Tower of Shadows (7 page)

He seemed to have hated her on sight, yet he knew nothing about

her, except that she bore a passing physical resemblance to

Isabelle. And on such flimsy grounds she'd apparently been tried

and sentenced. It was just assumed that she had some ulterior

motive in coming here, and she wasn't allowed to defend herself.

The injustice of it numbed her.

The worst her mother could be charged with was running away.

And was it any wonder she'd fled, if she'd been subjected to the

same bullying and threats by an earlier generation of de

Rocheforts? Sabine thought hotly. That — arrogant brute had

implied that her mother had taken his family for a ride financially,

yet, according to Ruth Russell, Isabelle had been pregnant and

penniless, reduced to working as a mother's help when Hugh met

her. The two stories contradicted each other.

She looked up at the cloudless sky. She said out loud, 'I'm going to

find out exactly what transpired all those years ago, and I'm not

leaving here until I know the truth. I'm going to clear my mother's

name, and the great M'sieur Rohan —' she almost spat the name '

— is going to eat every last insulting word.'

She went back into the house and slammed the door.

She felt too uptight to embark on cooking her chicken dish that

night, so she organised a simpler meal of terrine, followed by an

omelette and fruit.

A search of the outside store revealed two folding canvas garden

chairs, dilapidated but useable. She carried them on to the terrace

in front of the house, and sat down, intending to read one of the

paperback books she'd brought with her until the light faded.

But concentration on the story was well-nigh impossible. Every

time she heard the slightest noise, she found herself glancing

towards the archway.

Stop being stupid, she adjured herself, annoyed by her own

twitchiness. He won't come back. He wouldn't dare.

She paused, grimacing. Did she really believe that?

He was the kind of man who looked capable of anything—who

lived life entirely on his own terms. Physically, he wasn't her type

at all, she thought, subjecting him to a critical mental review.

Some women might find him attractive, but she didn't go for loose-

limbed, olive-skinned men whose black hair flopped across their

foreheads. Besides which, his nose was too long, his eyes were too

heavy-lidded, and his chin too damned assertive by half. And his

firm mouth, when it wasn't compressed by anger, had a

disturbingly sensual curve, which made her skin prickle even to

recall it.

Would he make love, perhaps, as fiercely as he hated? she

wondered, then stopped right there, giving herself a mental shake.

That was one line of conjecture she certainly didn't need to pursue.

But he would not, she admitted reluctantly, be easy to forget.

Dangerous, she thought, and ruthless too. Master of all he

surveyed, and used to his own way. Well, he'd come unstuck this

time. She couldn't be bought and she wouldn't be forced out of

here.

She realised she was revolving everything they'd said to each other

round and round in her mind. That brief reference to his stepfather

was haunting her, and she wished she'd found out more while she

had the chance.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to dismiss him so summarily after

all, she thought with dissatisfaction.

The little he'd said indicated that his stepfather had been deeply

emotionally involved with Isabelle. If so, it was more than

probable that he was the father of her baby.

My father, Sabine thought. Which would make this Rohan some

kind of relation, legally if not by blood.

The thought made her shudder, but the fact that he hadn't referred

to the ghastly possibility himself made her wonder if Isabelle had

kept her pregnancy a secret from the de Rochefort clan. But why

should she do such a thing — an unmarried girl who would

desperately need help and support—especially from her child's

father?

It made no sense at all, but she was too tired and emotionally

battered herself to rationalise about it any more. She would get

some rest, and face the whole problem in the morning.

Her sleeping-bag looked forlorn in the middle of that vast bed. She

shed her clothes, and slipped quickly into its impersonal embrace.

But, weary though she was, sleep remained elusive at first.

Her thoughts kept returning obsessively to the Chateau La Tour

Monchauzet, and its master. They might be hidden behind their

curtain of trees, but she felt oppressed by their proximity just the

same, as if they were standing guard over her.

The picture on the card was deceptive, she thought drowsily. It

showed a fairy-tale palace, but in reality it was Bluebeard's Castle.

And when at last she fell asleep it was to find herself in the

chateau, running endlessly through a labyrinth of rooms, searching

for something that was always just beyond her reach. While,

behind her, on silent feet, a dark man with hooded eyes stalked

her. And waited.

She woke with a headache, but then nightmares always had that

effect on her, she thought moodily, as she showered, and put on

shorts and a sleeveless top.

She cut a wedge from the loaf, spread it with cherry jam, and

carried it, with a mug of coffee, on to the terrace. The air was cool,

the grass was damp with dew, and there was a faint mist hanging

over the nearby fields. All in all, it promised to be another

heavenly day, she thought, feeling her spirits rise almost

perceptibly. And no nasty dream was going to spoil it for her.

A small brown lizard scuttled across the flags, and paused for a

moment, at a safe distance, flanks heaving gently.

'Well, good morning to you too,' Sabine said, as it dashed up the

wall in a blur of movement, and vanished into the eaves. So she

wasn't the sole occupant after all, she thought, amused.

So far, she'd done the absolute minimum necessary to allow herself

to camp in the house overnight. But today it was going to be

different. Today, she was going to do some heavy-duty cleaning

— stamp her seal on the place, and make it her own.

