It took three days properly to sober up the young American, three days during which he slept a lot, wept at least once and divulged not one word of what had happened to bring him back, and in such a state.
‘Leave him,’ Luke said. ‘What he wants us to know he’ll tell us in his own good time.’
But he did not. Neither then nor later did Kitty learn the details of Jem O’Connell’s last and obviously harrowing trip home. Remembering their conversation in the gardens, there was a lot at which she could guess but she, like Luke, respected Jem’s silence and did not question. Just once he spoke, bitterly and close again to tears, of the helpless vulnerability to hurt that could be inflicted by love, and it occurred to Kitty that his treatment at the hands of his mother and sister had deeply damaged an open and loving nature. It would be a long time, she thought, before Jem O’Connell would be ready to give his heart into the hands of a woman and once again leave himself open to such pain. His mother and sister had rejected him – how brutally could only be judged by the depth of his distress. Whatever had happened, it had driven him from home for good. He was on his way back to Paris, he told them, and this time to stay. ‘At least,’ he said with a flicker of a smile, ‘a man can drink himself to death there in good company and with no interference.’
That possibility, a concerned Kitty felt, was not in fact as remote as could be wished. Not even the ravages that Jem suffered after that first spectacular bout of drinking that had left him unconscious on Luke’s floor could keep him from determined and almost self-destructive intoxication; she suspected too that he had discovered the doubtful pleasures of the Oriental waterfront bars, where more than alcohol was offered as a way to oblivion. His talent he wantonly neglected. In the three months between that unheralded and drunken arrival and his equally abrupt if slightly more sober disappearance just after Christmas Kitty never once saw him pick up a paintbrush. It surprised and hurt her more than a little that he left without saying goodbye, except by means of a brief, self-mocking little note in which he apologized for the outrageous inconvenience to which he knew he had put them and promised, sooner or later, to be in touch if and when he was ever sober again.
‘I suppose he’s gone back to Paris?’ Sadly Kitty fingered the pens and pencils he had left behind, which she had seen him use so often and with such skill. She had grown very fond indeed of Jem O’Connell and had found it painful to watch his degeneration over these past months.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ Luke folded and refolded the note, tossed it in the fire and watched it burn. ‘He has friends there, after all.’
‘He has friends here.’
He said nothing.
The anger of frustration and worry sharpened Kitty’s voice. ‘Some friends. Seems to me they’re the kind that will help him drink himself to death rather than hinder him!’
He shrugged. ‘You have to let a man go his own way.’
She lifted her head sharply at that.
He did not notice.
It was an irony that, during those months that Kitty found herself helplessly watching as Jem drowned himself and his talent at the bottom of a whisky bottle, her own star had risen beyond any expectation or dream she had ever dared entertain. She had completed her first contract with Kenny and had signed another. She had been delighted and astonished to discover that she could now command a salary of thirty guineas a week – an absolute fortune to one who had once scrubbed floors for seven a year and worked a long hard day in Covent Garden for a shilling. She was able now to pay Pol a regular salary, and had found a niche too for Barton, as secretary, songwriter and general factotum. Matt, stubbornly, refused her help. He was unreservedly pleased for her and proud of her. But he would not join her. And finally she realized she would have to give up. Matt would do what he wanted, and nothing would stop him.
To Luke’s amusement she still would not leave Pascal Road for more splendid accommodation. For her, the little house had become more a home than any she had ever had, and she needed nothing grander. She, Pol and Amy Buckley were the firmest of friends, living together in easy companionship. Number twenty-three was a haven for Kitty, a place where she could be herself and where warmth and undemanding affection were assured. Amy looked after their physical well-being with the skill and pleasure of a born mother – Kitty often felt saddened for her that there had been no little Buckleys to appear before her husband had died of fever the winter before. Pol was Kitty’s strong right hand, a happy combination of mother, friend, sister and maid, whose sense of humour rarely failed and whose loyalty was absolute. Kitty happily used some of her new-found wealth to make them comfortable; no longer did Amy Buckley have to scrape and save to provide a meal each evening. They ate and drank of the best. She bought comfortable furniture for the sitting room, a sewing machine for Pol. She filled the bunker in the back yard with coal. Just before Christmas she took Amy and Pol to the wonderful new showrooms of Messrs Swan and Edgar at Piccadilly Circus and bought each of them a fashionable new outfit as a Christmas present. She enjoyed spending money, and spend it she did.
But for every penny spent there was a penny saved. Kitty Daniels was never going to be poor again, on that she was determined. Her thrifty saving was, she knew, another thing that amused Luke. When she tried to pay him back the money he had paid to release Pol he grinned. ‘Put it in your moneybox, little miser. It means a lot more to you than it does to me.’
Jem left them in January, with bitter winds scouring the city and Croucher and his mates working the ‘shatter dodge’ – begging, half-dressed and half-frozen in the winter streets. At this time the relatively new music halls were perhaps the most popular and expanding entertainment in London, and the prospect of fame and fortune upon its stage was no longer for Kitty simply a dream. Fortunes were being made overnight by those with the talent and the strength to exploit the possibilities. At the top of the tree a hundred guineas a week and more could be earned, and of course for a pretty girl the lure of a liaison, or even in some cases a marriage, with wealth and title, was the glittering lure that was to lead some to brilliant fortune but many more to disillusion and obscurity.
Kitty had her admirers, and she learned very quickly to play the game that was expected of her with skill; but for her still the reality of her complex and often difficult relationship with Luke precluded the possibility of any other. And Luke’s reputation was such, she soon discovered, as to keep the most persistently amorous swain at bay, no matter what his place in society. But though the addiction of his powerful attraction still held her fast, their life together was far from peaceful, and at the beginning of a cold February they had a very typical quarrel, blown from nothing to something in a second and, once started, all but impossible to stop.
