At the party afterward, Lucille felt like a goddess, receiving compliment after compliment from gentlemen who kissed her hand with special meaning, often leaning closer to whisper bolder praises in her ear. And so on triumphant wings,
Lucille's evening sailed past, and was already more than half over when she was introduced to a latecomer a M. Phillips and confronted suddenly with this darkly alluring stranger, Lucille felt as if both the music and the laughing, gossiping crowd had disappeared into oblivion.
Lucille had heard his name before. A "debonair savage," one friend had described him. Yet it wasn't until later when Lucille had returned to her room and was able to once again think clearly that she realized it was not just his looks, or even his imperious manner that had put her in such a whirl. It had been something else indefinable, something almost, yes, almost primitive that made him, from that first moment, irresistible.
He did not flatter her as the others had; his lips only brushed her hand. And he was only polite as they exchanged amenities, though she could feel his eyes examining her with the detailed care of a connoisseur. He wanted her, yes, she knew he did and she was stabbed with disappointment and surprise when he made no attempt to make her his mistress, either that night, or when they met twice more at subsequent parties.
Just this fact made him a source of tantalizing frustration, which made her pace her room afterward, reviewing his every look and gesture, wondering if she still attracted him, or if she had been mistaken all along. So, at a dinner party several nights later, when he discreetly gave her a set of emerald earrings, obviously originals from Faberge, and invited her to accompany him to his villa in Las Flores del Mar, she didn't even think of refusing.
No, refusal would have been impossible. She accepted immediately, for the first time in her life not thinking of the future or any boring practicalities. The fascinating possibility of being with him had eclipsed everything else, and leaving, Paris and her part as Loella, she packed her suitcases and traveled to Marseille.
Once aboard his private yacht, Brandon had conducted her through its many rooms decorated with the finest wood and the finest draperies and chandeliers in subtle, flawless taste that seemed so much a part of him. Then he touched a bell that brought a silent woman who conducted Lucille to another gorgeously appointed compartment with a rich forest green couch and thick carpets and three shyly smiling maids.
She was bathed then in a tub of foaming pink bubbles, and her feet were massaged, then she passed the subsequent hours until dinner sipping spiced tea. But, unable to think of anything but him, she was trembling with excitement as the dinner hour approached and, discarding her chemise and corset, she dressed in nothing except her most daring gown of gold lame.
It was a French creation which clung to her luscious hips and revealed much of her large breasts. Joining Brandon in the salon for cocktails, she placed herself so close their knees touched, and occasionally his arm brushed her erect nipples.
He was silent while they ate their sumptuous French meal, observing her with serious opaque eyes that made the moment all the more intoxicatingly mysterious. And after dinner-afterward had been unique even for Lucille, who considered herself a woman of the world.
Once he had touched her, all her wiles, all her self-control, and attempts to seduce him failed, and she found herself out of her depth and suddenly at the mercy of an unleashed passion she had not known she possessed.
He was masterful-commanding, and she obeyed, giving herself as never before, and receiving as she never dreamed possible. She was swept away, forgetting everything under the onslaught of his wickedly primitive desires, until at last, exhausted by a final swoon of ecstasy, she had fallen asleep.
But, of course, that had been just over two weeks ago, Lucille told herself. And this morning it all seemed dimly and unhappily distant as she lounged at the breakfast table, stirring sugar into her coffee, and not failing to notice that the sparkle in Brandon's eyes disappeared as he rounded the corner and saw her. A man growing bored was easy to recognize.
Who was he really? She wondered again as he silently took his place at the table. She knew almost nothing about him except that he was extremely rich, and gossip said he owned a large merchandising empire stretching from England to Africa. But just exactly what Brandon did remained unknown. He was a mystery of incongruent parts.
Even the ruby ring he wore on the chain around his neck seemed strange. It was, not an extremely large or valuable stone-yet he always wore it. She wondered who might have given it to him, but had never presumed to ask him anything of a personal nature. At first she thought there was time enough for confidences later. But as it turned out, those intimate details she had waited to hear whispered in the dark were never forthcoming.
Again Lucille sighed, her eyes staring down into her coffee before covertly glancing at him again. He ignored her silent signals, reaching instead for a letter which sat before him on a silver tray.
Taking a small knife, he slit open the seals with an agile movement that Lucille imagined could just as easily have slit someone's throat. Then putting the opener back on the tray he dismissed the servant with a barely perceptible nod, removed the paper from the envelope, unfolded it, and read.
In guarded looks, Lucille watched as his eyes moved back and forth across the lines, and curiously now, his face did alter, the civilized air melting as his eyes darkened to a fierce murderous look that made Lucille's flesh crawl.
So! It was settled, Brandon said to himself, reading the letter again.
April 1, 1892
M. Phillips:
As instructed, have investigated whereabouts of one Captain George Clayton.
Investigations show he died eight years ago from wounds received in the Sahara on a mission in Her Majesty Victoria's service.
Only living family, one daughter. Indications she once attended school in London.
