place as she was herself, she thought. And what had Uncle Jim had to do with all this restrained elegance?
Madame led her across the hall and tapped almost deferentially on the partially opened door to the salon.
‘Mademoiselle is here, monsieur,’ she annnounced, accompanying the words with a little push as if she sensed Marty’s reluctance to face the new master of the house once again.
‘So I see.’ He was seated, his muscular limbs relaxed in one of the massive hide chairs that flanked the fireplace. ‘You had better bring some tea, Albertine. That is the English stimulant, is it not, and Mademoiselle did not care for the cognac.’
‘I don’t want anything,’ Marty protested.
‘Some tea, Albertine.’ He repeated without haste. He waved a hand at the chair opposite. ‘Be seated, mademoiselle, and let us see if we can get to the bottom of this affair.’
She hesitated for a long moment, then sat down tensely on the very edge of the seat.
He waited until the door had closed behind Madame Guisard, then said in a slightly gentler tone than he had used so far, ‘Is it true that you are the niece of Jacques Langton?’
‘Not exactly.’ Marty moistened her lips. ‘He was my father’s cousin,’ she went on hurriedly, seeing the now familiar look of scepticism on his face. ‘I—I always called him my uncle.’
‘I understand. Under the circumstances I regret that I broke the news of his death to you quite so bluntly.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quietly. ‘After all, it doesn’t alter anything, and I had to find out some time. There’s no easy way to break that sort of news.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell me a little more about it?’
He gave a slight shrug. ‘There is little to tell. Jacques had suffered from a weak heart for some time. He had three attacks and the last one killed him. It was very sudden and very quick. Is that what you wanted to know?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said after a pause. ‘I’m glad he wasn’t an invalid for any length of time. He would have hated it so.’
‘That is true.’ He leaned back in his chair, his eyes going over her from head to foot, frankly and deliberately assessing her, so that in spite of herself she felt herself flushing under his all-compassing gaze. ‘What I cannot understand,’ he went on after a moment, ‘is why when I asked Jacques after the first attack if there was anyone in England whom I should contact, he told me there was no one. How do you explain that?’
‘I wouldn’t even begin to try,’ she said rather hopelessly. ‘Any more than I can explain why he should write to me offering me a home that was no longer his.’
‘Are you sure the letter came from him?’
‘Absolutely certain.’
‘May I see it?’
Her handbag was no longer on the floor, but lying on the sofa. She found the letter and passed it to him. As their fingers brushed fleetingly, she was conscious of a curious tingling sensation, and her flush deepened. She tried to tell herself that it was because of her overcharged emotional state that she felt this strange new heightened awareness, but the explanation was not wholly convincing. She found herself glancing at him from beneath her lashes as he sat reading the letter and frowning a little. He seemed completely at ease, but then why shouldn’t he be, in his own home? She was being idiotic. He was quite entitled to behave as he liked, but this did not stop her wishing that he would go and put a shirt on. She had never realised before what an exclusively feminine environment she seemed to have inhabited all her life. Even Mr Leslie whose secretary she had been had been a prissy, old-maidish kind of man, always rather fretfully searching for his pen and his spectacle case.
She had thought Jean-Paul was attractive, but this was before she set eyes upon this man whom even her lack of sophistication could recognise had come to terms with his own virility a long time ago, and no longer needed to prove anything about himself to anyone.
As she watched he reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table beside his chair, and selected one with a practised flick of his wrist. Even that most conventional of movements was enough to set the muscles rippling across his shoulders and chest where the dark mat of hair grew so thickly, tapering down his flat stomach to disappear inside the waistband of his pants.
‘My apologies, mademoiselle. Do you use these things?’
With a start Marty pulled herself out of her disturbing reverie to the realisation that he was holding the pack of cigarettes out to her.
A faint smile was curving his mouth as if he was letting her know that he had been quite well aware of her scrutiny, and that her face had been an open book for the conflicting thoughts and emotions stirring within her.
A wave of colour rose to complete her betrayal as she swiftly shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I don’t smoke.’
‘But how wise,’ he said, still with that faint amusement underlying his words, and making her feel gauche and defenceless. He lit his own cigarette and blew out a cloud of pungent blue smoke before resuming his perusal of her letter. Marty bent her head and stared down at the scuff marks on her dusty sandals. She was beginning to wish that she had made no protest, no attempt to justify her presence here. At least by this time she would have been away from this place, and why the prospect of being alone and almost penniless in a strange country should seem safer than the comparative luxury of her present surroundings was far too complex a question for her to answer to her entire satisfaction in her present confused and emotional state.
She started as the door opened and Madame Guisard came back into the room carrying a tray. In spite of the strange inner conviction that the housekeeper did not approve of her for some reason, Marty could not deny that her preparations for this unwanted tea-party were well-nigh perfect. As well as the hot and fragrant tea with its attendant dish of sliced lemon, there was also a plate of enticing pastries—horns filled with cream and smooth chocolate and pastry shells filled with peaches and cherries and glazed in rich syrup. The housekeeper arranged the tray to her satisfaction on a small table and busied herself with the pouring out of the tea. Marty supposed that she considered the delicate porcelain cups and teapot too fragile to be entrusted to her own tender mercies, nor did she miss the narrow-eyed glance Madame favoured her with as she handed her the cup. And apparently the master of the house did not miss it either, in spite of his preoccupation with the letter. His voice was pitched too low for Marty to catch the words, but the tone was quite plainly dismissive and Madame Guisard left the salon with something of a flounce.
Now that they were alone again the silence between them seemed almost tangible, and Marty felt the tension building up inside her as she waited for him to make some comment. The initiation of any discussion was beyond her, and the fingers that held the delicate handle of her cup shook slightly as she raised her tea to her lips.
‘It’s incredible,’ he said at last. ‘I would swear that this was Jacques’ handwriting, yet it must be a forgery.’
Marty’s heart missed a beat and she set down her cup, staring at him wide-eyed.
‘A forgery—but who on earth would do such a thing?’ She caught the faint derision in the glance he bent upon her and exploded, ‘You think I did it, don’t you?’
‘It seems the most reasonable explanation.’
