran, I wish I could, but I’m committed to going for a drive with Mr Andreakis.’

Fran whistled humorously. ‘I should be so committed! Honestly, love, you are the limit. Pursued by millionaires and still you look glum!’

Lacey wanted to tell her that the pursuit was actually being conducted from the opposite quarter, but she had to remain silent. She had learned long ago not to chatter indiscreetly about Vernon–Carey matters. Instead she shrugged carelessly.

‘I’m his host’s daughter. I suppose he feels he has to be polite.’

‘Hmm.’ Fran eyed her. ‘I wonder if he’d be as “polite” if you had a squint and legs like tree-trunks. Besides, people like Andreakis don’t have to bother with things like politeness. They deal in power, and that’s what matters in their world.’

And in mine, Lacey thought rebelliously.

She walked over to replace a cup on the tray, and encountered a taut glance from Michelle. ‘Eh bien?’

Lacey gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ve done as I was told. I suppose it’s too much to hope that I can be given my freedom for the rest of the evening.’

Michelle’s eyes snapped. ‘Are you quite mad?’ she questioned glacially. ‘What would our guests think if you were to disappear in the middle of the evening? Besides, I have already been asked if you will play for us later. Everyone will be most disappointed if you refuse.’

Lacey bent her head defeatedly. At least if she was at the piano, it would release her from close attendance on Troy Andreakis.

‘Very well,’ she agreed listlessly. ‘Is it all right if I go to my room for some aspirin? I have a slight headache.’

‘Certainement. You are by no means a prisoner. Please do not dramatise the situation.’ Michelle gave her a final, inimical look before turning to smile graciously at Mrs Taylor who was approaching them.

Lacey was glad to escape from the stuffiness of the drawing room. Michelle, who loathed the British climate, invariably had the central heating turned full on in the winter months and tonight was no exception. She was walking rather wearily across the hall when she heard the sound of chairs being moved and a crescendo of voices as the dining room door was opened. Lacey picked up her long skirt and fled up the stairs. She had no wish to be caught loitering in the hall—by anyone, she thought crossly as she safely gained the upper landing.

It was with a real sense of refuge that she reached her bedroom. Her fingers had just closed on the handle of her bedroom door when the voice she least wanted to hear spoke lazily just behind her.

‘Running out on the party, Miss Vernon?’

She swung round, her heart thudding in sudden ridiculous panic.

‘You followed me,’ she accused before she could stop herself, then stood, aghast at what she had said, conscious that his lips were twisting in faint amusement.

‘Alas, no,’ he murmured. ‘I was lured here by my cigarette case, not by your charms, Miss Vernon, potent though they are.’

His eyes went over her with a kind of lingering insolence that made her want to cover her body with her hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ she managed at last. ‘If you would excuse me …’

His hand closed over hers, preventing her from opening her bedroom door.

‘You haven’t answered my question yet,’ he reminded her.

‘Question?’ she repeated lamely, then flushed as she remembered. ‘No, I’m not “running out”. I have a headache, and I’ve come to get something for it.’

‘I am desolated to hear it,’ he said with a complete absence of expression. ‘May I recommend prevention rather than cure as a policy for the future.’

‘Prevention?’ she echoed bewilderedly.

‘My advice would be to avoid alcohol, to which you are patently not accustomed.’ His tone was smooth. ‘Also hair styles which rely for their effectiveness on quantities of hairpins.’

Her hand was released, and she recoiled instinctively as she felt his hands moving with detestable assurance among the lacquered coils of her hair.

‘What are you doing?’ She sounded breathless and very young, and saw his teeth gleam suddenly in a smile.

‘Curing your headache,’ he replied laconically, and Lacey tensed as the long shining strands, released from their restraint, spilled past her shoulders.

‘Oh!’ She lifted a helpless hand to check on the complete ruin of Barbara’s careful creation. ‘Oh, how dare you!’

‘Oh, I dare.’ Totally ignoring her flushed face and eyes filled with angry tears, he reached out and lifted one gleaming tendril between his finger and thumb. ‘You have hair like silk, pethi mou, why not take pride in it, instead of torturing it into shapes that only serve to make you look older than the child you are.’