Kitty was not at her best – she always suffered depression for a couple of days before her monthly period started, and the strain of performing on stage at these times inevitably stretched her nerves and shortened her temper. Their lovemaking that afternoon was brief and for her less than satisfying. She wished she had the strength at such times to explain, to refuse him, but though often she made the resolution she never carried it through. She lay on her stomach, her head pillowed on her crossed arms. When Luke spoke she stirred, a little sleepily. ‘Sorry?’
He was sitting on the side of the bed pulling his shirt over his head, and his voice was muffled. ‘I said how long are you thinking of staying with Kenny at the Cambridge?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘Well, you should, don’t you think?’
She swallowed the first stirrings of irritation. ‘I will,’ she said, mildly.
‘Soon.’
Exasperated she lifted her head. ‘Luke – for heaven’s sake! I wish you wouldn’t lecture me! Do I go around telling you what to do and what not to do?’
He paused, one foot poised above his trouser leg. ‘There’s no need to be so touchy.’
‘I’m not!’ she snapped.
‘I’m only trying to help.’
She relented. ‘I know. I do know. But – as I said – the truth is I don’t know quite where I want to go from here. Pat wants me to extend the new contract—’
‘So he told me.’
Firmly she quelled the renewed spurt of irritation the inference of the casual words aroused.
‘You could get more elsewhere,’ he said.
‘We don’t know that. I might get less.’
‘Not if you play your cards right.’
She ducked her head again, not looking at him, praying for patience. ‘Luke – I’m not playing cards! I’m living my life. Or trying to. I don’t want to take too many chances too soon.’
‘I can understand that, I suppose, but you must surely see that—’
She interrupted him. ‘The one who took the chance was Pat Kenny. I feel I owe him something. I can’t just up and walk off—’
‘Nonsense.’
Her mouth clamped shut. The uncertain temper that so plagued her prompted words that she would not speak. In silence she sat up and began to dress with quick, angry movements.
‘Why not try Morton at the Canterbury?’ He seemed entirely unaware of her anger.
‘Don’t be silly. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.’
‘If you aren’t ready now, you never will be.’
Grimly she wrenched at outrageously expensive white silk stockings. Why were the damned things never long enough? Four petticoats were strewn, crumpled about the floor. Her heelless buttoned boots lay where she had kicked them off on the rug before the fire. Grumpily she scavenged for her clothes. ‘Perhaps later on in the spring,’ she said, sweetly reasonable.
‘Perhaps that will be too late?’
That did it. ‘And perhaps,’ she said very precisely, ‘that’s my business?’
He treated her to a long, cool look. She turned from him and began to struggle into the voluminous petticoats. She glanced at the clock that ticked quietly on the mantelshelf. In two hours she was due on stage. She was late.
‘You have to move on,’ he said.
‘I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do!’ There was open challenge in her voice. Absurdly angry she struggled into the violet velvet, bustled daydress that seemed determined to fight her very inch of the way. ‘God! Why must women be so afflicted with buttons and bows and bloody trimmings? What’s the matter with this damned thing?’ She fumbled with the last of the fastenings, snatched the matching jacket from a nearby chair.
He would not give an inch. ‘Kitty, do stop being so childish. We have to talk about this—’
She straightened to face him. Shook her head. ‘No, Luke. We don’t have to talk about it at all. I have to think about it and I have to make a decision. This is my business. Mine! Do I try to tell you what to do? Do we hold a board meeting about every decision you take?’
He made an irritated, dismissive gesture. ‘That’s different—’
‘It bloody isn’t!’ She stormed to the mirror, brush in hand, and with swift, angry movements swept her straight hair into a severe centre parting and pinned it into a bun at the nape of her neck.
He watched her, and she saw in the mirror his effort at self-control. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, coolly.
She said nothing. Cursorily she finished her sketchy toilette. Glanced again at the clock. ‘I’ll have to go.’
He nodded.
‘Will you be there tonight?’
‘I don’t know.’ The chill was there, barely beneath the surface.
She paused at the door. ‘Please yourself.’ She shut the door very quietly behind her.
A dozen steps up the road she wanted to turn back. But she did not.
In her oversensitive mood the quarrel, silly and slight as it was, upset her badly. That evening she was absent with Pol, downright distant with poor garrulous Barton. In her head, as so often, she argued with the absent Luke, finding too late the reasoned words that had earlier eluded her, firmly saying all the right things—
‘It’s almost time,’ Pol said.
‘Thank you.’ Why hadn’t she kept her stupid temper? How had she been reduced to such childishness? And why, oh why, couldn’t Luke learn that she had to be independent – didn’t need or want to be looked after like some kind of backward infant?
‘Miss Daniels. Miss Daniels. Five minutes, please.’
She stood up, peered at her transformed self in the mirror, picked up her top hat and cane. Tonight she would speak to him. Tonight she would be all reason and charm, but she would make him understand. Tonight, when he came – if he came – she would, oh she would keep her temper—
Two hours later she sat before the same mirror and knew that her resolutions had been for nothing. Luke was not coming. She felt restless now, and full of that strange energy that her stage performances seemed to generate within her. Despite her earlier depression and despite Luke’s absence she felt stimulated and exhilarated. The audience had loved her. She had taken three curtain calls. She could barely sit still now as Pol brushed out her hair, the echoes of applause still filling her ears.
‘Went down well ternight from the sound of it.’ Pol brushed her hair with long, soothing strokes.
‘Yes.’ She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to relax. Why should she care if Luke chose to sulk?
‘They liked the new verses?’
