Moon at the Full

by Susan Barrie

  He smiled with much amusement.

  “Oh, I assure you she is well aware of it. There was a time when she was not even on the short list, and it is better to stand at least a chance than to know one has no chance at all!”

  Steve felt bereft of words. His black eyes seemed to be taunting her, laughing at her simplicity, enjoying it in some curious way.

  He had black eyes, black hair, and—according to his family crest—a black heart! It was easy to believe when he smiled like that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE Monte Carlo night was warm, the rash of lights in the harbor as thick as fireflies in summer.

  The lights that climbed the hillside were dazzling, too, and in the garden of the Duchess of Montreuil’s villa Chinese lanterns swung amidst the trees. The Duchess was old-fashioned in many ways, and she clung to the old ideas of giving a party. The bobbing lights—containing, however, electric light bulbs, and nothing more inflammable—footmen in silk stockings stationed at intervals along the terraces, and iced punch as well as champagne as part of the running buffet.

  To say nothing of an orchestra that was completely tireless hidden behind a solid wall of roses in a corner of the vast entrance hall.

  The Duchess of Montreuil was a tiny woman, and when she said good-bye to her tall godson she had to stand on tiptoe and pull down his head with the tips of her fingers.

  “Bon voyage, mon ange!” She kissed him on each side of his square dark chin. “You will not allow yourself to be eaten by sharks, or anything of that sort, on this trip? For my sake you will take care?”

  He assured her solemnly that for her sake he would take the very maximum amount of care of himself, and then kissed her in his turn. Her shrewd old eyes gazed up at him.

  “I suspect that when you return things will not be quite the same with you?” she suggested. “You will have something to tell me?”

  “I will present you to my future wife,” he promised taking care, however, that the promise was not overheard by anyone else.

  She sighed.

  “Most men could make the decision leading up to a presentation of that sort on dry land,” she remarked. “But perhaps you are not quite as other men!”

  There was a sudden surge forward as everyone started to say farewell, and the little old lady was practically engulfed. Away in a far corner of the garden, where waxen flowers shone palely in the light of the stars, and oranges dangled like golden balls in the branches above her, Steve stood waiting for the last farewell to be said, and the moment when her employer remembered her existence and added her to his party returning to the yacht.

  The Odette lay rocking gently on the placid bosom of the harbor. It was a graceful vessel with navigation lights reflected in the water, and riding-light set like a star high in the masthead. Compared with the brilliantly lit villa and its surrounds it was vague and unexciting, but Steve knew it was a luxurious floating home, aboard which one need lack for nothing, and when its engines were turning softly it was infinitely exciting.

  She had already spent a day and a night on board and the novelty, so far as she was concerned, was scarcely likely to wear off throughout the entire length of the trip ahead of them.

  The sumptuous elegance of the cabin space—even the small cabin allotted to herself—had been definitely in the nature of a revelation; and the ingenuity displayed in providing everything that was essential had filled her with admiration for its designer. Each cabin had a private shower adjoining, and the star guest-cabins had lavishly equipped bathrooms and doll-like boudoirs. The state apartments were magnificent, and there was every facility for being either active or lazy, according to taste ... and, of course, the inevitable cocktail bar.

  No guest of the Comte’s would be able to complain of boredom during the cruise, or dryness. Not with any justification, that is. The cheerful bartender had informed Steve that they had everything aboard. And he had seemed, quite literally, to mean everything.

  If she had ever had any doubts that her new employer was a man of substance—an excessive amount of substance!—she now had them no longer. His yacht and his method of gratifying every whim that attacked him had convinced her that his coffers were practically bottomless.

  He had ordered her to repair to an hotel in Monte Carlo after she had stayed for a week in his flat in Paris. For the first time in her life she had occupied a suite in a luxury hotel. And before she left Paris he had presented her with a cheque that was a substantial advance of salary and told her to buy herself an outfit for the cruise. When she protested that she could make do with the clothes she had he had frowned at her and requested her almost icily not to argue with him.