‘I’m not a child!’ she defended herself hotly, forcing herself to forget all her own misgivings about her appearance that night.

‘Aren’t you?’ he said sardonically. He let the long tress of hair fall back on her shoulder, and his fingers followed it to touch the curve of her throat in a caress that, although fleeting, seemed to burn her flesh. A long tremulous quiver shook her body, and, dazed, she heard him laugh softly as if he was quite aware of her reaction. His hand moved almost inexorably along her shoulder to the wide, soft folds of the shoulder-strap which constituted half of her bodice, and she tensed unbelievingly, her eyes flying to his face in swift, outraged denial, as she felt him begin to slide the material aside.

‘No!’ she got out, pulling herself away almost wildly from the intimate exploration of his touch.

‘Why not?’ His voice was quiet but with an underlying sensuous warmth that disturbed her as much as the frank appraisal in his dark eyes. ‘Your room is here, and I can guarantee no one would disturb us.’

‘You’re—insulting.’ Her voice shook uncontrollably.

‘How have you been insulted? I’ve merely credited your intelligence by making my intentions clear, instead of merely seducing you as I might have done.’

‘I think you must be mad!’ Backed against the door, her shoulders pressed against its panels as if she would draw some reserve of strength from its solidarity, she looked incredibly young and defenceless. ‘I think your previous—conquests must have gone to your head, Mr Andreakis.’

He laughed. ‘How charmingly old-fashioned! I don’t look for conquests, however. Submissiveness is the last quality I look for when I take a woman to my bed.’

‘That is no concern of mine,’ she said, lifting her chin with a kind of forlorn dignity. ‘But I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere for your latest—seduction.’

‘Andithetos, pethi mou,’ he said, almost gently, then, as she tried to slip past him, to return to safety and sanity downstairs, his hands reached for her, bruising her bare arms and dragging her with merciless strength against the hardness of his body. For a long moment he held her, writhing impotently in his grip, while his eyes searched her face as if he was etching her features on some inner consciousness, then his mouth came down on hers, parting her lips with sensual ruthlessness and destroying for ever any innocent illusions she might have had about what a kiss would be.

When he let her go, Lacey stood motionless for a moment, her eyes enormous with shock in her pale face, then she pressed her hand almost convulsively over her swollen mouth and ran from him, only to collide with someone else standing at the head of the stairs.

‘Lacey!’ Michelle’s voice was taut. ‘Where have you been for this age?’ Her eyes narrowed as they swept over her stepdaughter. ‘Mon dieu, your hair! What have you done …’

‘It was my doing, Lady Vernon.’ Troy Andreakis joined them unhurriedly, his dark face cool and imperturbable, leaving Lacey wondering dazedly whether she had merely imagined the last few outrageous moments. ‘A sovereign remedy for headaches—passed down in our family for generations.’

His eyes, faint amusement in their depths, seemed to challenge Lacey, daring her to take exception to his behaviour. She turned impulsively to her stepmother and paused, whatever protest she had planned to make trembling unsaid upon her lips, hardly able to believe the unmistakable look of triumph she had surprised on Michelle’s face. Lacey realised then what Troy Andreakis had meant when he had told her that they would not be disturbed. Michelle knew already all that there was to know, and condoned it, as if she had been an actual witness to that shattering kiss. Lacey felt cold and sick. And would Michelle also have condoned the lovemaking which would have been the most probable aftermath to the kiss, if she had not made her escape? It seemed only too likely.

Michelle gave a little smile. ‘It seems to have been very successful,’ she said smoothly. ‘But perhaps you should tidy yourself a little, ma petite, before you join us downstairs. We are all waiting to hear you play.’

Lacey murmured something unintelligible and fled to her room. Some ten minutes later she stood back and looked at her reflection. It was as if the clock had been turned back and the girl who stood there slim and straight in her deep blue dress, with the long silver-blonde hair brushed straight and shining over her shoulders, was the only one who had existed that evening. As she turned away, her foot caught the crumpled folds of the discarded black dress lying on the floor. For a moment she hesitated, then, as anger and humiliation welled up inside her again, she bent and picked it up, wrenching at the delicate fabric until it tore irretrievably. With a grim smile, she let it drop back to the floor. She would never be forced into that particular charade again, she vowed.