‘Loved them. I must remember to tell poor Barton. I’m afraid I rather snapped his head off earlier.’
Pol smoothed the heavy hair with her hand, bound it into a loose knot. ‘What’s goin’ on ternight? You comin’ ’ome? There’s a cab waitin’.’
‘Yes, I think so. Luke’s’ – she hesitated – ‘busy.’
Pol did not comment. ‘You could do with an early – ’oo the ’ell’s that?’
The sharp rap sounded again at the door. ‘Mam’selle Daniels?’ An assured voice, heavily accented.
Pol’s eyes met Kitty’s in the mirror, eyebrows raised. Kitty shrugged. ‘Be a dear – get rid of him for me?’
Pol went to the door and opened it a crack. ‘Can I ’elp you?’
‘I wish to see Mam’selle Kitty Daniels on a matter of the most extreme importance. You’ll please tell her?’
From the mirror Kitty gained an impression of a square, heavily handsome face, eyes of velvet brown beneath shining hair black and smooth as jet, and a picturesquely neat Imperial moustache and beard. The man’s accent was magnificently Gallic.
‘Miss Daniels isn’t available.’ Pol’s voice was brusque. She didn’t care for foreigners.
‘But no! I insist! I tell you I have something of very great importance to discuss with her—’
‘Tomorrow,’ Pol said firmly.
‘But tomorrow, Mam’selle, may be too late! I really must see her—’
Pol was having some difficulty in shutting the door. Kitty saw with some amusement the toe of a shining boot planted firmly in the opening.
‘Well, ’ard cheese,’ Pol said, pleasantly enough, and pushed harder.
‘Mam’selle!’ The word was urgent. ‘I implore you! A chance, simply, to introduce myself—’
The opening had been reduced to a crack no more than three inches wide. ‘Introduce away,’ Pol said, agreeably.
‘I am Charles Parisot. Mam’selle Daniels will undoubtedly know of me—’
Pol glanced at Kitty, who shook her head. ‘I think not, Monsewer,’ Pol said, drily.
‘But yes! Of course! I have many theatres and cafe concerts – in Paris and in Bordeaux – my name is known throughout Europe!’
‘Not ’ere it isn’t.’ Pol, putting all her considerable strength into the effort, was winning the battle of the door.
On impulse Kitty smoothed her hair, drew her loose gown around her. ‘All right, Pol.’ She winked. ‘Let him in.’
Pol looked at her in surprise.
Kitty shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘Mam’selle Daniels!’ With exaggerated gestures the Frenchman entered, elegantly and gallantly bending over her hand, snow-white gloves, silver-topped cane held with his top hat in one hand, a single bright diamond on the hand that held hers. ‘I come to tell you – you are a wonder! An enchantment! Parisot – even Parisot! – is smitten! What style – what panache—!’ He placed a rose on the table before her, reached for her hand again, pressed his lips not to her knuckles but to her open palm. Over the bent head Kitty’s eyes signalled hilarious disbelief and Pol screwed her face up in open laughter.
‘—When my good friend Kenny tells me he has discovered a sensation, I tell myself – phut! The Irishman exaggerates again! But no. This time every word he speaks is truth. Mam’selle Daniels – I come to tell you – you are wasted here! Wasted!’ He straightened. He was still holding her hand. Gently she disengaged it. He looked regretful, but did not openly protest. ‘Mam’selle, I have something of enormous importance to put to you—’ He looked round and indicated a nearby chair. ‘I may sit?’
‘By all means.’ The man’s every word was accompanied by gestures of such immoderation that Kitty found it difficult to take anything he said very seriously.
Parisot drew a spindle-legged chair very close to hers. ‘Europe – Paris – La Ville Lumière – awaits you, Mam’selle!’
Kitty kept a perfectly straight face. ‘Really?’
He sat back. ‘You joke with me?’
‘Of course not, M’sieu. But – forgive me – this is a little sudden, is it not?’
He smiled a small, utterly charming smile. ‘Mam’selle – great passions are always sudden, are they not?’
She could not help but laugh. ‘I suppose so.’
‘But of course. Love does not wait upon convenience, Mam’selle. And Paris will love you, as you will love Paris. You know my wonderful city?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
The beringed hands spread, the eyes rolled dramatically. ‘Ah – but then I envy you! For what an experience you have to come! To see Paris for the very first time – and in the spring! To walk her streets, to feel her heart beat – Mam’selle Daniels, Paris is a flower of a city! The centre of Europe! The jewel in the crown of the world! And now – this year – her glory is doubled by the efforts of our Emperor! You have heard of the Great Exhibition?’
Kitty shook her head again. ‘No.’ Despite herself she was fascinated by the flamboyance of the man, the odd, almost irresistible warmth he exuded.
He leaned forward again. ‘In the summer, Mam’selle, Paris is to be the scene of the greatest exhibition the world has ever seen, or will ever see again! Art! Music! Culture! Science! The wonders of our modem world! All the elegance, all the knowledge of man will be there – and to see it will come the cream of Europe, and beyond. Crowned heads, Mam’selle – the Czar, the Kaiser, your own dear Queen – and you – you, Mam’selle Daniels! – shall be part of it all!’
She stared at him, bemused, still half-laughing. ‘M’sieu—!’
‘No, no!’ He held up an imperious hand. ‘Say nothing! A word spoken swiftly will always be regretted!’ He paused. Kitty wondered if he ever spoke in anything but exclamations. His next words, spoken softly and persuasively, the dauntlessly charming smile flitting once more across his face, seemed to prove that he did not. ‘Come to dinner with me, Mam’selle! We will speak of it! I will persuade you!’
