Sins (9 page)

Emerald had known she had to have it the minute she had seen it at the autumn season’s show. She would wear it for the formal official photographs that would celebrate the announcement of her engagement to the Duke of Kent. His mother, Princess Marina, was well known for being stylish and elegant. Emerald intended to make it plain that, in future, as the new Duchess of Kent,
she
would be the most stylish and elegant member
of the extended Royal Family. Emerald intended to be a very popular duchess.

With her future all mapped out and waiting for her, Emerald was impatient to put her plans into action. She planned to make sure that she encouraged the duke to fall in love with her from the minute they were introduced. The official purpose of being finished might be to equip girls with good social skills, but Emerald had been using her time in Paris to hone skills that she felt would be far more use to her than conversational French.

Today she was going to polish those skills a little more, having managed to escape from under Madame la Comtesse’s eagle eye. She smiled triumphantly to herself, but then frowned.

Trust nosy Gwendolyn to insist on coming with her, and dragging Lydia along as well. It served them right that they were looking so uncomfortable. Emerald was enjoying herself, though, basking in the admiration of the four young men seated at the table with them in the artistic quarter of Montmartre. But it was the solitary older man sitting close by, reading his newspaper, in whom Emerald was more interested, and for whose benefit she had just been admiring her silk-stocking-clad legs. Narrow-faced, with his dark hair just beginning to grey, there was something about him that sent a shiver of anticipation and expectation through her. Instinctively Emerald knew that he was the kind who knew a very great deal about her sex, the kind of man any woman would be proud to have as a conquest, the kind of man it would be a challenge to turn into a devoted admirer, unlike the four boys, who were making it plain that they
were ready to adore her. Emerald liked older men, or rather a certain kind of older man–not ones like Gwendolyn’s revolting father. It excited her when they flirted with her, hinting deliciously about improper pleasures.

Emerald hadn’t had a lover yet–she couldn’t risk the scandal. And she would certainly never be tempted to let boys take liberties or go too far. She was far too well aware of her value as an ‘unspoiled’ virgin to do that. But if she did take a lover, it would have to be one who knew what he was doing, not some silly boy. That couldn’t happen until after she was married to the duke, of course. Some girls thought it was old-fashioned to hang on to their virginity but Emerald didn’t agree; they were the kind of girls who would probably be happy with any kind of husband, whereas she only wanted the best.

The young men they were with were students at the Sorbonne, or so they had said when, earlier in the week, she had dropped her purse in the Bois de Boulogne and one of them had picked it up for her.

She had agreed to meet them on impulse. After all, she had no intentions of doing anything that might render her unfit to become the wife of the Duke of Kent, but it amused her to see Gwennie looking all bug-eyed and mutinous, as though the act of enjoying a cup of coffee in a café was something akin to taking up residence in a brothel. Emerald liked knowing that Gwennie felt uncomfortable. How silly she was. Did she really think that any man would look at her whilst she, Emerald, was there?

‘I really don’t think you should have brought us here, Emerald,’ Gwendolyn was muttering.

‘I didn’t bring you, you insisted on coming with me,’ Emerald pointed out, opening her gold cigarette case, with its inlaid semi-precious stones the exact colour of her eyes–another new purchase from a jewellers on the Faubourg St-Honoré, and removing one of the prettily coloured Sobranie cigarettes.

Immediately all four young men produced cigarette lighters. Really, it was almost like one of those advertisements one saw in
Vogue
, Emerald thought. How silly and immature Lydia and Gwendolyn looked, both of them plain and lumpen. Emerald smoothed down the hem of her black wool frock, allowing her fingertips to rest deliberately on her sheer-stocking-clad legs. She would hate to be as plain as Gwennie. She would rather be dead.

She allowed the best-looking of the four boys to light her cigarette, and laughed when he caught hold of her free hand and brought it to his lips. French boys were such flirts and so charming. Charming, but not, of course, dukes.

Emerald removed her hand, and announced with insincere regret, ‘We really must go.’

‘I’m going to have to tell the comtesse what you’ve done,’ Gwendolyn announced self-righteously as they made their way back.

‘I haven’t done anything,’ Emerald denied.