From now on, any contest would be played according to her rules, she told herself defiantly, then shivered as in spite of herself the dark relentless face of her adversary forced itself into her mind, and her fingers strayed almost wonderingly to the softness of her mouth which he had made so totally his own.

In her little talks on morals to the girls at the convent, Reverend Mother had always stressed that a girl’s best protection was her own innocence, yet hers had proved at best the shakiest of defences, Lacey thought bitterly. And even Reverend Mother had not visualised a situation where that innocence might be placed on sale to a man like Troy Andreakis.

She gave a little trembling sigh. All she could hope to do was keep out of his way as much as possible and see to it that she was never alone with him again. After all, he would not be staying at Kings Winston for ever, and soon, very soon, she would never have to set eyes on him again.

CHAPTER THREE

LACEY awoke early the next morning, after a restless night. She washed and dressed in an old pair of denim pants, topped by an equally ancient thick sweater, then slipped downstairs and let herself quietly out by the side door, collecting her duffel coat on the way. She felt like a fugitive as she made her way down the drive, but her mind was made up. She intended to spend the day working at the stables with Fran Trevor.

It occurred to her that Troy Andreakis might well have mentioned to her stepmother that he had asked her to spend the day with him, and that her disappearance might well involve her in a major row later, but even that was preferable to being forced to spend hours in close proximity with a man whom she disliked and feared. Yes, she was prepared to admit to herself that Troy Andreakis scared her. She had been right when she had gauged that civilisation could just be a veneer with him. There was a latent savagery about him which disturbed her, and made her feel oddly threatened.

Last night while she had played the piano, she had felt his eyes upon her, brooding and enigmatic, and in some strange way this had drawn from her one of her best performances. Normally she hated being paraded at the piano after a dinner party like a child with a party piece, and barely tolerated the over-popular classics that she was expected to play. But last night she had acceded to her father’s request and played his favourite Chopin nocturne, a difficult piece which called for all her technical skill and which she had managed to imbue with a fire and imagination she had not realised she possessed. She had not looked at Troy Andreakis to see if he had joined in the applause which greeted her performance, and not long afterwards people began to make their departures and she was able to go to her room, without exchanging another word with him.

Michelle had given her change of dress a long, glittering look, but she had made no comment, to Lacey’s relief, nor, as she had rather feared, had she come to Lacey’s room to elicit a more complete account of what had passed between Troy Andreakis and herself. However Lacey might feel, Michelle obviously thought that the evening had gone well.

She wondered miserably how much her father had known about Michelle’s plans, and whether he had sanctioned them. It was unbearably hurtful to think that he might have agreed to her becoming part of some sordid sexual bargain in order to save Vernon–Carey from collapse, and she was sure that only utter desperation would have made him contemplate such a course of action.

Her rather despondent thoughts occupied her during the brisk ten-minute walk along the lane to the stables on the edge of Kings Winston village.

By the time a yawning and heavy-eyed Fran had put in an appearance, Lacey had already watered the five horses and three ponies that comprised the stables’ complement, and had the coffee going in the small office next to the tack room. Fran’s eyes widened in surprise and pleasure when she saw Lacey.

‘You must be made of steel,’ she commented. ‘I thought you would be having breakfast in bed this morning to build up your strength for your day out with your millionaire.’

‘He is not my millionaire.’ Lacey stirred the brimming mugs of coffee with unnecessary vigour. ‘And the day out is cancelled, as of now. I’ve seen quite enough of him already.’

‘Ho-hum.’ Fran gave her a wondering look. ‘And does he feel the same about you?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Lacey shrugged with a negligence she was far from feeling. ‘But I’m afraid if he wants a guide, he’ll simply have to apply to the British Tourist Board. I’m no longer available.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Fran said. ‘Actually I wouldn’t mind your help today. I’m going to be busy. Those people from the Bull are coming back at ten, and I have pupils this afternoon as well. Alan was going to try and get down, but it looks as if Domino is going to produce her foal today, so he may be tied up. If you’d like to come out with us this morning I’d be grateful. None of them are beginners, but I’d like to be able to give the children some individual attention, if you’d keep an eye on the adults.’