Upon your request will ascertain present whereabouts. Awaiting your instructions.
William Sleth
Brandon's teeth clenched and his jaw twitched. It had been two years since he had first inquired about the man who had killed his father. Initially he had assumed it would be easy to find George Clayton and take him to El Abadan. But the chances of locating him grew slimmer if not nonexistent when the building containing the military records Brandon needed burned to the ground.
It was then Brandon had hired a private investigator and turned the search over to Sleth, a man with a reputation for reliability. And now, finally, Brandon knew Clayton was dead, apparently from the wounds he himself had inflicted. For all these years his father had been avenged, his oath fulfilled.
Clutching the paper, Brandon stared unseeing at the words, recalling that day in the fort at Sevit, still able to hear the drums and Clayton's clipped, "Ready, Aim! Fire!
Even now his guts churned with the memory that could never be wiped out. Clayton! The name had become synonymous with infamy. Just seeing it in the written word was enough to recall his hatred for this man and his entire arrogant race.
A surge of rage swept over him. He had sworn not only to kill Clayton, but to sell his daughter as a slave and, wanting the sweet satisfaction that only carrying out his sworn vengeance could bring, his back teeth clenched as he spoke over his shoulder to Rashid, who was always near.
"Rashid, a quill and paper." And when it came he dashed off his reply in a quick hand.
Sleth:
Find the girl.
B. Phillips
Juliette Clayton Thorpe slept much later than usual that morning, net awakening until the sun flooded in through her balcony doors and across her bed in a shaft of golden light.
As she came awake, the black-eyed visage who had played such a prominent role in her dreams the night before receded so she caught only a brief glimmer of him before he slipped back into the darkest recesses of her mind.
Yawning like a sleepy kitten, Juliette opened her eyes, remembering as she did a luncheon date with Mrs. Welwri
ght. And sitting up with a lazy stretch, she swung her long legs off the bed, blindly reaching over her shoulder to pull the cord that summoned her maid.
Mrs. Winston was only that moment hurrying in on her small feet carrying in both hands a large bouquet of red roses still wet with dew and tied with a wide velvet ribbon to match.
She curtsied in a short dip. "Good morning, miss. A steward just came with these flowers. I imagine they're from Lord Keiths." She smiled a small approving smile. "Such a gentleman he is to send you flowers every day. And, see, miss-this morning there's a special note with them."
"Yes, of course," Juliette replied, coming more awake and thinking that indeed Rodney was an absolute darling and so understanding about everything.
She plucked the small envelope from the ribbon attached to the bouquet and turned it over in her hands.
From somewhere Mrs. Winston produced a tall blue urn. "Will this vase be suitable to you, miss?"
"Yes, that's fine. Thank you, Mrs. Winston. But now please lay out my knickers and a blouse. I'm meeting Mrs. Welwright in half an hour on the terrace and going riding afterward."
"Yes, miss," Mrs. Winston bobbed another curtsy before disappearing into the large closet.
Then breaking the seals of the note Juliette withdrew it and read:
April 2, 1892
Dearest Juliette,
London has become so dreadfully boring without you that I've decided to join you in Las Flores del Mar. The Spanish Cup will be run on the twenty-first of this month, and I've decided to race my stallion, Titian Regency.
Unless there is difficulty with the voyage, I'm expecting to dock soon after the third of May. Do try to meet me if you can. I miss you terribly, and I'm not the only one. Half of London has been asking me what you are doing so far away when all of us are here.
I saw Millie at a ball recently. She sends her love as well.
Rodney
On the hotel terrace of Las Flores del Mar, lunch was being served amid the tinkling of silverware and china and the busy bustling of black-uniformed waiters as they moved between the umbrella-shaded tables and catered to the ; needs of the wealthy looking clientele seated there.
Juliette stood only a moment at the wrought-iron gateway before the waiter came to her side.
"Miss Thorpe!" he said rolling the "r." "How good to see you this morning."
"Thank you," Juliette said, smiling also and looking beyond him to the patrons already seated. "Perhaps you could tell me if my companion, Mrs. Welwright, has arrived yet?"
"Indeed she has, Miss Thorpe. Perhaps ten minutes ago. Would you care to join her?"
"Please."
The man nodded, and still smiling, moved off with a flourish, leading Juliette through the maze of chatting clusters of friends and potted palms to where Mrs. Welwright was sitting at the end of the terrace nearest the tennis courts.
Juliette owed the idea of Mrs. Welwright becoming her traveling companion to Millie. Juliette now regarded it as her friend's most ingenious suggestion.
"You simply must hire a companion," Millie had told her before leaving London. "People are already starting to talk. Your circumstances are most unusual. There just aren't any independent women who are single and young as you are. Traveling alone is out of the question. It won't matter that you actually do nothing wrong. The gossips will make sure that it seems you do. Your reputation will be ruined. And what will Mr. Bond do then? He sounds the type to carry out his threats."
"But I won't have some old woman running my affairs for me and telling me what I can and cannot do," Juliette protested. "I've had quite enough of that from Lady Potersbee!"