‘Yes, you have. You met those boys and you let one of them kiss you. You do know, don’t you, that something like that could ruin your reputation, and bring shame on your whole family?’

Emerald stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, causing the other two girls to stop as well.

‘I wouldn’t be quite so keen to talk about tale-telling, people’s reputations being ruined, and shame being brought on their family, if I were you, Gwendolyn. Not in your shoes.’

The words, spoken with such a quiet, almost a deadly conviction, caused Lydia to look anxious, whilst Gwendolyn declared primly, ‘What do you mean, in my shoes? I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘You may not have done.’ Emerald paused. ‘Your father is very fond of pretty girls, isn’t he, Gwendolyn?’

Gwendolyn’s face began to burn a miserable bright red.

‘Did I tell you that I saw him coming out of a shop in the Faubourg St-Honoré with a very pretty girl on his arm? No, I don’t think I did, did I? But then you see, Gwendolyn, I am not a nasty little sneak, like some people I could name. I wonder what would happen to your reputation if people knew that your father has a common little showgirl for a mistress?’

‘That’s not true,’ Gwendolyn shouted, panic-stricken and almost in tears. Lydia gave Emerald an anguished look that implored her to stop, but Emerald ignored it. Gwendolyn, with her holier-than-thou attitude and her determination to get Emerald into trouble, deserved to be put in her place.

‘Yes it is. Your father is an adulterer, Gwendolyn. He has broken his marriage vows to your mother.’

‘No.’ Gwendolyn’s mouth was trembling, her face screwed up like a pig’s, Emerald thought unkindly, as she gulped and snivelled, ‘You’re lying. And I won’t let you say things like that.’

Emerald smiled mockingly. ‘Am I? Then I’m lying too
about your father trying to put his hand up my skirt and kiss me as well, am I?’

Lydia piped up naïvely, ‘Oh, I’m sure Uncle Henry didn’t mean anything by it, Emerald. He kissed me the last time I saw him.’

Gwendolyn’s face went from scarlet to a blotchy red and white.

‘You see, Gwendolyn,’ Emerald said mock sweetly. ‘Now, do you want me to tell the comtesse about your father, or—’

‘All right, I won’t say anything to her about those boys,’ Gwendolyn gave in.

Emerald inclined her head in regal acceptance of Gwendolyn’s submission. It had been truly clever of her to make up that story about seeing Gwendolyn’s father with a showgirl. What a fool Gwendolyn was. Everyone knew that her family had no money, so how on earth did she think her father could afford to keep a mistress?

Head down and umbrella up against the driving February rain, Rose hurried up King’s Road on her way home from work. The wind was icy and she couldn’t wait to get inside. In her haste, Rose didn’t see the two men standing on the pavement in front of her until she had virtually collided with them. In her attempt to sidestep them she almost lost her footing and a strong hand reached out to steady her. As she looked up to thank him, Rose recognised the hairdresser from the party, Josh Simons.

‘Well, I never, it’s the interior designer,’ he joked.

‘Training to be an interior designer,’ Rose corrected him.

‘Where am I going wrong, Vidal?’ he asked his companion sadly. ‘I’ve offered her a free haircut in exchange for some decorating advice for my new salon, but she still hasn’t taken me up on my offer.’

‘Wise girl,’ the other man responded with a grin. ‘Look, love, if you really want a decent haircut come and see me, Vidal Sassoon.’

‘He gave me a job when we left Raymond, then helped me to set up on my own,’ Josh put in.

‘He means in the end I had to pay him to go.’

They were both laughing, and obviously such good friends that Rose found herself relaxing.

Josh smiled warmly at her, shaking his head in warning as he told Vidal, ‘I know what you’re up to, and no way are you getting your scissors on that hair, Vidal. I saw it first. Look,’ he said to Rose, whose arm he was still holding, ‘since you’re here anyway why don’t you come up and have a look at my salon?’

‘You may as well go with him,’ Vidal said. ‘I can tell you that there’s no point in trying to argue with him–he never gives up when he’s set his mind on something. Besides, you’d be doing the rest of the world and me a favour if you did help him out. From what I’ve seen of his salon, no girl worthy of the name is going to want to get her hair cut there. And since I’ve only loaned him this money I’d like to see him earning something so that he can pay me back.’

