Sea of Lost Love (17 page)

“Oh, yes, Aidan,” she replied, hoarse with desire, allowing fate to carry her along like a empty shell on the tide. She seemed to have forgotten about her father, the missing thousands, and Countess Valonya. Nothing mattered anymore but Aidan and his wide and generous arms. He'll look after me, she thought drunkenly as he stood naked before her. And I'll never be alone again.

C
elestria awoke with a throbbing headache at about two in the morning. It took her a while to work out where she was. The room was unfamiliar, the sofa strange, her state of undress a little worrying. Then she recognized Aidan, sleeping contentedly in the half-light that shone in from the street. He was lying beside her, his face nestled into the curve of her neck. She stared at the ceiling, trying to piece together the events of the evening before. They had made love. That, she remembered without any trouble. For a start, she felt uncomfortable between her legs. She couldn't remember whether she had liked it or not, which was a shame given that it was her first time. She recalled having gotten carried away during the preliminaries. Aidan was rather gifted at those. She would have smiled at the recollection had her head not hurt so. No doubt it had been wonderful at the time. However, she now felt rather shoddy. As she struggled to get up without waking her lover, she remembered he had said something about marriage. She couldn't recall having responded.

She managed to find her clothes, carelessly strewn around the drawing room. Her knickers were under the sofa, one shoe in the corridor. She dressed hastily and tiptoed out of the room without a backwards glance. That's two people I've left unconscious in the last twenty-four hours, she thought to herself. But this time it's I who feel used.

She walked towards Pont Street. The road ahead was empty but for the odd taxi that sped past, its yellow light shining in the dark. She hailed one without any difficulty. Conscious of the disheveled way she looked, she didn't attempt to make small talk with the cabbie. Instead, she stared out of the window feeling empty inside. Making love was meant to be something sacred and special. A union between two people who love and cherish each other. Not a drunken night on the sofa and a hazy recollection the morning after.

Celestria Montague, twenty-one years of age and no longer balancing precariously on the edge of womanhood, crawled between her own sheets, pulling the covers over her head in order to blot out the world about her, and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

She awoke six hours later to the insistent ringing of the telephone in her mother's bedroom next door. Where was Waynie? she thought grumpily, waiting for her to pick it up. The ringing continued. With a groan she rolled over and placed the pillow across her ear. It was too early to face Aidan. Besides, she didn't know how she felt about him. Better not to feel anything yet. I'll think about it later, she thought and drifted back to sleep. At 11:25
A.M
. she was awoken again by the telephone. It rang and it rang. Oh, Lord, he's keen, she complained, unable to ignore it this time. Dragging her sleepy body out of bed, she staggered into her mother's bedroom and picked up the receiver. To her amazement, the great booming voice of Richard W. Bancroft II shouted down the wire. “Fox? I've been telephoning you all morning.”

“Grandpa?” she replied, stunned. “Fox” was the nickname he had called her since childhood.

“No, Santa Claus! Who else?”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at Claridge's.”

“You're here!” It was as though she'd been injected with a shot of adrenaline.

“Would my granddaughter do me the honor of having lunch with me today at the Ritz?”

“This is such a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope. From what I gather, you've had a rather nasty one recently.”

“To put it mildly.” She laughed huskily.

“You can tell me all about it over lunch. Twelve-thirty prompt.”

“Have you spoken to Mama?”

“That's how I knew where to find you, Fox. Hiding up here all by yourself. Thought you could do with a bit of company. Don't be late!”

She heard him chuckle and imagined him sitting in the splendor of his suite at Claridge's, puffing on a cigar, wrapped in his burgundy dressing gown with silk lapels. Around him would be photos of him playing golf with Eisenhower, opening a city library with Bernard Baruch, kissing Maria Callas after a show in Rome. Her grandfather was the last of the robber barons, an oil king. An American who loved Britain so much he had bought the most extravagant Scottish castle he could find and decorated it to the hilt. He traveled with his own crystal and silver cutlery, and his rooms at Claridge's were adorned with pale orchids and lilies in advance of his arrival. Richard W. Bancroft II was not a man to do things by halves. He liked to surround himself with beautiful things, and only the highest quality would do.