  “I do not like women who argue. We shall be away for some time, and you must be suitably clad. Remember that the weather may be hot. Go shopping while you have the opportunity.”

  So she had gone shopping, both in Paris and Monte Carlo, and now her new clothes were all neatly put away in the built-in wardrobe and drawer space in her cabin aboard the yacht, and she had never felt quite so thrilled in her life as she did when she attached the frocks to the satin-covered hangers provided, and lowered her underwear into the fragrant-smelling drawers. Other women’s subtle fragrances that lingered on ... and even that was an exciting thought when they were women of a different world from herself. Favored friends of the Comte, leisured friends who might one day become something else ... or no doubt many of them hid that secret hope away in their hearts. For not merely was he an extraordinarily good-looking man, but his wealth could open so many doors. Even when a woman had money of her own.

  It had been arranged that he would pick up most of his guests at the Duchess’s villa, and that was why she gave a farewell party for them. Steve had been ordered to accompany him to the villa, although she would have much preferred to wait quietly aboard the yacht for the first bevy of beauty to reach the top, of the ladder and be smartly saluted by the captain.

  She had no idea how many guests the Odette could accommodate, but once arrived at the Duchess’s villa she was bewildered by the number of people who were thronging every room, as well as the grounds. Of course they were not all looking forward to weeks of idleness and sunshine, but every one of them seemed to fawn upon the Comte, and the favored ones were very devoted.

  There was a French girl with surprisingly blue eyes and very black curls who had accepted his invitation along with her grandmother—or, almost certainly, her grandmother had accepted the invitation on her behalf—and a very English-looking young woman from Somerset, chaperoned by a most purposeful mother who was the type of faded aristocratic widow with the ability to fight for an only daughter’s future well being. And there was a rather bored young Englishman, and audacious young Frenchman who was the Comte’s half-brother—with a weakness for English complexions, judging by the way he attached himself to the demure young woman from Somerset, who had a complexion that was genuinely rose-petal—and Signor Valdoli, whom Steve had already met.

  But of Gabrielle Descarté there was as yet no sign, although Steve had been absolutely certain she would find her among the guests.

  When the time came for the party to break up and go aboard the Odette there was still no sign of Gabrielle, and Steve thought her employer looked a little grim as she herself came hurrying from her remote corner of the garden after a servant had been dispatched to find her.

  “So there you are, Miss Blair!” he exclaimed, his dark brows drawn together, his eyes hard. “Why do you have to hide yourself when we are about to leave? You should be on hand when you are needed!”

  The Duchess, who was still at his elbow, platted him soothingly on the arm. Steve was so plainly not one of his guests, and by contrast with their smart outfits her simple pink linen with white accessories was like a uniform. But a Chinese lantern swaying gently above her picked out the gold of her hair.

  The Duchess sent her an extraordinarily sweet smile.

  “You should not vent your ill humor on someone who cannot ans
wer you back, Léon,” she chided. “If all is not well at the moment it probably will be very soon!”

  He smiled with a decided touch of wryness, and then marshalled his guests towards the cars that were waiting for them. Within a matter of minutes after that they were sweeping down from the heights to the dark blue mirror that was the harbor, and after a succession of silent journeys in a smart white launch were all safely aboard the yacht.

  The launch returned to the shore—to wait, Steve felt certain, for Mademoiselle Descarté—and silence settled down on the yacht. It was eleven o'clock and the stars were very bright, but there was no moon. A silver slice of moon would slip into the sky the following evening and it would be at its full when they were somewhere far south of where they were now.

  The next morning Steve was the only early riser, apart, of course, from members of the crew, and she had already breakfasted and savoured the exquisite freshness of the morning from the bleached white deck when her employer joined her.

