Voice of the Heart (92 page)

Mrs Moggs instantly looked crestfallen, and she peered closely at Francesca. ‘Won’t you be comin’ back ’ere then, before ’is Grace’s weddin’?’

‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Moggs. I’m staying in Yorkshire. I’ll be writing my book. You can always give me a ring if there’s a problem, and I’ll let you know if Father is coming up to town.’

‘Yes, M’lady. It won’t be the same, with you gone, but I’ll look after fings, don’t you fret.’

‘Yes, I know you will, Mrs Moggs.’

‘Yer won’t forget about me titfer, will you, Lady Francesca?’

Francesca smiled her first genuine smile in weeks. ‘No, of course I won’t. As a matter of fact, I’ve started working on it, and I made good progress when I was at Langley last weekend. It’ll be ready for the wedding. A beautiful bonnet to match your blue coat and dress. You did say
blue
, didn’t you?’

Mrs Moggs nodded and beamed. ‘Yes, and thanks for
making the ’at for me. I appreciates it ever so much.’ Mrs Moggs hesitated. She cleared her throat. ‘I’d like somefing like the Queen Mum always wears. You know, with feathers and a bit of veil and p’raps a rose. A red rose.’

‘That’s just what I had in mind,’ Francesca assured her. ‘And I—’ The telephone in the hall started to ring. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Moggs.’ Francesca hurried out, picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Francesca,’ Nick Latimer said. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, Nick, and you?’

‘Morose without Diana. I’ve decided to fly over and see her this weekend.’

‘Again,’ Francesca murmured, forcing a laugh.

Nick chuckled. ‘Yep. Listen, kid, I think I’ve found an apartment. Just around the corner from you. On the corner of Grosvenor and North Audley. I wondered if you’d come and look at it, give me your opinion?’

‘When, Nicky?’ Francesca frowned. She had kept her departure for Langley a secret. She did not want Nick to know she was leaving that afternoon, or possibly delay her.

‘I was hoping you could meet me there now—say in about half an hour. Is that an imposition?’

‘No… no, that’s all right. What’s the address?’

Nicky gave it to her, then said, ‘I’ll be waiting in the apartment. It’s on the first floor, I mean ground floor, to the left, after the entrance hall. See ya, kid, and thanks.’

‘Goodbye, Nicky.’ She replaced the receiver and returned to the kitchen. ‘I think we’ve covered everything, Mrs Moggs.’ She leaned over the table, returned all the items to the envelope, handed it to Mrs Moggs. ‘I’ve got to pop out for a while. I’ll be back in about an hour.’

***

The late-September morning was one of filtered sunlight and milky clouds adrift in a periwinkle sky. It was another lovely Indian summer day. And yet the streets of Mayfair were oddly alien to Francesca as she walked briskly in the
direction of Grosvenor Square at eleven-thirty. The tall grey buildings were somehow forbidding and gloomy, and she could not wait to get back to Langley. She longed for the comforting familiarity of her home, the gentle peace of the ancient castle, the silence of her beloved moors. Up there on those remote and drifting hills, tinted purple now as the heather bloomed, where the air was cool and bracing and the light had a unique and shimmering clarity, she was able to find a degree of ease, a brief respite from the constant and inescapable pain of a love that was lost. She could walk for miles with her little dog Lada without encountering a single soul in that vast and awesome landscape, and the solitude was a benediction.

Ever since she had returned from Paris with Doris, Francesca had been retreating into herself, perpetually looking inward, living in her internal meanderings, shutting out the world. She felt isolated from everyone, found solace only in Lada and her work. Her research at the British Museum was finished, and the long and lonely days of real writing were about to begin. She welcomed them. Delving into the past, reliving history, were her means of escaping the present which had become so burdensome to her.

As she approached Grosvenor Square her thoughts swung to Nick, and the flat she was about to see. He had decided to stay in London until Christmas, when he was leaving for Wittingenhof to spend the holidays with Diana and Christian. From there he would return to New York in January, to visit his parents, and then go on to California. He was currently working on his screenplay, had explained he wanted the isolation London afforded to finish it as quickly as possible. But she knew Diana was the real reason he lingered on this side of the Atlantic. Francesca hoped things would work out for her cousin and Nicky, who were very much in love. But are there ever any happy endings? Very rarely, she answered herself dismally, contemplating her own misery, the unhappiness her brother would soon be confronting.

