no,’ Clare assured her hastily. ‘Though it is all his fault indirectly,’ she added, her eyes kindling with resentment. ‘If I hadn’t been so absolutely devastated about him, I’d never have contemplated getting involved with the Levallier man.’
‘So his name’s Levallier,’ Andrea persevered. ‘How did you meet him?’
‘I didn’t.’ Clare gave her a limpid look.
Andrea closed her eyes and prayed for patience. ‘You can’t possibly be in love with someone you’ve never met—not even you …’
‘But I’m not in love with him. I tell you I’ve never set eyes on him. It was just … oh, when Jacques threw me over like that for that awful Janine, I just wanted to die. I’ve never felt so wretched before. Nothing seemed to matter any more, so when he wrote and suggested we should get married, it seemed a godsend—an absolute face-saver.’
Andrea stared at her, slim arched brows raised incredulously. ‘A complete stranger wrote to you and proposed?’
‘Not exactly. I—I had been writing to him before that. He’s a cousin of Martine’s—second or third, from what she said, but her family don’t talk about him much. He’s some kind of black sheep, apparently. I think he must have been living abroad somewhere, but he’s come back because he’s inherited this chateau in Auvergne, and he wrote to Martine’s parents, extending an olive branch, I think. They were highly indignant about this,’ Clare added reflectively. ’Martine and I thought it was a shame, and so we decided if they didn’t want to reply to his letter, we would. We sent a joint letter, as a joke really.’
‘And he replied?’
‘Oh yes. It was rather a nice letter—amused, as if he guessed what we were up to. But Martine wouldn’t write again. She was afraid her parents would find out and cancel the winter sports holiday they were planning, so I wrote the next letter myself. Eventually we had quite a correspondence going. I told him all kinds of things. I even told him about Jacques when it was all over. It was marvellous to be able to pour it all out to someone who wasn’t actually involved, or who knew either of us. And that was when he proposed.’
‘But why? Did he give a reason, or was he just sorry for you?’
‘No. He made that very clear. In fact,’ Clare said rather coldly. ‘He implied I’d asked for it. No, the proposal was purely a business proposition. He stressed that. He needed a wife urgently to settle some legal difficulty—he didn’t really specify what—and as I was so miserable and at a loss, he thought we could help each other.’
‘But surely you ended it there—when you saw what deep waters you were getting into?’
Clare did not meet her cousin’s clear hazel eyes. ‘I—accepted,’ she said after a pause.
‘Clare!’
‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. I told you—I was so desperate about Jacques, I’d have done anything. I’d have married Bluebeard if he’d asked me. And this was a way out. If I was engaged to this Blaise Levallier, then Jacques would see I didn’t care. Which I didn’t, of course,’ she added wonderingly. ‘I wish I’d realised it earlier.’
Andrea groaned. ‘So do I,’ she said with feeling. ‘You must have been out of your mind!’
Clare considered. ‘I felt very calm, actually. After what I’d just been through with Jacques, a marriage de convenance sounded like bliss, I don’t mind telling you. I meant to go through with it, too. He sent me some things to sign—and some money—to buy my trousseau with, I suppose. I hadn’t told him about Daddy, and he probably thought I was living au pair with Martine’s family.’
‘Probably.’ Andrea looked at her in consternation. ‘What did you do with the money?’
‘I didn’t spend it,’ Clare assured her. ‘I might have done, I admit, but then Daddy had his first heart attack. When Mummy sent for me, I forgot about everything else.’
She got up and walked across the room to the small Regency bureau against one wall. ‘The money’s all here—every franc. You can count it if you like.’
‘No, thanks.’ Andrea put out a restraining arm and caught her cousin’s skirt. ‘Never mind the money. Just tell me the rest. There is more, I presume.’
‘Yes.’ Clare returned to the chesterfield and sat down. ‘But you know it really. I met Peter—I think we both knew at once there would never be anyone else—and Blaise went out of my head altogether. When I did think about it, it just seemed like a bad dream.’
‘I can imagine,’ Andrea said drily. ‘And when did you wake up?’
Clare reached for her cream leather handbag. ‘When these came.’ She drew a small packet of letters secured by a rubber band out of the bag. ‘Martine sent the first one on.’ She sent Andrea a stricken look. ‘It was full of details about the arrangements for the wedding. I was petrified. I—I didn’t answer. I hoped he might think the letter hadn’t arrived and just—give up.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No,’ Clare admitted despondently. ‘He wrote again, and this letter came straight here, so he must have had me traced in some way. He sent me the money for my air fare and said that if I let him know when I’d be arriving, he would hire a car to meet me at the airport, and I could drive out to St Jean des Roches—that’s where his chateau is. I—I had to reply, so I said I was ill,’ Clare concluded in the tone of one blessed with divine inspiration. ‘A few weeks went by and I heard nothing more, so I began to hope that he’d given me up as a bad job. Peter and I were engaged by now, and everything was sheer heaven. Then another letter arrived. It was totally different from the others—really hateful. He said he was sure I must have recovered by now and that the wedding had to take place almost at once.’ She sighed and bent her head. ‘I—I couldn’t very well ignore that, so I wrote to him and told him I’d changed my mind …’
‘You didn’t tell him about Peter?’
‘No, and I’m glad I didn’t.’ Clare’s pretty face became stormy. ‘Because this arrived back—by return of post, I should think.’ She extracted one of the letters from the bundle on her lap and handed it to Andrea.
‘Mademoiselle,’ it began unpromisingly, ‘Much as I may regret your sudden reluctance to proceed with our agreed contract, I have to tell you that my own plans are now too far advanced to permit any withdrawal on your part. Unless you present yourself here in accordance with our agreement, I shall take action against you for breach of promise. I have, you may remember, your written consent to the marriage.’
The letter was typewritten, but the signature was there, black and bold and uncompromising, the downstrokes with the pen thick and formidable as if they had been made by an angry man.
Andrea’s lips were compressed as she refolded the single thin sheet.
‘I think he means it,’ she said, meeting her cousin’s anxious look. ‘Can you still sue people for breach of promise?’
Clare shuddered. ‘I don’t know, but even if he can’t, there’s bound to be the most awful scandal. The newspapers have been looking for something involving Daddy for ages. I—I just can’t do it to him,