She had to laugh. ‘M’sieu Parisot, I’m afraid—’
‘Ah, but no! You will not – you cannot? – refuse me, Mam’selle? A few short hours in your delightful company is all I ask. I will tell you of Paris. I will tell you of my theatres. I will tell you of the sensation you will cause in my wonderful city—!’
‘And will you tell me, M’sieu, of your wife and beautiful children?’ she asked, gently mischievous.
He looked surprised, even a little hurt. ‘But of course!’ He smiled, wickedly. ‘I have daguerreotypes.’
She considered that. ‘Which you don’t, of course, carry upon your person?’
He shrugged. ‘Ah, but no, Mam’selle – they are—’
‘—in your hotel room?’ she finished.
‘But yes.’
‘I thought they might be.’ The man entertained her enormously. She laughed suddenly, coming to an impulsive decision. Let Luke think she was moping alone over cocoa and biscuits! She held out her hand. ‘Dinner? Yes – why not?’ She wagged a stern finger. ‘Daguerreotypes and hotel rooms? Definitely not.’
‘Mam’selle,’ he said collectedly, ‘your good sense is exceeded only by your beauty. I’ll wait while you dress.’
‘Outside,’ she said, firmly.
Mournfully he nodded. ‘Outside.’
‘The funny thing is that I think it’s really all true!’ Kitty told Pol later, curled in an armchair before the dying fire in the little sitting room of number twenty-three. Amy had gone to bed long ago – it had amused Kitty to find Pol, dozing but determinedly waiting, when she had arrived home. ‘He really does have theatres in Paris and Bordeaux. And there really is to be a great international exhibition in Paris this summer. And M’sieu Parisot really is going to open a new theatre – the Moulin d’Or – to coincide with it—’
‘An’ I s’pose ’e really does ’ave a wife an’ children, too?’
Kitty spread expressive, Gallic hands. ‘But of course!’ she said, her voice heavily accented, and giggled. The champagne had been very good indeed. ‘The children are at school in England, and he really did have pictures of them. Oh, Pol – I rather like him. Once he stopped trying to get me into bed with him he was very nice. He even got round to admitting that the reason that he’s over here looking for someone to open at the Moulin d’Or in the summer is because the girl he originally booked had been poached by one of his rivals. He threatens a duel!’ She laughed again, then sobered, and sat for a moment looking into the glowing embers of the fire. ‘Paris,’ she said pensively.
‘You really think ’e’s serious? About givin’ you a job? I mean ’e’s not just – you know – after the other?’
Kitty grinned. ‘Oh, that too, if he can get it. But – yes – I think he’s serious.’
‘An’ are you?’
The expression on Kitty’s face was faintly defiant. ‘Luke tells me I should take some chances,’ she said. ‘Why not this one?’
‘Seems a long shot?’
Kitty lifted a shoulder, turned her gaze back to the fire. ‘That doesn’t stop me thinking about it, does it?’
Charles Parisot laid siege to Kitty as if he were a general determined to bring about the downfall of a citadel. He came to the theatre each evening, he sent flowers and outrageously expensive perfume, he entertained her, whenever she allowed him, to dinner. His light-hearted charm amused her, as did his declarations of devotion. She adamantly resisted all his efforts to get her into bed. She asked Patrick Kenny about him and was reassured that yes, he was indeed what he said he was and more. ‘He’s one of the greatest showmen in France, if not in Europe. If you can stay out of reach of those hands of his he could do a lot for you. But – a word in your ear – watch his wife!’ Kenny grimaced, unsmiling. ‘Believe me, that lady could – and would – tear you apart with her bare hands if she thought you were after Charles. At least one aspiring star I know of felt the brunt of Madame’s anger and won’t ever forget it. And neither will she work again.’
Luke, too, was amused by the flamboyance of the Frenchman, obviously, Kitty observed a little wryly, in no way seeing in him a rival for her affections. His arrogance, she thought, sometimes could be quite breathtaking. Their quarrel, such as it was, had been patched up a couple of days after it had happened, and Luke was in her dressing room when Charles Parisot’s first gigantic bouquet was delivered.
‘Good God!’ Luke said mildly. ‘Do you think he’s robbed Kew Gardens? They surely couldn’t all have come from the same shop?’
‘M’sieu Parisot doesn’t do things by halves.’
‘I can see that.’ Luke leaned back in his chair, watching her as she removed her stage make-up. Monty Montague’s black silk top hat was perched at a rakish angle on his head. Luke was in high good humour. Kitty strongly suspected he was planning a fresh coup. ‘Would it be ungallant of me to ask just what M’sieu is after?’
She laughed. ‘Much the same as any other man. Except—’
‘Except?’
‘He’s serious about this job in Paris. He’s been let down – he badly needs a replacement, and quickly. He really does think I’m the one.’
‘You should take it,’ he said, positively.
She quelled irrational disappointment. That she was considering the Frenchman’s offer she had not told Luke – she had half-hoped that when she told him he might try to dissuade her. ‘Isn’t it a bit soon?’ she asked, perversely. ‘I’m only just getting established here.’
‘My dear Kitty – poor Jem was right about one thing if about nothing else – Paris at the moment is the centre of civilized Europe. A successful season there would make you.’
She turned back to the mirror. ‘You wouldn’t miss me?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
She dabbed furiously at her face.
‘Take it, Kitty,’ he said, ‘it could be the chance of a lifetime. And that is what you want – isn’t it?’
She went to dinner again with the Frenchman three evenings later; by the end of the evening he had agreed to give her ten days in which to make up her mind whether or not she would accept his offer. She hoped that that might cool his more personal pursuit, but it was not to be. The next day more flowers arrived, together with a note suggesting that she might like to meet him that evening after the performance, for dinner at his hotel. She read the note, then re-read it, her long, square-tipped finger tapping thoughtfully upon the table.
