he conceded at length, but Caroline had the distinct impression that he had been tempted to make another comparison.
Beyond the gates, the tyres encountered the solid mass of a stone courtyard. Caroline decided it resembled an ancient fortress, with its outer walls and solid buttresses, a width of drive leading past stables and outhouses and under an inner archway to the stone-flagged entrance.
Montejo drove under the arch, and brought the Range Rover to a halt at the foot of a flight of steps, leading up to a wooden door. The rain had ceased, and the warmth of the night air dispelled the feeling of chill Caroline had developed when first she saw the house. There was the fragrant scent of oleander and hibiscus, and the soft smell of earth after rain, and as she climbed out of the vehicle Caroline determined not to allow what had happened in Las Estadas to influence her first impressions of her home for the next few weeks.
The door above them opened as Luis Montejo was unloading her cases from the Range Rover. A plump, round-faced little woman descended the steps to greet them, and meeting her round, beady little eyes, Caroline wondered if this could conceivably be Doña Isabel. She was quickly disillusioned.
‘Consuelo,’ remarked the man beside her, straightening with a case in each hand. ‘She speaks little English, but she will do her best.’
‘Buenas tardes, señor.’ Consuelo addressed herself to Luis Montejo, but her eyes were all for Caroline. ‘Buenas tardes, señorita. Bienvenido a San Luis.’
‘Thank you—gracias!’ It was one of the few words she knew and Caroline glanced in some embarrassment towards Señor Montejo, doubting the accuracy of her accent.
But he merely inclined his head and said ‘Muy bien,’ in a low voice behind her, as they followed the gesticulating Consuelo up the steps. ‘No sabia que pedia hablar español!’ he added, confusing her further, and she glanced round at him, pursing her lips.
‘You must know I don’t understand you,’ she whispered, aware of Consuelo’s inquisitive interest, and his smile was a disturbing reminder of the way he had made her feel in the car.
‘No importa,’ he assured her, his meaning obvious this time, and she sighed. ‘Esteban was educated at Oxford. I am sure you will have no difficulty in understanding him.’
The undertones of his words were lost on her as she stepped into the baroque beauty of the exquisitely decorated hall of the house. In the light from a dozen electric lamps, concealed behind bronze shades, her eyes were dazzled by fluted columns supporting the high arched ceiling, by heavily carved mouldings and inlaid mosaics, and by miniaturised statues of the Virgin and Child. The vertiginous twists of a wrought-iron staircase were enhanced by leaves veined in marble, and the chequerboard pattern beneath their feet was coloured in black and gold. If the outer appearance of the house had been daunting, its inner beauty more than made up for it, and she turned to the man behind her with bewildered eyes, seeking some explanation.
‘As you can see, my brother lives in style, señorita,’ Luis Montejo remarked mockingly, and before she could make any protest at his own apparent acceptance of the situation, another voice broke in on them.
‘Señorita Leyton!’ it enquired, in vaguely slurred tones. ‘It is Señorita Leyton, is it not? Ola, welcome to the Hacienda Montejo, señorita. I hope you are going to be very happy here.’
Caroline turned half guiltily, aware of the disloyalty of her thoughts only moments before, to find a man approaching them across the expanse of black and gold marble. If this was Esteban Montejo, and she had every reason to suppose it was, he, too, was tall, though not so tall as his brother, and of much heavier build. Like his surroundings, he looked immaculate, in a formal evening suit of seamed black pants and white jacket, his only apparent concession to the heat, the printed silk cravat about his throat, instead of the usual white tie. But what disturbed Caroline most was the unevenness of his approach; the way he placed each foot with evident precision, and the faintly smug expression he adopted as he neared her.
‘My brother, Don Esteban,’ observed Luis Montejo, with studied politeness, and Caroline felt her hand captured and raised almost to Don Esteban’s lips.
‘I am most happy to meet you, señorita,’ Don Esteban assured her ardently, and the odour on his breath was unmistakable. Was this the indisposition his brother had hinted at? Caroline wondered faintly, smothering her revulsion, and knew a moment’s incredulity that features that had so much in common should be so amazingly different.
Realising she had to say something to retrieve her hand, she forced a smile. ‘You—you have a beautiful home, señor,’ she said, determinedly withdrawing her fingers from his. ‘It—well, it’s not at all what I expected.’
Don Esteban rocked back on his heels, casting a satisfied glance towards the intricately-carved ceiling, the white walls and pilasters, the iron balustrade that formed a gallery above them. ‘You like it?’ he drawled. ‘It is a modest dwelling compared to the palaces my family left behind them in Cadiz, señorita.’ He shrugged. ‘But—–’ and here his dark eyes, much darker than those of his brother, returned to her face, ‘it serves the purpose. And there is room enough for the three members of my family who live here.’
‘Oh, but—–’ Caroline’s brows ascended, and she glanced in some confusion towards the man who had brought her here. How could there only be three members?
And as if understanding that silent enquiry, Don Esteban spoke again. ‘My brother?’ he suggested. ‘Luis?’ His tongue slurred over the man’s name. ‘Did he not tell you, señorita? Did he not explain?’ His lips curled. ‘My brother does not live with us here at San Luis, Miss Leyton. Like his namesake, Luis is in search of immortality also. He lives in Mariposa, señorita. At the seminary of San Pedro de Alcantara.’
CAROLINE awakened with the instinctive awareness that all was not well. For a few minutes she lay still in the middle of the huge baroque bed, with its carved headboard and gilded hangings, once used, Don Esteban had assured her, by the Emperor Maximilian himself, and let the events of the previous evening sweep over her in intimate detail. And then, loath to spoil the new day with such reminiscences, she thrust back the silken coverings and put her feet to the floor.
There was a rug beside her bed, a soft silky alpaca rug, into which her toes curled, and she allowed its sensuous touch to soothe her unquiet thoughts. No matter what she had let herself into here, she was committed to stay for at least four weeks, she told herself severely, but it was not an easy fact to accept.
The night before had been like something out of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare described it more aptly. Remembering the dinner she had shared with the two brothers, she shuddered in revulsion, and her palms found her cheeks as she recalled that grotesque meal in its entirety.
It had been obvious from the start that Don Esteban was by no means sober, and the amount of wine served with the meal had only exaggerated his condition. They had eaten in the ornate dining room, at a table large enough to seat a score of guests, and from silver and crystal worth a small fortune. They were served by an army of waiters, and offered a fantastic number of courses, each cooked and presented with a different sauce. There were several courses of fish, from a spicy stuffed variety to the lightest of shellfish mousses, chilled soups, steaming consommés, wine-flavoured and aromatic, chicken served in wine and cream,
