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'Paul! I was going to wear the jewels Argon gave , me!'
'I want you to wear these,' he said offhandedly, walking round behind her to clasp them. She quivered at the touch of his cool fingers on her skin. It took him some time to manipulate the clasp and her nerves were stretched intolerably when he at last moved away.
'Thank you,' she said, touching the cold gems with one finger. 'It was very kind of you.
He shrugged. 'I want you to look like my wife,' he said in a tight voice.
'Of course,' she said, her voice faint. The necklace was window-dressing for the benefit of his friends who must not suspect that their marriage was merely in name only.
They arrived at Diane Irvine's beautiful Napoleonic house just after eight. A wall surrounded the courtyard in which the house stood. A line of bay trees in green tubs lined the path to the front door, and the facade was lit by coach lamps hanging from pedestals outside the porch.
Paul seized the brass knocker and banged it once. A moment later the door flew open and a tall, elegantly gowned woman stood there facing them.
'Paul, mon cher! Ça va, mon vieux? You were so sly to get married far away on your Greek island where none of us could get a glimpse of your bride!' The soft, smiling voice included them both in these remarks, but Leonie realised that the bright blue eyes which studied her held no smile. Beneath their hard shine lay a nameless hostility.
Diane Irvine was in her late twenties, Leonie judged. The blonde hair was styled in apparently casual curls and hung to her shoulders. Her skin had a peachy bloom. Her figure was rounded, curved in the right places with a ripeness which just missed being overblown. The turquoise dress she wore was cleverly cut to add height and make her look slimmer.
Paul murmured an introduction, and Diane extended a languid hand. Leonie met it with her own and they smiled at each other, the smiles which society imposes for the sake of courtesy but which are quite meaningless, and serve only to highlight the false friendliness being offered.
'I did not even know Paul had a cousin Leonie,' Diane purred, giving him an intimate glance.
'Leonie has been brought up in England,' Paul explained.
'Poor girl,' smiled Diane. 'I have friends over there, of course, but I dislike the country. Too cold, too dull.' The blue eyes narrowed. 'Perhaps you know some of my friends? The Earl of...'
Leonie broke in swiftly, her voice chilly. 'I don't know anyone in England whom you would know, Madame Irvine.' It was not quite true. She had met many girls at school who came from just such backgrounds, but she had made few friends among
them, and had not bothered to keep up the acquaintance after she left school.
Diane's brows rose. A gleam of triumph shone in her eyes. 'Oh! My dear, I hope you are not upset by my question. I naturally thought... She let her voice trail away, shrugging in a pretence of helplessness. 'You are a Caprel?' The question was half statement, gently malicious.
Paul looked grim. 'Surely we are not the first to arrive, Diane?' he asked coldly.
She gave a tinkling little laugh. 'Oh, no, they all here, waiting with bated breath to see what sort of girl has finally managed to snare Paul Caprel. Come along!'
As they passed into the hall, with its gilt Empire mirrors and silky wallpaper, a maid in a black dress and lace apron hovered to take Leonie's small fur wrap, a present from Paul that afternoon. Paul and Diane moved on without Leonie, Diane's hand possessively curled around Paul's arm, her blonde head dropping towards his, her voice hushed to inaudibility. Leonie noted the way those long, red-tipped fingers clung to his dark sleeve, the moist full bloom of the red mouth as it parted to breathe some word.
There was by now no doubt in her mind that Diane and Paul had at some time been very close, or that Diane was still interested in him. Her every look declared it.
The room into which they now moved was large, high-ceilinged and beautifully furnished in the Empire style which was most appropriate for a house of the Napoleonic period. The silk-upholstered chairs and sofas were in a soft mint green, their legs carved with elaborate Egyptian-style decorations; sphinx bodies formed the feet, coiled serpents writhing along the uprights. On the walls hung two large paintings of the same period, by some lesser known artist, and one very large gilded mirror whose four corners were formed of the heads of Egyptian gods. Leonie recognised the head of Horus, the hawk god. The peculiar mixture of silken elegance and barbaric splendour gave the salon a startling originality.
At first glance the room seemed crowded, but as Diane began to guide her around, introducing her, she began to realise that there were, in fact, only seven new faces for her to identify.
'This is m
y husband, my dear. George, are you awake?' Diane used a light, ultra-sweet voice as she spoke, but the look in the blue eyes was acid. She gave Leonie a little smile as she added, 'Poor George, his work is so dull that he is often half asleep by the time he gets home. I sometimes feel I have married a dormouse instead of a man!'
George Irvine did not seem abashed or annoyed" by these remarks. He had risen, stocky and already beginning to lose his mouse-brown hair, and was offering Leonie his broad, well-shaped hand together with a sweet, apologetic smile. 'I'm very happy to meet you, Mrs Caprel,' he said gently.
Someone laughed, smothering the sound with a gasp. Diane shot a poisonous glance at the others in the room.
'These two young things are Emilie and Klaus
Schneider,' she said, her blue eyes resting coldly on Emilie.
Klaus Schneider was a very tall, very thin young man of about twenty-five with fine fair hair and grey eyes which remained expressionless even while he bent over Leonie's hand to kiss it. His wife was tiny, her hair bubbling over her head in soft brown curls, her eyes merry and friendly. It was she who had laughed.
'Klaus is in banking,' Diane told Leonie. 'Emilie is ... well, what do you do with yourself all day, Emilie, my dearest? Sew a fine seam?'