Katharine had telephoned from California last night, full of excitement about the film and Hollywood and all the people she was meeting. She had then gone on to extol the virtues of Beau Stanton, seemingly her constant companion both on and off the set. Only at the end of the long conversation had Kim been mentioned, when Katharine had reiterated her intention of breaking off with him—but not until after their father’s marriage to Doris, now scheduled for December. Francesca’s heart sank. Her brother would be shattered.

Terrence Ogden was also in California, and Katharine had chatted about him for a few minutes. Hilary was not with him. She was still recuperating from the car crash, and had entered the London Clinic for new tests. There was something peculiar about her balance and coordination, and the doctors were baffled, would not let her fly to America until they had diagnosed the cause. When Francesca had visited her last week, Hilary had finally broken down and wept, had expressed her longing for Terry with such eloquence and emotion Francesca had been moved, fully understanding her feelings. So many tears lately, Francesca thought sadly. She increased her pace, blocking out the spectres that haunted her.

Before she realized it she was standing in front of the building where the flat was. It was rather imposing, with huge double doors made of wrought iron and heavy glass. She pushed them open, crossed the entrance hall, found the flat and rang the bell. Nick opened the door immediately, stood grinning down at her.

‘Hello, Nicky,’ she said warmly, always pleased to see him.

‘Welcome, Beauty,’ he replied, still grinning. He pulled her inside and into his arms. After hugging her affectionately, he held her away, examining her face, assessing her mood. ‘Thanks for coming. I’m very grateful.’

‘I’m glad to be of help, Nick.’ She glanced around the
large foyer, and nodded her head approvingly. ‘Well, if this is anything to judge by, I think you’ve found the right place.’ Her eyes took in the handsome antique pieces, the crystal chandelier, the Oriental rug on the white marble floor. ‘Who does it belong to? It is rather
grand.
’

‘A producer I know. Sam Legalle. He’s going to L.A. for three months and wants a tenant while he’s away. Since I don’t want to rent for much longer than that, it suits me fine. Come on, let me show you the most important room of all—the library. And the place where I’d write.’ He threw open the door, led her in, waited for her reaction.

‘What a marvellous partner’s desk, and all these books! Oh Nick, it’s super. So conducive to work.’ She tucked her arm in his. ‘How many other rooms are there?’

‘A living room, a master bedroom, a couple of baths, and a guest room. Oh, and the kitchen. That’s in here. Sam had it remodelled, and it’s modern and more than adequate. No dining room though, I guess he always eats out.’

Francesca walked around the kitchen, which was a mixture of white and chrome, and far too sterile for her taste, but it was efficiently planned and suitable for Nick’s requirements. ‘So far I like the flat, and I’m sure Dibs will too,’ she teased with a small smile. ‘But aren’t you going to finished your guided tour? What about the bedroom and the living room?’

‘Oh sure, kid. The living room first.’ They left the kitchen and Nick went on, ‘It’s at the other end of the foyer.’ He ushered her towards the tall oak door, opened it, moved aside to let her enter first.

Francesca took two steps into the living room and stopped dead in her tracks. A sickening horror swamped her. Victor Mason, larger than life and staggeringly handsome in an elegant dark blue suit and an impeccable blue shirt and tie, was leaning against the mantelpiece, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

‘Hello, Ches,’ he said in a grave voice.

She did not respond, was unable to respond. She had not set eyes on him since he had left the South of France, and the sight of him now rendered her speechless, threw her off balance. Immediately, rage with Nick flared. He had trapped her in the most underhanded way. She swung her head to him, her eyes blazing, her expression one of fury mixed with disbelief. Finding her voice, she spluttered, ‘I never expected this from you! How mean and unfair of you to take advantage of—’

Nick held up his hand, and not giving her the opportunity to berate him further, he exclaimed, ‘The man wants to talk to you. If nothing else, you owe him that at least, Francesca.’ He strode out, closed the door softly behind him.

