Desperate Measures (7 page)

peace and privacy.'

'Thank you,' Philippa returned uncertainly.

'And if you've finished your meal, you need not wait for me. Why

not go and enjoy your siesta?'

She pushed back her chair, murmuring something incoherent in

reply, and almost fled from the room.

She closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, staring at

the bed, aware that she was breathing as rapidly as if she'd taken part in some marathon.

She was safe tonight, she thought, but that was the only

guarantee she had. Some time, sooner or later, the door from the

adjoining room would open, and she would be expected to submit to

him—to allow

herself to be used, for no better reason than that she'd been

bought and paid for, and he wanted his money's worth.

There were tears suddenly, thick in her throat, and stinging her

eyes.

She said aloud to the emptiness in the room, 'I don't think I can

bear it.'

And knew before even the sound of her words had died away

that she no longer had a choice.

CHAPTER FOUR

PHILIPPA was breathless with nerves as she sat beside Alain that

evening in the chauffeur-driven limousine which sped them through

the Paris streets to the suburbs where Louis de Courcy lived with his family.

The house was hidden behind a high wall. Craning her neck,

Philippa could see only the tops of some elaborately ugly chimneys, as they waited for the electronically operated gates to admit them.

'My uncle has a phobia about thieves,' Alain muttered into her

ear. 'He feels if he relaxes his vigilance even for a moment they may break in and steal his collection of tasteless porcelain, or ravish my cousin Sidonie. I think he over-estimates the desperation of such

men.'

Philippa refused to laugh. With a hand that shook slightly, she

smoothed a fold of the ankle-length jade green skirt she was wearing.

The matching silk jersey top had a wide rounded neck and long

sleeves, and she hoped it was all sufficiently formal for the evening ahead. Dressing for this unwanted dinner party had been rather like

putting on a costume for a play where she was only the understudy,

but expected nevertheless to go on and give a performance, knowing

someone else's lines.

The clothes fit, she thought, as the car swept up the drive

between depressingly formal flower beds. The girl doesn't.

The house itself looked square, solid and uncompromisingly dull.

There were a number of other cars parked in the drive, and Alain

cursed under his breath.

'So much for the quiet family dinner!' he said angrily. He turned

to Philippa with a shrug. 'I'm sorry. I did not intend you to be subjected to this kind of occasion quite so soon.'

Philippa lifted her chin. 'I'll try not to speak out of turn or use the wrong cutlery,' she assured him shortly, and his mouth tightened.

'That is not what I meant, and you know it.'

The door was opened by a manservant in a white jacket, who

gave them a stately greeting and told them that Monsieur and

Madame were waiting in the salon with their other guests.

'Are we the last to arrive, Gaston?' Alain made a last-minute

adjustment to his tie.

'By no means, monsieur,' he was assured, as Gaston conducted

them along an elaborately decorated hallway.

Alain clasped Philippa's icy fingers in his. 'Courage, ma belle,' he

whispered as Gaston threw open the double doors of the salon and

announced them.

All conversation in the room ceased abruptly. Philippa seemed

suddenly to be the cynosure for a hundred pairs of eyes. She

straightened her shoulders, feeling a faint blush warm her face. At

second glance, she could see that the room actually held at most

twenty people, one of whom was advancing to meet her.

Louis de Courcy was not tall, and was inclined to rotundity. He

was slightly bald, and wore a neatly trimmed beard. His fleshy lips

beamed welcome, but

his smile did not reach his eyes, which were as dark as polished agate, and as hard.

He bowed over Philippa's hand. 'My new niece,' he said. 'But what a

delight! And how cruel of Alain to have kept you from us. As his only living relatives, we might have expected to attend his wedding.' He spread pudgy hands dramatically. 'To be informed only after the event was a blow—I will not conceal it.'

Philippa was embarrassed, but she had been primed by Alain.

'I'm afraid my father's poor health dictated that the ceremony be as

quiet and private as possible, monsieur.'