"But of course you won't," Millie said cajolingly, knowing her friend's determination. "But companions are hired as servants of a sort and can be dismissed if they don't please you. It isn't like Miss Fayton's, you know. What you need is a nice lady with whom you get along and who won't mind what you do but will protect you from gossips and not ask questions."
Juliette nodded. "Well, yes. But can such a person be found?"
Millie laughed. "Now that you have so much money, love, it will be quite easy. Just tell them from the outset you won't tolerate any meddling in your affairs. Do you think that those highborn ladies who travel without their husbands are actually faithful to them? Pooh! Of course not. But they are discreet enough to take a companion so no one can talk about them. It's sort of a game, you see. No one really expects you to be good-only to appear good." Seeing Juliette hesitate, Millie continued. "And why not Mrs. Welwright? You always were her favorite student. She is a lovely woman, the only real human being at Miss Fayton's. I bet she wants to escape from it as badly as you.'
Juliette was struck by the idea. And, as it turned out, Millie was right. Mrs. Welwright agreed at once and, in less than a week, Juliette found that the older woman had become not only her companion, but her confidante as well. Already she had helped her with countless details of travel engagements and accommodations and small emergencies and had become once and for all indispensable.
And now, as Juliette neared her table, delight brightened the lady's features. "Good morning," Mrs. Welwright said as the maitre d'hôte pulled out a chair and held it as Juliette sat down. "You slept late this morning. You're feeling fit, I hope. You certainly look it."
"Indeed I am," Juliette replied smiling. "I was up late, so I slept in."
A waiter appeared at Juliette's side and she ordered a pastry as Mrs. Welwright poured her a cup of tea.
"Oh really, did you meet someone interesting last night?"
"No!" Juliette answered too quickly, wondering even as she did why she had bothered to lie.
She had found it possi¬ble to tell her friend anything. But somehow the occurrences of the previous night seemed a private matter she found herself unwilling to share with anyone.
"How are you enjoying Las Flores del Mar?" Juliette asked, changing the subject.
"It's beautiful-more so than I ever imagined. I never thought I would have a chance to do more than talk about the Spanish islands to an audience of bored girls who would only be interested if it was a place included on their grand tours. And yet, here I am! I can never repay your kindness, Juliette," she finished with warm affection.
"It's not a kindness,' " Juliette corrected.”It is a bargain-an exchange of services. I take you with me, yes, but I couldn't go respectably without you. And speaking of that, what do you think of going to Switzerland in a week or two? I hear it's wonderful in summer. Rodney is going to race his stallion here in a week and we can leave after that."
"Switzerland. Yes, of course!" Mrs. Welwright agreed. "Summer in the Alps-cozy chateaux-fields of wild flowers."
"Truly, it doesn't matter to me where we go," Mrs. Welwright continued. "Switzerland, Germany, or even back to France. I'm finding that all this travel makes me feel as good as I used to when I was young. Go wherever makes you happiest, Juliette, and go now while you can. Before long a gentleman, if not Rodney Keiths, then another, is certain to woo you in precisely the right fashion, and soon I enough, you'll be married and settled in one place."
Juliette laughed as if Mrs. Welwright were teasing. Mrs. Welwright smiled, too, raising her teacup to sip. This morning Juliette had an extra flush to her cheeks, she thought, and tendrils of pale hair had escaped to blow about her face and neck so she looked sunny as the morning and twice as irresistible. "You laugh now, Juliette, but I'm quite serious. You are much too warm and tenderhearted not to fall in love. Your beauty and gaiety have already attracted dozens of men."
Juliette wrinkled her nose. "And my money, Mrs. Welwright. Don't forget that. I don't think their interest is prompted entirely by my `beauty' or my `tender heart."'
"So cynical and so young!" Mrs. Welwright protested with a laugh before cocking her head in acceptance as she continued. "Well, you are right. It is common enough to marry conveniently. But there will be the right man for you. Someone who will appreciate you both inside and out. I will be sorry
to give up traveling, though I'll gladly become, instead, your children's governess."
Juliette no longer laughed, but looked at the older woman wonderingly. "You sound so sure!"
"Certain things are unavoidable. You have other needs besides this one for independence. Sooner or later you will discover them."
A small frown pinched Juliette's brow. "Well, I don't suppose it really matters if you don't think I'm serious. I imagine after I have been single for say . . . ten years? Then you will be convinced. I actually thought that since you have been cooped up in Miss Fayton's, too, you'd be the one person to understand. Would you want to be imprisoned like that again for the rest of your life, being told what to do and when?" Juliette grimaced. "Let those women marry who must in order to eat. I'm going to stay single and independent, probably forever, or at least for a very long time."
A waiter approached, holding a large tray high on the ends of his fingers. Then lowering it to waist level, he placed before the two ladies several plates and cups of fine china, a basket of pastries, and another steaming pot of tea. "Will that be all?" he asked. And seeing the ladies nod, he moved off again at a brisk pace.
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