Pol snorted. ‘What does the feller think – that yer floated upriver on the last ’igh tide? Dinner at ’is ’otel indeed! You aren’t goin’, are yer?’
Kitty shook her head. ‘No, I’m not. But I don’t think I’ll tell him that. M’sieu Parisot really does have to be shown that I’m interested in his job, not his splendid person – if he won’t accept that, I shan’t go to Paris anyway. I shan’t reply. It won’t do him any harm at all to expect me and to kick his heels alone tonight.’
In the event, however, it appeared that Charles Parisot’s ardour had been cooled some other way. Just before the evening’s performance a small boy in the claret and blue uniform of the Great Royal Hotel knocked at the dressing-room door. ‘Note for Miss Daniels.’
Upon the claret-edged, pale blue notepaper Charles had apologized, picturesquely and profusely, for having to cancel their engagement at the last moment. An affair of great importance had cropped up and, regretfully, for now and for the next few days he would be, with extravagant regret, unavailable.
Well Kitty tossed the note upon the table. ‘That takes care of that anyway.’
Pol grinned irrepressibly. ‘’Is wife probably turned up.’
Kitty was searching through her purse for a coin to give the messenger boy. ‘If I thought that was true I’d turn a cartwheel better than one of Springer’s. Nothing could suit me better. Here.’ Smiling, she handed the lad a sixpence.
‘She did,’ he said.
Kitty blinked. ‘Who did? What?’
‘The Frenchie’s wife. Turned up.’ The boy grinned, slyly pert. ‘What a to-do! She was the third Madame Parisot we’d seen in as many weeks – an’ a likely fourth was lunchin’ in the dinin’ room with ’im. Never saw anyone move so fast in me life.’
Kitty surveyed him, thought in her eyes. ‘You mean – the real Madame Parisot turned up? From Paris?’
‘The very same.’ He grinned again. ‘Unexpected-like. Large as life an’ twice as mad.’
‘And she’s staying with him? At the Royal?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Tell me—’ Kitty had dipped into her purse again and was toying with a sixpence. ‘You wouldn’t know if they’re dining at the hotel tonight?’
‘Oh, yes. Took the message meself.’
Kitty handed him the other sixpence. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much indeed.’
When she arrived at the Great Royal later that night the dining room was thronged with diners and the meal – as she had planned – was well under way. She had taken great care with her appearance – her dark red velvet gown, if not exactly demure, was restrained and she had had Pol coil her hair severely at the nape of her neck and confine it in a dark silk hairnet. Her only jewellery was a slim golden chain that Luke had given her. She looked, she thought, the very personification of respectability.
‘I on’y ’ope yer know what yer doin’,’ Pol had grumbled for the dozenth time. ‘This Madame what’s ’er name don’t sound like a lady ter be trifled with.’
‘I’m not going to trifle with her.’ Kitty had patted her hair sleekly to her head. ‘I’m simply going to try to make sure that her husband stops trifling with me!’
Now she handed her velvet cape to the waiter who hovered questioningly at her side. ‘M’sieu Parisot’s table, please. He’s expecting me.’
‘Yes, Madam. This way.’
She followed him, threading her way through the crowded tables. In a far corner of the room she could see her prey. Half-hidden by a monstrous aspidistra, Charles Parisot sat with his back to her approach. Opposite him sat a statuesque and striking woman in vivid emerald silk. A mass of black hair was piled in a glittering tower upon her head. Her bare, sloping shoulders were magnificent. Diamonds glittered at throat and ears. Fierce dark brows arched above enormous eyes, Spanish-dark. She looked, Kitty thought, quailing suddenly, a prima donna straight from the stage at Covent Garden. She took a breath, then swooped upon the table. ‘Charles, my dear – I’m so sorry I’m late!’
She saw the shock in his eyes, the almost terrorized glance he threw at his wife. She turned, smiled her warmest smile. ‘And you, surely, must be Charles’ wife? I couldn’t be mistaken – Charles has spoken of you so often – I truly feel as if I know you. Are you here to visit the children? Charles has shown me their pictures – such lovely little things! Little Marie has your eyes, has she not? Charles, you naughty thing’ – she felt a nervous hilarity bubble at the frozen look on the man’s face – ‘why didn’t you tell me that Madame Parisot was going to be here? I would have tried much harder not to be late!’ She laughed a little – easy to do with the elegant and assured Charles Parisot staring at her for all the world like a goldfish stranded a very long way from its bowl. She proffered her hand to Madame Parisot, let quite genuine admiration show in her eyes and voice. ‘Madame, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Charles never stops speaking of you. Now that I’ve met you I must say that I can see why.’ She stopped then and waited, patiently polite.
Charles, with an effort, collected himself. ‘Chérie – this is Mam’selle Daniels. I have told you of her—’
‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ Madame’s English, like her husband’s was meticulously correct if heavily accented. ‘How do you do?’
‘I’m well, thank you.’
Charles was still struggling somewhat. ‘Kitty – Miss Daniels – I—’
She regarded him, artlessly questioning. He subsided. His forehead was beaded finely with sweat.
‘Mam’selle Daniels’ – Madame’s voice was as velvet dark as her eyes – ‘you had perhaps arranged to meet my husband this evening?’ Her glance flicked to Parisot, who all but physically flinched from it.
‘Why, yes.’ Kitty was innocence personified. ‘I assumed we were to talk of the contract. I can’t make up my mind until I know – oh, Charles!’ She turned. ‘I’m so sorry! Did I make a mistake? I was so sure that your note said tonight—?’