Celestria sank onto her mother's bed, trying to unscramble the muddle in her head. She felt as if she had a ball of wool instead of a brain. She looked at her watch: eleven-thirty. She had less than an hour to bathe and dress, and she knew that for her grandfather, Fox had to look her very best.

As she submerged herself in the bath and let the bluebell-scented water wash over her, cleansing her body of the previous evening's wickedness, she began to feel the enormous relief of her grandfather's presence. At last, he had arrived to look after her. She could tell him everything, and he would listen with those wise gray eyes. What was not right, he would put right, because Richard W. Bancroft II was a man of great power and wealth. He might not be able to bring her father back, but he would rescue them from impending poverty. She might even go and live with him in New York, find a nice rich American, and live in Manhattan and have a holiday home in Nantucket. That thought appealed to her enormously. By the time she had slipped into a pale summer skirt and yellow twin set, lustrous pearls around her neck and on her earlobes, she was feeling almost completely restored. Her hair was pinned up at the sides, falling in waves over her shoulders and down her back, mascara and lipstick carefully applied. On her way out she glanced at her reflection in the mirror in the hall and wondered whether she looked different now that she was a real woman, having laid bare the mysteries of sex. Or maybe her sudden metamorphosis was due to her mother's crimson lipstick and pearls.

Celestria arrived at the Ritz by taxi. As she alighted onto the pavement she felt a frisson of excitement at the sight of the shiny red Bentley that had drawn up at the door, purring like a very grand cat. An immaculately dressed chauffeur in black hat and gloves stepped out and opened the rear door with the help of two uniformed doormen from the Ritz, pink cheeked with excitement, for Richard W. Bancroft II was not only a very important guest, but a famously generous tipper. Celestria stood and watched in amusement as Rita, her grandfather's assistant, stepped briskly out of the front passenger door as her boss climbed carefully out of the back, greeting the Ritz doormen with characteristic aplomb. As thickset as a bear, he stooped at the shoulders and walked with the slow stride of a man forced to concede to the ravages of age and time. However, he had thick silver hair, sharp intelligent eyes, and the vital wit of a man many years his junior. He raised his hand to thank the chauffeur and proceeded up the steps. Rita, who accompanied Mr. Bancroft everywhere, stalked on ahead to alert the manager that Mr. Bancroft had arrived. She needn't have bothered. Mr. Windthorne was already standing in the entrance hall to receive their esteemed guest.

Celestria followed the party through the doors, wondering how long it would take them to notice her. She was a regular guest at the Ritz and knew most of the staff by name. While Mr. Windthorne shook her grandfather's hand he happened to glance over his shoulder, his attention momentarily distracted by the beautiful blond girl who hovered in his peripheral vision. “Mr. Bancroft,” he said with a flush of pleasure, “Miss Montague has arrived.”

Richard Bancroft turned around slowly and grinned at his granddaughter. “On time and as radiant as ever!” he exclaimed in a thick American accent, holding his arm out for her to slip in and kiss him. Celestria embraced him with affection, pressing her face to his with a delicious sense of sailing into harbor from a choppy, uncertain sea.

“You smell of bluebells, and it's not even spring,” he said with a chuckle, suddenly feeling a great deal younger. She slipped her hand through his arm, and he patted it fondly.

“Good morning, Miss Montague,” said Rita a little frostily. Having worked for Mr. Bancroft for the last fifteen years, she never liked to see him close to other women, especially his granddaughter. When he was with Celestria, he almost forgot Rita existed. “Mr. Bancroft would like to go straight to his table,” Rita informed Mr. Windthorne importantly, stalking ahead on precariously high heels.

“In the most beautiful dining room in London we won't have any reason to move until late afternoon,” Mr. Bancroft added, proceeding down the corridor towards the restaurant. “Glad to see nothing's changed in a year, Mr. Windthorne.”