Realizing she was alone with Victor, Francesca panicked. Oh God! Oh God! What was she going to
do?
She knew he would question her. How was she going to explain her behaviour towards him without revealing Katharine’s confidences? She clutched her shoulder bag, wanted to bolt out after Nick. But she was rooted to the spot, afraid to move in case she stumbled. Her legs were wobbling and tremors were shooting through her. She could hardly keep a limb still.

‘Why don’t you sit down,’ Victor suggested evenly, and strolled past her to an antique armoire which had been turned into an open bar.

Francesca sank into the nearest chair, not because she wished to stay and listen to his lies, but because she knew her legs were finally buckling. She closed her eyes for a minute, willing herself to keep cool, planning her strategy, formulating plausible reasons for ending their relationship weeks ago. And then she began to condemn Nicholas Latimer for his deviousness, cursed herself for her stupidity, for not anticipating this situation. It was typical of
them
. They were blood brothers, weren’t they?

Dimly, through the pounding in her head, she heard Victor’s voice asking her what she wanted to drink. ‘Nothing,
thank you,’ she said and was startled by the steadiness of her tone.

He did not reply.

She heard the rattle of ice against glass, and various other small puttering noises. His shadow fell across her and she was acutely aware of his presence as he bent down and placed the drink on the coffee table without saying a word. He brushed so close she felt his breath, the familiar warmth of him, and her whole being was assaulted by that well-remembered smell which was so personally his. It was a pristine smell of soap and shampoo and recent barbering and the spicy scent of the cologne he used and just the faintest hint of tobacco. I’m going to faint, she thought, hardly daring to breathe until he had moved away.

He was leaning against the mantelpiece again, she saw out of the corner of her eye, looking nonchalant and perfectly at ease. This maddened her, and unexpectedly she wanted to fling abusive words and accusations at him, was on the brink of telling him she knew all about his affair with Katharine, informing him about the baby and the abortion. But she stopped herself in the nick of time. She could not betray Katharine to
their
betrayer. Furthermore, she had sworn on the honour of her family name never to divulge these secrets. She could not go back on her word.

Victor said, ‘That’s your favourite—vodka with lime juice and a splash of soda. Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ she mumbled, and lifted the glass, not knowing what else to do. In a moment she would get up and leave, once her strength had returned. She was conscious of his eyes on her, but she resolutely kept her face averted, afraid to look at him, and suddenly she felt flustered and undone. A match flared and he lit another cigarette before walking slowly across the floor and seating himself opposite her.

Victor crossed his long legs, smoked in silence, observing her quietly, his gaze levelled on her, unwavering and intent. He was perfectly aware she was unnerved, and understandably
so since she had been caught off guard. He wanted to give her a chance to settle down, to steady herself. She had lost weight. Too much, in his opinion, and yet her fresh young loveliness was undiminished. She wore a white silk shirt, a grey flannel skirt and a dark blue blazer. The plain understated clothes she usually favoured. Class, he thought, she’s got the kind of class that comes out of a top drawer. She’ll never lose it. It’s bred in the bone. With a small shudder he considered the albatross around his neck, and his black eyes narrowed with loathing for Arlene.

Francesca unexpectedly shifted her position, swung her head to glance around, continuing to avoid his eyes. The bright sunlight trickled through her hair, turning it to burnished gold, and his heart clenched. He ached to pull her into his arms, to hold her close, to pour out his soul, to tell her he wanted to keep her safe with him for ever. An impulse came over him… a compulsion to take her by the hand and leave with her right now. Leave this room, leave England, catch the first flight back to L. A. Yes, run with her and suffer the consequences. Tell the whole world to go to hell. The world well lost. Get rid of the people who encumbered his life… Arlene… Hilly Steed… Katharine Tempest. Get rid of the
things
that were encumbrances. Sell Bellissima. Dump the Monarch stock and take the losses. Cancel the films. Retire. Go to the ranch. With her. Whatever happened they would make it together. They had everything going for them. Do it, a voice nudged. And then his extraordinary sense of responsibility, his fear of scandal, his awareness of her extreme youth plus her background came to the forefront of his mind, eroded his courage. He abandoned the idea of instant flight. And in so doing Victor Mason made the gravest mistake of his life, one he would live to regret most bitterly.

Wanting to get to the root of the trouble between them, he said, ‘I don’t usually play sneaky games, but I didn’t
know what else to do, how else to see you. I must talk to you, Ches.’