‘I – sent another note—’
‘Another?’
‘Explaining—’ He made a weak gesture towards his wife.
‘You sent a note to the theatre?’
He nodded.
‘There! That’s that scatterbrained Pol again! She must have forgotten to give it to me. And – I’ve interrupted your meal together. Oh, I’m mortified – I’m so sorry!’ She made a small, prettily apologetic gesture, not to Parisot but to his wife.
Madame’s glance held in its depth a distinct and astute gleam of amusement. ‘You would care to join us perhaps?’
‘Oh, no – I couldn’t—’ Kitty had made no move to rise.
‘But yes’ – the gleaming eyes flickered again – ‘I have a feeling that we might find we have much in common, Miss Daniels.’ The tiny, diverting moment of conspiracy passed Charles Parisot by completely. He looked bemusedly from one to the other.
‘Well – if you’re sure—’ Kitty replied, smiling.
Smiling in return, Genevieve Parisot raised a long, commanding finger. ‘Garçon! Another place, s’il vous plaît…’
Luke was gratifyingly and amusedly admiring. ‘So – having now established a bosom friendship with Madame Parisot—’
‘Genevieve,’ Kitty corrected him, grinning.
‘—then poor M’sieu is snookered by the pair of you?’
‘Something like that.’ Kitty was unsympathetic. ‘And the bonus is – I really do like Genevieve very much indeed. And I think she likes me. And now she knows I’m not after her husband there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be good friends.’
‘You scheming little cat.’ He pulled her to him. ‘I’d never have guessed you had it in you to be so devious.’
She laughed softly. They were lying naked upon his bed. He kissed her breasts, gently rubbing the nipples with his lips, bringing the immediate, almost unbearable excitement to her body. She caressed his back, her fingers brushing lightly the scars of the long-healed welts that criss-crossed his wide shoulders. ‘My father,’ he had said, brusquely, when she had brought herself to question him. ‘Who else?’ And again, and not for the first time, she had found herself wondering that the man who had had such a father should so desire a son.
‘I think,’ she said, after a moment, as he lay with his head pillowed upon her bare shoulder, ‘that I might go to Paris. Will you mind?’
He lifted his head. She saw the gleam of his eyes in the half-darkness. ‘Of course I’ll mind. I’ll go mad with loneliness.’
She turned and nipped the smooth skin of his upper arm with her teeth.
‘Ouch!’ He pinned her to the bed, kissed her hard.
She emerged from his embrace, gasping and laughing. They wrestled playfully for a moment in the firelight before settling down again, bodies relaxed against each other. It was at times like these that sometimes her treacherous heart wondered why she ever fought him, why she simply could not be content to be with him, to bear for him the child that she knew he wanted. But then, as always, her logical head had the answer. It was impossible. It would never work. Quite apart from the storms that so frequently shook their relationship, what would happen to her – and to the child, if they had one – if he were taken? Or if – as must be more than possible – he simply one day did not return from one of his perilous enterprises? The thought was beyond bearing, but it had to be faced. Until she knew that she could accept his way of life unquestioningly she could not so commit herself. And sadly she knew in her heart that such acceptance would probably never come. How could she bring into the world a child with an unrepentant and notorious criminal for a father? What sort of life would they ever have? Love was not enough; she wished with all her heart that it were. She reached for him, drew him to her, kissed him fiercely, closing her eyes.
Kitty had certainly meant it when she had declared her liking for Genevieve Parisot, and was delighted when it became apparent that the feeling was mutual. The stylish Parisienne was unlike any woman Kitty had ever come across before. She was acutely intelligent, utterly independent in thought and deed and had about her a chic that made every other woman in a room she entered look dowdy. She in her turn made no secret of her admiration of Kitty and her talent.
‘Oh, but of course, chérie! Charles is right!’ she enthused after having seen Kitty on stage. ‘You must – you must! – come to Paris! I tell you – you will be the sensation of the greatest season our lovely city has known!’
They went shopping together and in her positive way Genevieve left Kitty in no doubt whatsoever as to what she thought of her new friend’s dress sense. ‘Mais non! A horrible shade of pink! It makes you look like a great gangling schoolgirl! Try this one – ah, see how much better! But – so – a little off the shoulders. Madame! Here, please—’ She clicked imperious fingers. The small assistant hurried to her. ‘This may be altered so—?’
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘But Gené!’ Kitty protested, ‘I’ll feel as if I’m walking about half-naked – and the price!’
‘Oh, pouf! You’ll get used to it. You have lovely shoulders. When you stand up straight, that is. And you have the money. What is it for but to spend?’
Poor Charles, out-manoeuvred and faced with the fait accompli of their conspiracy, gave in with his Gallic shrug and more or less good grace and stopped his pursuit of Kitty. But he was adamantly set upon taking her to Paris, and the time for decision had to be soon.
Kitty vacillated. Though she had said to Luke that she would probably go, she still had not truly made up her mind to it. Charles wanted her to open at his new theatre on April the first, the same day as the Great International Exhibition was to open, and he had to have her answer soon, for that was barely a month away. Yet while she knew that on the one hand there could be no doubt as to the dazzling boost a success in Europe’s most glittering city could bring to her career, on the other the fear of the loneliness and disappointment of failure daunted her. Genevieve, in her eagerness to impress her new friend with the splendours of the city that she herself so loved, had almost succeeded in frightening her away altogether. The picture of Paris that Gené painted – a city of brilliant distinction, of cosmopolitan charm and gaiety, of exacting demands and a constant, restless search for novelty, a city all but dizzy with its own prestige and glamour – simply intimidated poor Kitty into a state of nerves she had not suffered since the Dipper had made his first appearance on the stage of the Queen’s. How could she hope to make her mark on such a place? And yet – both Charles and Genevieve obviously had faith in her, and why should they be wrong?