Celestria caught sight of herself in the large gilt mirrors as she passed and thought what a handsome pair they made. She envisaged walking down the aisle of the Catholic church in Farm Street on the arm of her grandfather. At least she still had someone to give her away.

“Now, Fox, what the hell is going on?” Richard Bancroft looked straight at his granddaughter, his expression grave. Rita and Mr. Windthorne had retreated, leaving Mr. Bancroft to enjoy his granddaughter and the excellent wine at the discreet round table in the far left corner of the dining room by the window.

“Papa has supposedly committed suicide,” she replied. “A note was found in a bottle in his boat with the words
Forgive me
written on Uncle Archie's writing paper. They also found his pocket watch in the boat, and a pair of shoes washed up on the rocks, though how a pair of lace-up shoes could come off on their own is a mystery to me! If you ask me, he was murdered.”

Richard Bancroft chuckled and took a sip of Bordeaux. “Full-bodied. I like it,” he commented appreciatively. The sommelier filled their glasses. “Now let's not run before we can walk, Fox. A good detective studies all the facts before making a judgment like that.”

“Well, we went to see the solicitor, who told us that Papa hasn't had a job for two years and that his business went bankrupt. Meanwhile, he's been traveling ‘on business' all over Europe. What business can that be? I ask myself.”

“Indeed.”

“Not only had he gone through his own money, but Mama's as well.”

“I see.” Richard Bancroft narrowed his eyes and a shadow passed across his face in spite of the sun that shone with brilliance through the tall glass doors. “Go on.”

“He's spent my inheritance, Grandpa. Mama, Harry, and I have nothing to live on. We're as poor as church mice.” Her grandfather laughed and shook his head.

“You talk a lot of nonsense!”

“Aren't you appalled?”

“Finish the story.”

A waiter hovered by the table, ready to take their order. Without consulting his granddaughter, Richard Bancroft ordered for both of them.

“You need something nourishing; you're as pale as death,” he said to Celestria. “A little red meat is what this doctor orders. And have some wine; it'll put the color back into your cheeks.” Celestria took a halfhearted sip in order to please him. She felt she had drunk enough wine the night before to last her a month. “So far it's looking bad,” he said. “Tell me more.”

Celestria continued, grateful to hand the mystery over to someone better qualified to deal with it. “I couldn't stand being down at Pendrift another moment. Mama has taken to her bed, complaining that Poochi is having a nervous breakdown with all the stress. I found the atmosphere claustrophobic. Without a body there's no funeral. There might never be a body. Then what do we do? When will it all be over?”

“So there's no evidence, beside what the solicitor told you, of Monty's unhappiness?”

“None whatsoever. In fact, I'd say he was the happiest man alive!”

Richard Bancroft nodded thoughtfully. “But there's more, isn't there?”

“I found a box of rubbish in the pantry at home. Waynie said that Papa had tidied out his study before coming down to Cornwall.”

“So, what did you find, Sherlock?”

“I found a love letter from a woman called Freddie, who lives in a convent in Puglia, as far as I can tell. It contained a photograph of Papa, looking incredibly pleased with himself. There was no date on the letter. Then I found bank statements that showed enormous amounts of money being sent out to Italy. Where did it all go to? I wanted to know. So I went to the bank, only to be told that it was all confidential information. But…”

“You used your charm, didn't you, Fox?” He grinned lopsidedly, clearly impressed.

“I found out the name of Papa's assistant, though she claimed to be his partner. Countess Valonya, who is the most frighteningly grotesque woman one could possibly meet. She's the one who deals with the bank and Lord knows what else. I tracked her down through the Hungarian Club in Hampstead. She lives in this odd mews house covered in bushes and birds. She'd make a fascinating fairground attraction. She refused to tell me anything. The most ridiculous part is that she tried to convince me that she had seen Papa alive recently. Of course I didn't believe her. She was clearly drunk. She thought it was a ploy of mine and Mama's to stop her seeing him, as if she were his secret mistress or something. I'd like to think Papa had better taste than that. Judging by the outpouring of grief from half the women in Pendrift, he certainly had a wealth of choice, had he been so inclined.”