  She was wearing a white sweater and a pair of dark blue slacks, and she could feel his eyes dwell on her for a moment. She was not at all sure whether it was the slacks he disapproved of—since she was, after all, an employee, and not a guest—and she was surprised when he commented approvingly on her appearance.

  “You look very nice,” he remarked. “ ‘Nice’ is the word, although in France we do not make use of it very much. A woman is either chic or enchanting. You are very pleasing this morning.”

  She made a little face as she stared at the blue water. “As if I’d slept well, is that what you mean?” she asked. “In England we’d use the expression ‘wholesome’!”

  He gazed steadily at her.

  “In that case it is a good thing to be wholesome. I like the way your hair blows round your face, and already you have a better color.”

  She caught anxiously at her hair.

  “Perhaps I ought to tie it back, and put it up in a bun. It is rather long...”

  But he held up one of his slim shapely hands, with which he had been lighting a cigarette.

  “Do nothing of the kind unless you wish to.” He leaned against the teak handrail. His blue blazer and immaculate white flannels could hardly have been more elegant, and yet somehow he looked hard and fit and brown in the morning sunshine. Whatever his life, and however much he indulged himself as a rich man, he was a perfect example of masculine shapeliness and intense physical vigour ... rather like a sheathed sword, Steve found herself' thinking. A blade of Toledo in a silken scabbard! “By the way, did you sleep well?” he asked more sharply.

  “Splendidly, thank you,” she answered.

  “You’re not afraid of being sea-sick if we hit rough water?”

  She shook her head, and the golden hair flew out across the handrail.

  “I’ve never been sea-sick In my life, so I don’t see why I should begin now. Daddy and I did some rough crossings of the Channel, and that sort of thing, but they never affected me.”

  But when the first of the guests appeared there was not quite so much confidence in her face. It was Steve's fellow countrywoman with the rose-petal complexion, and she subsided very quickly into the comfortable deck-chair with adjustable foot-rest that the host placed for her. She was all in white and she hastened to protect her eyes with sun-glasses as she lay back against the yielding cushions.

  “This is very delightful,” she admitted, “but I shall be happier when I have got my sea-legs.”

  The Comte smiled down at her almost benignly. “I’m afraid you won’t have an opportunity to get them just yet,” he told her. “We shall be stopping for a few days in Tangier, and that isn’t more than another day’s steaming away.” He introduced the social secretary. “This is Miss Stephanie Blair, who is also from England.”

  Miss Rosalie Trent looked upwards in a bored way through her sun-glasses at Steve.

  “How do you do?” she drawled. “I understand you’re here to make yourself useful, and I shall be glad if you’ll help me with my unpacking some time. My cabin’s in a frightful mess at the moment. And Mummy would like you to help her with her correspondence. The poor dear’s eyes are failing, and she has masses of friend she likes to keep in touch with.”

  Madelon Villennes, the French girl with the unusual blue eyes and chrysanthemum mop of black curls, came bouncing much more happily up on deck as soon as she was ready to face the day, and it was plain from the familiar way in which she slipped her hand inside the host’s arm and chattered to him gaily that she knew him very well.

  She was probably not a day older than seventeen, as slim as a sprite and with as much vitality, but she had all her countrywomen’s air of being engagingly sure of her own feminine charm—and the strength of that charm—and when her grandmother came on deck the fond manner in which she encouraged her to monopolize the Comte was infinitely revealing. He was looking for a wife, and the old lady knew it ... had probably known it for a long time. It was extremely likely that he had already earmarked Madelon for that wife, since she had all the necessary qualifications—looks, poise, background, etc.—and no doubt the old lady knew that too.

  But, while there was competition, it was necessary to be ready to fight. There was going to be quite a lot of competition on board the Odette, and Madelon had received her instructions. She began carrying them out on that very first morning of the cruise by displaying a tendency to cling to him like a limpet, and her youth gave her the right to be free and easy with him. Her youth and the fact that she had known him for years, and he had pulled her plaits for her in her schooldays.