'So quiet, indeed, that none of my friends in London had any idea it had taken place, or was even intended,' Louis de Courcy said, still smiling. He turned, beckoning. 'Josephine, allow me to present Alain's bride to you.

Sidonie, come and greet your cousin.'

Madame de Courcy, who was built on the same lines as her husband,

showed no great enthusiasm for the encounter. Her plump fingers just

touched Philippa's, and then she made way for her daughter.

Philippa's first thought was that Sidonie de Courcy was almost exactly as Alain had so unkindly described her. She had a pale, unhealthy skin, pitted with acne scars, and her hair looked coarse and without lustre. She too was overweight, and her cream dress accentuated this, fitting too snugly over her bust and hips. Her smile at Philippa barely curved the corners of her mouth, but when she turned to Alain there was a transformation.

'You look well, mon cousin.' Her flush was not unbecoming.

'Clearly marriage agrees with you.'

Oh, dear, Philippa thought. She's in love with him and hurting. I

didn't bargain for this.

Louis de Courcy cut in urbanely, 'You must allow me, Alain, to

present your bride to these few friends who have gathered to meet

her. This is, after all, a great day for our family.'

And a nightmare for me, Philippa thought, as she was led round

the circle. It was all very formal and correct, and she smiled politely until the corners of her mouth began to ache. Louis de Courcy

performed the introductions in English. She was aware that she was

being patronised, and resented it. Her French, culled from her

wanderings with Gavin, was far superior to the usual schoolgirl variety.

However, it gave her an advantage in that she could translate for

herself the whispered comments which followed her round the circle.

She understood that she was 'very young, very English'—'un peu

gauche'—and, more tellingly, with a note of real malice, 'She will be no match for Marie-Laure, ma chere.'

Her heart lurched, but her smile didn't falter. Marie-Laure, she

thought. Presumably the woman in the scandal. "Well, a
t l

e

ast , n
ow,

she had a name to attach to that sultry voice on the telephone.

She had just completed the round of introductions when the

door of the salon opened again, and Gaston ushered in the last

arrivals, a man tall and distinguished-looking with grey hair and a

moustache, and a much younger woman, blonde and very beautiful,

the voluptuous magnificence of her figure set off by the daring chic of her expensive black dress.

'Monsieur le Baron de Somerville-Resnais,' Gaston announced

into a sudden, profound silence. 'Madame la Baronne de Somerville-

Resnais.'

The room wasn't just quiet, Philippa realised. It was alive with

tension, and a kind of excited expectancy that was almost tangible.

She had the feeling that everyone present was holding his or her

breath. She looked uncertainly across at Alain, who was standing at a small distance from her. For a moment she thought he'd been turned

to stone. She saw too that he was very pale except for an angry flush along his cheekbones. Her heart thudding, she began to wonder.

Louis de Courcy was hurrying forward, smiling expansively, his

hands outstretched in welcome. 'Ah, mon ami, what a pleasure that

you and your charming wife could join us! This is a joyous occasion,

you understand. We are celebrating the marriage of my nephew Alain

to a charming young girl from England. Allow me to present her.'

Philippa was aware that Alain had come to her side. His face was

impassive now, but as he took her hand in his and led her forward

Philippa could feel the rage in him, dark and powerful as an electric current, communicating itself through the touch of his flesh on hers.

This woman—this Baronne was Alain's mistress. This was Marie-

Laure, she thought, nausea rising in her throat.

And Alain's uncle had deliberately contrived this situation to

embarrass them all—had invited the Baronne and her husband to

come here tonight to force a confrontation, to reactivate all the gossip and

rumour that their marriage had been supposed to defuse. To

damage Alain all over again.

The Baron was drawing himself up in outrage, his face glacial. He

said, 'My dear de Courcy, this is a family occasion on which Marie-Laure and I should not intrude. Permit us to withdraw and leave you to your—

celebration.'

