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.
‘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