  Miss Rosalie Trent regarded her with noticeable disfavor, and Steve wondered how she proposed to light, and what weapons she would use. Of the beautiful Parisienne, Gabrielle Descarté, there was still not a word, but de Courvalles appeared to have recovered from his depression of the night before.

  As that first day wore itself away, and the white yacht slipped easily through the sparkling blue water, the land astern receded into the dim, dim distance and there was nothing but unsullied blue sky and the bluer Mediterranean, Steve made the acquaintance of Neil Heritage, the Englishman who was attached to Mrs. Trent’s party, and discovered that although he looked bored he was the only member of the party capable of relieving a member of the crew if the necessity arose, for not merely was he a keen yachtsman but had served for several years in the Navy, and acted as First Officer aboard an ocean going liner. Steve could imagine him being smoothly charming to the ladies who sat at his table, and the rivalry amongst, them when a ship’s dance was in progress, and he was available as a partner.

  Raoul, the Comte’s half-brother, a young man with beautiful teeth and impudent dark eyes, was a different proposition altogether. He was plainly completely unattached and gay as air, and any young woman who trusted him without having a very good reason would be extremely unwise.

  He was studying medicine—because the Comte had insisted that he study something, Steve discovered later—but at the moment he was apparently resting after the arduous lectures and walking hospital wards, and so forth. He told Steve, with an appreciative gleam in his eyes, that he was devoted to London, and had always found English girls most appealing.

  “Tres charmante!” he exclaimed.

  Steve decided to give him as wide a berth as the limits of the Odette permitted, especially when he talked about showing her the sights when they went ashore. If she kept out of his way he might forget that, in his own words, he was a first-class courier.

  Signor Valdoli was the only one of the Comte de Courvalles’ guests to whom she felt in the least drawn, and perhaps that was because he looked so grave and depressed, and at times even unhappy. He confessed to Steve that he was looking forward to Tangier, for Mademoiselle Descarté was joining them there.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TANGIER rose up out of the sea like a confection in sugar icing ornamented with green and gold.

  Above the generous semi-circle of white-sand beach rose the palms and the fla
mboyant buildings, the villas and the skyscrapers. There was the gold of oranges and the purple of bougainvillea, the pink of geranium, but that was when the yacht drew in nearer, and the figures on the quayside were easily distinguishable. Burnoused figures, figures in djellabahs, with tar-bushes stuck on at a jaunty angle, a rose behind an ear. Europeans and tourists idly watching Odette manoeuvring towards an anchorage.

  It was a perfect morning, with the lightest of breezes stirring feminine skirts as their owners stood at the yacht rail. It was also very hot, with a fierce glare deflected by the white buildings hitting the brazen blueness of the water.

  Steve was glad that she had bought herself wide-brimmed shady hat, and that she had a pair of sunglasses. Rosalie Trent was seldom seen without her sunglasses, and because she disliked a tanned appearance she held a gay sunshade above her head as she waited to descend into launch.

  Madelon Villennes, on the other hand, was already as brown as a berry, and she was skipping about excitedly on the deck. For once she allowed the fragile Mrs. Trent to make the most of Comte’s arm, and accepted a brawny seaman’s hand to assist her to reach the launch. He had an eye for a neatly turned ankle, an admiring Latin eye, and she couldn’t resist sending him a sparkling glance as he swung her bodily off the ladder and set her down in the launch.

  She and her grandmother were making the second trip to the shore with Steve and Raoul del Courvalles as the other occupants, and during the brief journey Steve felt excitement rise in her like the rising of a spring. This was her first visit to any part of Africa, and even before she set foot on the quayside she knew that it was going to be very different from anything she had seen before, Rosalie was inquiring in her somewhat high-pitched voice what were the immediate plans for the day, and the Comte explained that they were driving straight to one of the newest hotels for lunch, and that he hoped to meet a business acquaintance there, as well as pick up Mademoiselle Descarté.