Lacey acquiesced willingly. When inquiries were made for her, as she had no doubt they would be, she wanted to be as far away as possible, and a morning spent hacking around the fields and lanes seemed an ideal refuge.

The next two hours passed swiftly, as the two girls worked together to prepare the animals for the day ahead of them, grooming the horses, attending to their hooves and feeding them. On top of this, each stall had to be scrupulously cleaned out, and the tack that would be used that day looked over and cleaned and polished.

‘It’s no good, I’m going to have to look for full time help,’ Fran grumbled cheerfully, as they saddled up the horses ready for the first ride of the day. ‘I can’t rely on my friends and relatives for ever.’

‘Have you anyone in mind?’ Lacey slipped a bit into Fern’s mouth, murmuring encouragingly to the mare as she did so.

‘Well, I was talking to John Palmer last week and he was saying that his youngest girl Marian is as miserable as sin on this secretarial course she insisted on doing. He seemed to think she’d be only too glad to come home if there was a job of some kind waiting for her. She’s a nice kid, Marian, and a good patient rider.’

‘You could certainly do far worse,’ Lacey agreed. ‘I only wish I could help more …’ Her voice tailed away a little forlornly.

‘Oh, love! You already do more than I have any right to expect. And even if Marian does come here, you’ll be more than welcome to pop down for a couple of hours whenever you feel like it. But you have a life of your own to live, and I can’t expect to have first call on you all the time.’

‘Hm.’ Lacey gave minute attention to the buckle she was fastening. ‘The life of my own you mention doesn’t have any great attraction for me at the moment.’

‘My dear girl!’ Fran’s eyes were warm with amusement. ‘What an admission for someone who hasn’t had her eighteenth birthday yet!’

Lacey sighed. ‘I suppose it does sound rather ridiculous. But I seem to be the only person I know who hasn’t any definite purpose in mind. I have no idea what sort of a career I want—or even if I’ll be allowed to do it when I do decide,’ she finished in a despondent little rush.

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much, if I were you,’ Fran said bracingly, after a pause. ‘Why not enjoy yourself while you can? You’ve got plenty of time to find a sense of purpose. I don’t believe for a moment that you’re just going to spend the rest of your life mouldering away in Kings Winston, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

Lacey allowed herself a brief unhappy smile. ‘I suppose there could be worse fates,’ she said with an attempt at lightness.

‘Well, I think so, obviously.’ Fran gave an affectionately proprietorial glance around the whitewashed stable block. ‘But I don’t think it’s the life for you, somehow.’ She gave a hurried glance at her watch. ‘Heavens, we must get on. We’ve only got about fifteen minutes.’

Lacey was in the office taking a telephone booking for a lesson the following week when she heard Fran call to her. Assuming the party from the Bull had arrived, she made a quick entry in the diary and grabbed a hard hat from one of the pegs before going out into the yard. A car was parked near the archway that led to the road, a low-slung foreign sports model which looked as if it concealed power as well as opulence under its sleek exterior. It looked hardly the sort of conveyance that a family with children staying at the Bull would choose, Lacey thought with faint surprise turning to outright dismay as the driver’s door swung noiselessly open and Troy Andreakis climbed out.

Bareheaded, a black leather driving coat slung casually over close-fitting dark pants and a polo-necked sweater, he looked tall and formidable in the pale morning sunlight. The deliberately casual attire accentuated his masculinity and brought Lacey an unwelcome picture of their first, unexpected meeting in his room.

‘I think the guided tour is on again,’ Fran muttered, ruefully turning down the corners of her mouth as Lacey stood motionless and completely lost for words at her side.

He strolled forward until he was only a few feet from the girls, then he made Fran a slight bow. ‘Kalimera, thespoinís. I regret I have to deprive you of your—er—stable girl’s services, but she is already promised to me.’

Lacey gasped at his effrontery. Surely he could not believe she was willing to simply go off with him—like a lamb to the slaughter, after what had passed between them the previous night.

‘Oh, it’s quite all right,’ said Fran, a little uncomfortably, avoiding Lacey’s horrified gaze. ‘I expect she forgot. She’s got a terrible memory, haven’t you, love?’

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