What could she say? It would be churlish to refuse now, after such an appeal.

‘Very well,’ Rose agreed, ‘but I’m only in training and I don’t know the first thing about designing hairdressing salons.’

‘You don’t need to,’ Josh told her promptly. ‘Come on, it’s up here.’

Still holding on to her arm, he started to guide her towards the door behind them, and it was only Josh’s farewell to Vidal that alerted Rose to the fact that there
was now only the two of them. But by then it was too late: Josh was already reaching for the shabby door and opening it for her.

The door opened straight onto a long narrow staircase, its walls painted a sludgy dark brown, the paint chipped in places to show an even more repellent shade of green underneath.

‘You need something light and bright in here,’ Rose announced, immediately inspired, ‘something with a finish that can be wiped clean as people are bound to put their hands on the walls on their way up because the stairs are so narrow.’ She eyed the wall thoughtfully. ‘A sort of off-white shiny paint would be best, and then you could break up the wall with some black-and-white photographs, in plain black frames–head-and-shoulder shots showing off various hairstyles, perhaps.’

Rose was thinking aloud, her imagination taking off and quashing her reluctance to get involved. The shabbiness of her surroundings and the challenge of transforming them was affecting her like an itch she had to scratch.

‘That’s a terrific idea. I’ve got a mate who’s a photographer; always photographing pretty girls, he is. I might be able to do a bit of a deal with him.’

Rose, who was already halfway up the stairs, turned back to look at him. Standing below her brought him to the same eye level. He had extraordinary long eyelashes for a man, and those deep-set dark brown eyes were even more mesmerising close up. He definitely wasn’t her
type, though. She liked quiet studious young men, like the young Chinese medical student she had recently got to know whose family owned a Chinese restaurant patronised by Janey’s arty crowd. Lee worked in the restaurant when he wasn’t studying, and one evening, when they had been the last customers to leave, he had sat down with them at Janey’s insistence and told them about his dreams and plans.

Not that Rose had any romantic interest in Lee, or was likely to develop one. Her heart was already given to John, Lord Fitton Legh. John’s stepmother was Ella and Janey’s aunt Cassandra, who his father had married after the death of John’s mother, and the girls had known John all their lives. He was quiet and kind, and Rose loved him for that and for treating her as though she were no different to the others…She had developed a crush on him when she was twelve years old and he had saved her when Emerald had tricked her into getting up on a far too mettlesome horse, knowing that she was a nervous rider. John had come into the yard just as Rose was clinging in terror to the rearing horse’s reins. Within seconds he had calmed it down and had scooped Rose up off its back. In that moment he had become for her the most wonderful person in the whole world. Not that she would ever allow either John himself, or anyone else, to know how she felt. Emerald would have had a field day taunting her if she had guessed, because it was, of course, impossible that John would return her feelings. She had heard her aunt and uncle talking about John’s future, saying that he would probably marry a girl from one of the local
aristocratic families, someone who would share his deep commitment to the land and his inheritance, and she had known, young as she had been, that someone in John’s position would never want to marry a girl like her. The Fittons were, after all, a very old and proud Cheshire family.

But that hadn’t prevented her from having her daydreams.

Later on, when she had been at college and she had seen the way that men looked at her, knowing that she loved John had made her feel safe. Because if she loved John then there was no need for her to worry about falling in love with anyone else–with someone who might pretend to love her but who would really only want to treat her as her father had treated her mother.

No other man could hurt her or reject her whilst she loved John. And she always would. Always. Even though she knew that nothing could ever come of it. Instead she hid her private love for him in her heart and concentrated on her work and on making sure that she repaid her aunt Amber’s faith in her.

‘When I said head-and-shoulder portraits of girls, that was exactly what I meant,’ she told Josh severely now, as she focused firmly on the present, ‘not poses more suitable for a certain type of magazine.’

Josh burst out laughing. ‘Ollie would be mortified if he heard you say that. He photographs models for
Vogue
, not
Men Only
.’