Which of course was exactly what Louis de Courcy wanted, Philippa

realised in a flash. He had engineered it so that the Baron would leave in a jealous huff, causing a whole new scandal, giving him a whole new

range of ammunition to fire at that crucial board meeting.

She walked forward, smiling, holding out her hand. She said in

perfect French, 'Oh, please don't go, monsieur. I'm having such a

wonderful party, and it would spoil it if you—if anyone left. I would feel it was all my fault.' She let her voice become girlishly excited. 'Besides, there's going to be champagne! Surely you'll stay and drink to my

happiness?'

The Baron paused, his narrowed gaze flickering between Philippa

and Alain. At last he said, 'Who could resist such a charming invitation, madame We will stay, naturally, and drink to your—health. Come, Marie-Laure.' He drew his wife's arm possessively through his and led her away.

As the Baronne passed, Philippa was aware of a drift of some

exotic, musky scent, and the sweep of a pair of deeply lashed violet

eyes, assessing and dismissing her in one comprehensive glance. Marie-Laure de Somerville-Resnais shared, it seemed, the consensus of opinion that between Philippa and herself it would be no contest.

A shaft of anger scored through Philippa, mixed with another

emotion less easy to define. Presumably Alain had discussed his marriage with his mistress, told her the terms on which it was based. But that did not mean she merited the other woman's contempt, she told herself

roundly. Who was Marie-Laure to judge—to criticise? On what terms had she herself married the Baron, who looked old enough to be her father?

It was a relief when Gaston announced dinner. It was a long and tedious meal. Philippa, on edge, supposed the food was good, but tasted little of it. She wanted to talk to Alain—to warn him that their sham marriage hadn't fooled anyone for a moment— but he was at the other end of the table.

'Do tell us, my dear,' Josephine de Courcy leaned forward, her eyes

unwinking as pebbles. 'You and dear Alain—such a romance—and so quick too! Quite fascinating. And the question we all wish to ask is— how did you meet?'

Philippa, grimly aware that she was once more the centre of

attention, forced a light smile. 'Was it really quick? I feel as if I've known Alain forever. We met through my father, actually. He's Gavin

Roscoe, the landscape painter, and Alain bought one of his pictures—

The Bridge at Montascaux.'

There was an astonished silence. Philippa stole a look at Alain,

whose whole attention appeared to be centred on the peach he was

cutting into quarters.

'So you are an artist's daughter,' Louis de Courcy said jovially at

last. 'Perhaps you will introduce a note of much-needed culture into

our crude commercial world.' He laughed heartily, and was echoed by

an

uneasy ripple of amusement round the table. 'Do you share your

father's interest in painting, ma chere?

'His interest, perhaps, but little of his talent, although I was

actually at art school when Alain and I decided to marry,' Philippa

returned composedly. 'In fact,' she added with sudden inspiration, 'I plan to continue my studies here in Paris with—Zak Gordano.'

'I am impressed,' Louis de Courcy said slowly. 'Monsieur Gordano

has a formidable reputation as a teacher.'

Philippa shrugged. 'Then I hope I can persuade him to take me

as a pupil.'

'I do not think you need concern yourself on that score,' Sidonie

said rudely. 'As Madame de Courcy, you will find all doors open to

you.'

'Not Zak's,' Philippa told her coolly. 'Painting is what matters to

him, not social standing.' Although the fact that he's a friend of my father's might help, she added silently, as she leaned back in her

chair.

'Your wife, nephew, is clearly a woman of talent,' remarked Louis.

'Each day I spend with her brings some new and delightful

surprise,' Alain said smoothly.

Philippa shot him a glance under her lashes. His face revealed

little, but she felt that delight was hardly his predominant emotion at her impulsive announcement.

At the conclusion of dinner, the whole party adjourned to the

salon. Conversation was desultory. Everyone seemed to have

accepted that the promised sensation was not going to take place

after all. The Baron and his wife were the first to leave, and not