‘If I did go,’ she said to Pol one day, curled before the fire at number twenty-three, a half-gale rattling the window panes and flinging rain almost horizontally along the narrow street, ‘you would come with me, wouldn’t you?’
Pol had laid a tray with teapot and cups upon a little table. At Kitty’s words her hand stilled for a moment. Then she reached for the milk jug.
‘Pol?’ Kitty was puzzled at the silence.
‘Well, now.’ Pol poured the tea, straightened and handed Kitty a cup. ‘That, to be honest, is a question I was rather hopin’ wouldn’t get itself asked.’
‘Why ever not?’
Pol was looking uncommonly embarrassed. A faint flush stained her cheekbones. She perched on the edge of a chair, balancing her teacup.
‘Pol? What is it?’
‘Well, it’s like this, Kit—’ Pol hesitated, then, blushing sheepishly, blurted rapidly, ‘Barton an’ me – we’re gettin’ ’itched – an’ we reckoned as ’ow, if yer went ter Paris, well, yer could do without me fer a bit an’ we’d get some time on our own. Jus’ – well, jus’ ter sort of get used ter the idea I s’pose—’
‘Oh Pol! Pol, that’s wonderful news!’ Kitty was on her feet, flinging her arm about her friend’s neck and kissing her. ‘I’m so happy for you! When is it to be?’
‘As soon as we can. A month or so. Just somethin’ quiet—’
‘Oh, and if I go to Paris I’ll have to miss it!’ Kitty stopped, sobering. ‘But then – if I stay – I suppose you’ll be leaving anyway? How strange it will be without you!’
‘Oh, come on, now – don’t be daft. I just won’t be livin’ ’ere, that’s all. I doubt we’ll go a million miles away! Yer won’t get rid o’ me that easy! It’s just that – well, fer this summer, while y’er gone, if y’er gone, that is, it’d be nice to ’ave some time on our own, that’s all. Yer do see, don’t yer?’
‘Of course I do. Of course.’ Oddly, Kitty felt the sudden burn of tears behind her eyes. She blinked and swallowed, sat back on her heels, shaking her head. ‘And to think I didn’t know! Didn’t notice! Have I been so involved in my own affairs? Oh Pol – why didn’t you tell me?’
‘’E on’y got round ter poppin’ the question a couple o’ days since – an’, well, I bin waitin’ ter see if yer made up yer mind about Paris.’
‘You and the rest of the world.’ Paris with no Luke, no Matt – and now no Pol. A city full of strangers, and all of it to do again. Round went her thoughts in the same old circle, mice on a treadwheel.
‘I’ll make up my mind tomorrow,’ she said.
She spent the following afternoon, as she spent so many afternoons, as if afraid to waste the time that she sensed was so precious to them, with Luke in his room. He had been away, his recent plans come to fruition, and he had returned as she had seen him once or twice before, high-strung and tense; too high-spirited. He had kept up a merciless flow of acerbic conversation until they had gone to bed, had made love with a wildness that had driven her beyond reason or thought and then, naked and restless, prowled the room, a glass of brandy in his hand. Not his first, she suspected.
She watched him for a long time, saying nothing.
He wandered back at last to the bed and sat beside her, his dark hand resting upon her flat stomach.
‘The Peelers,’ he said lightly, ‘aren’t always as stupid as they look, are they?’
‘You were nearly caught.’ There was no question in the words.
He smiled, savagely and with no trace of mirth. ‘I was, as you say, nearly caught. Perish the thought.’
Her heart had taken on an odd, uneven beat, unpleasant and disturbing. She hated the look in his eyes.
‘But I wasn’t.’ His sudden compulsion to speak of it apparently deserting him, he stood up abruptly and went back to the table where the brandy bottle stood.
‘What happened?’
He raised his glass, tossed back the contents in one smooth movement. ‘Nothing. Nothing happened. I got away.’
‘One day,’ she heard herself saying softly, the unspeakable finding its voice at last, ‘you won’t. What then?’
He turned to face her. The lean, handsome lines of body and face were blurred in the dim light of a cloud-heavy, cold day. His eyes were totally shuttered. ‘That won’t happen.’
‘How can you know?’
He shrugged.
She shook her head upon the pillow.
He refilled his glass, came back to the bed, stood looking down at her.
‘Did you know,’ he asked, ‘that I once did a stretch?’ He smiled self-derisively. ‘A “tailpiece in the steel”?’
‘No.’ There was soft astonishment in the word. The thought of Luke in prison was like the thought of the wind caged.
He swirled the liquid in his glass, watching it. ‘Death couldn’t be worse,’ he said. ‘You are reduced to the level of an animal. No – it’s worse than that, for an animal doesn’t know its own degradation. No animal can be forbidden the right to communicate with its own kind, to sit, to stand, to sleep, to wake in its own time and its own manner. The first thing they do of course is to strip you – and in doing that they quite deliberately take from you everything that gives you identity, that gives you pride, that declares that you are a man as they are, God curse their souls.
‘Their aim is to make of you a thing, a nothing – they control you every moment in everything you do. You may not speak, you may not smile, you may not blow your nose or make water without their permission and under their prying eyes. You may not greet a friend. You may not look directly at them, for that is insubordination. But neither must you cast your eyes too far down, for who knows then what thoughts you might be concealing?’ He paused. She had never in her life heard such a bitterness of hatred in a voice. ‘They confine you in a cell not much bigger than this bed, they shut the door with a sound like the knell of doom, and they lock you in. On their side of that door are the punishment cells, the whipping post, the manacles and the treadwheel. The oakum to pick till your fingers bleed and rot. The stones to break till you’re crippled. The coal sacks to sew. The bread and water diet. On your side there is nothing. Nothing but enslavement and deliberately inflicted humiliation.’ He lifted his narrow eyes from their contemplation of the glass and saw the look of horror in her eyes. As if waking, he shook his head a little, turned from her, slumped forward, elbows on knees.