If she was going to stay for any length of time, she was going to

need some furniture at least, she thought frowningly. A chest of

drawers for her clothes, for instance. A comfortable chair, or

maybe a bean-bag for the
salon.
And proper bedding. She wasn't

used to being without a pillow.

As she turned to go back inside, she saw something white lying on

the hall floor. An envelope, she realised, as she bent to retrieve it.

She hadn't merely failed to notice it on her way out. She'd trodden

on it. Her footprint was stencilled across the thick hand-made

paper.

It must be a mistake, she thought, turning it over in her hands, and

noting there was no superscription. No stamp either, so it had been

delivered by hand, either last night when she was asleep, or very

early this morning.

She thought, I don't really want to open this. At the same time, she

knew she would have to.

It contained a single sheet of paper. The handwritten message was

brief and formal. The Baronne de Rochefort presented her

compliments to Mademoiselle Russell, and would be obliged if she

would call at the chateau at three o'clock that afternoon.

A royal summons, no less, Sabine thought drily. Madame Heloise

seemed to have recovered from her shock and the accident, and be

back in fighting form again.

And she had all morning and part of the afternoon to decide

whether or not to accept this imperious invitation. At the moment

she felt totally disinclined to do any such thing.

I'll consider it while I work, she thought, stuffing the letter into her

shorts pocket. She started in the kitchen. Yesterday, she'd given

just the cupboards she needed to use a superficial wipe-over. This

time, every drawer, every shelf and every surface was cleaned to

within an inch of its life, and the tiled floor scrubbed till it shone.

Feeling thoroughly ill-tempered gave one energy, she thought, as

she started on the dust and cobwebs in the
salon.

She stopped at noon for some bread and cheese, and a glass of

wine diluted with water, then plunged doggedly back into

housework.

She was absorbed in cleaning the arched windows when she heard

the sound of a car engine. Every muscle tensed, and she swallowed

nervously, but she carried on with her appointed task with renewed

concentration. She would not —she would not look round, she

vowed.

A girl's pleasant voice behind her said, 'Mademoiselle Russell?'

Sabine turned in swift astonishment. The newcomer was about her

own age, on the plump side of curvaceous, chestnut-haired and

pretty. She was also smiling broadly, and offering to shake hands,

which must count as some kind of first, Sabine thought as she

hastily wiped her own hand on her shorts.

She said doubtfully, 'Should I know you?'

The girl laughed and shook her head. 'I live at the farm with my

aunt, so we're your neighbours. My name is Marie-Christine

Lavaux.'

'Oh.' So this was a social call, Sabine thought, relaxing. 'May I

offer you something — coffee — a glass of wine?'

'At any other time it would be a pleasure.' Marie-Christine

wrinkled her nose in a small comic grimace. 'But unfortunately,

mademoiselle,
I have been sent to escort you to your appointment

at the chateau.' She paused. 'Among other duties, I am Madame de

Rochefort's secretary. You found the letter I left this morning, I

hope?'

'Oh, yes, I found it,' Sabine said, her voice flattening in

disappointment. 'But I'm not sure I wish to comply with the

Baronne'
s request.'

Marie-Christine's brows shot up. 'Is there some problem?'

'You tell me,' Sabine returned. 'The last time I saw the lady, she

was almost unconscious.'

Marie-Christine grimaced again. 'Ah, the accident. Well, she is

fully restored to health today.
Madame
is stronger than she looks.'

She would need to be, Sabine thought. Aloud, she said, 'Do you

know why she wishes to see me?'

'I am only a secretary at the chateau.
Madame
does not confide in

me to that extent.' Marie-Christine shrugged. 'Presumably she

wishes to thank you for assisting her yesterday, after her accident.'

She gave Sabine a pleading smile. 'Why not come with me, and

see?' She paused. 'You may wish to change first, perhaps,' she

suggested diplomatically.

'And perhaps not,' Sabine said levelly. 'I'm cool and comfortable as

I am. And this appointment was not my idea.'

Marie-Christine gave her a wry look. 'That is exactly why I was

sent to fetch you. And I shall be in big trouble if I return alone.

Madame
expects her wishes to be obeyed.'

'She's not the only one,' Sabine muttered.

'Pardon?'

'It doesn't matter,' Sabine said resignedly. 'All right, then. I give in.

But I hope
Madame
doesn't expect me in a hat and gloves.'

She compromised with one of the few dresses she'd brought with

her —a simple navy cotton in a button-through style, with short

sleeves, a deep square neck and a full skirt.

Then, obeying an impulse she barely understood, she took the

silver medallion out of the inner pocket of her bag, where she'd

zipped it for safekeeping, and fastened the chain round her neck.

A talisman, she thought. For protection. Which I may need.

She drew a deep breath, then went out to keep her appointment.

As SABINE emerged from the bedroom, she found Marie-Christine

standing in the empty
salon,
staring round her.

'The furnishings are a bit sparse at the moment,' Sabine said

lightly. 'I hope to go shopping tomorrow.'

'But there is no need,' Marie-Christine protested. 'There is plenty of

furniture belonging to the house. After M'sieur Fabien died, my

aunt arranged for it to be stored, because a house that is left empty

can sometimes attract thieves, you understand. She's been in Paris

on business for two days, but she'll be back this evening, so you

can speak to her about it.'