A helpless, impossible rise of anger and pity held her. She wrapped her fingers around his strong wrist, feeling the warmth of it, the throb of his pulse beneath the thin skin. ‘Then for God’s sake, stop it, Luke! Stop it while you can! Before you’re taken again, and this time they kill you! You’re an intelligent man – you don’t have to thieve!’
Relentlessly gentle, he disengaged his wrist from her grip. ‘You think not?’
‘No!’
‘And I say – yes! I know nothing else!’
‘Then learn! Others do—’
‘Others are not me.’
‘Oh, don’t be so pig-headedly – arrogantly – stupid!’ She turned her head from him to hide the tears. ‘It’s no good even talking to you, is it? You’ll go on and on, doing things your own way – until you’re caught and flung into one of those bloody cells you’re so afraid of—’ She stopped, herself shocked at the word she had unthinkingly used. She heard his sharp breath, saw the stiffening of his back. ‘Luke—’ Her voice was pleading. She turned back to him.
He moved away from her, his face expressionless. He stood up, heading for the bottle again. ‘I’ve told you. They won’t catch me again.’
‘I’m glad you can be so certain.’ It was her turn to be bitter.
‘God help the copper who tries to take me in,’ he said.
She stared at him. ‘You’d kill—’
He nodded.
‘—or be killed.’
‘Yes.’
A strange emptiness suddenly seemed to have dulled her emotions and stilled her tongue. She sat up and reached for her clothes.
‘You’ve always known that,’ he said, his voice hard.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose I have.’
‘You have to accept it.’
That brought her head up. ‘No, Luke. I don’t.’
She finished dressing. He pulled on trousers and a loose white shirt and returned to the bottle. Standing before the huge mirror that hung above the fireplace, she busied herself with her hair. ‘I’m thinking of having my hair cut,’ she said, simply to break the silence that had clamped suffocatingly on the room. ‘It’s such a nuisance on stage.’ And – God! she thought, I could be talking to Pol, or Amy—
‘Don’t.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll see.’
His reflection appeared, very close behind her. ‘I like it as it is.’ His breath smelled of brandy.
‘I said – I’ll see. Shoulder length it’d be a lot easier to handle.’
‘I don’t want you to cut your hair.’
She knew he was three parts drunk. She knew she should humour him. ‘It’s not up to you, Luke. It’s up to me.’
Angrily he leaned across her to put his empty glass on the mantelpiece. ‘For Christ’s sake, girl, must you make a bloody issue of every single little—?’ His forearm caught the massive mirror. It creaked ominously.
‘Luke!’ She grabbed him and pulled him back. The great mirror teetered and toppled, turning over in the air to crash on its back upon the hearthrug. The glass, still in its frame, shivered to a cobweb of broken images. They stood looking down at it for a long moment of shocked silence.
‘Seven years’ bad luck,’ she said at last, shakily, looking at his face in the silvered kaleidoscope of reflecting shards. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’
He laughed, and it grated her nerves, chilling her. ‘A glass that size? A lifetime, I’d say. At least a lifetime.’
It was evident when he came to her dressing room that night that he had been drinking steadily since the afternoon. He was dressed as he had been then, in loose white shirt open at the neck, black trousers and boots. He had never, she thought, looked so much the gypsy. Nor had she ever seen him more handsome. When he came into the room she was seated at her dressing table contemplating with an exasperated frown a small mother-of-pearl box which lay before her. He threw himself onto the day bed, stretched out his long, booted legs. In one hand he held a small silver flask. Pol scowled at him. With an undisciplined grin he reached to pat her buttocks. ‘Hello, Pol, my love – when are you going to desert that itinerant songsmith of yours and run away with me?’
‘That’ll be the day.’ Pol threw a disgusted glance at the flask.
He grinned, toasted her with it, took a swig. ‘Pol,’ he said unrepentantly to Kitty, ‘doesn’t approve of me.’
‘I’m not surprised. I’m not sure I do myself at the moment. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’
‘No.’ He smiled beatifically.
She turned from him, picked up the pretty little box. ‘Pol – do me a favour, would you? Take this down to the doorman and ask him to give it back to the Honourable What’s-his-name when he calls? I can’t possibly accept it. Flowers are one thing – but diamonds?’ She tilted the little box, peered into it a touch uncertainly. ‘I suppose they are diamonds?’
With a turn of speed that entirely belied his previous studied laziness Luke unfolded his lean frame from the day bed and was by her side, long finger touching very lightly the earrings that glittered, rainbow-brilliant, in the box. ‘They’re diamonds all right,’ he said, picking one up and holding it to the light. ‘Ye gods – Le Parisot’s going to town, isn’t he? I shouldn’t let your friend Gené see these—’
‘They aren’t from Charles.’ Kitty took the earring firmly from him and almost threw it back in the box. ‘They’re from the Honourable’ – she quirked a sharply mocking brow – ‘Ernest Belcham. His father owns half of Somerset, so he tells me. He’s a pest with more money than sense and even more self-esteem than money, and that’s saying something. He thinks he can buy anything he wants and he’s never learned to take “no” for an answer.’
Luke took the box from her, stood with it in his hand, angling it so that the stones that rested within it caught the light and sent shafts of fire flashing about the room. ‘Are you sure you want to give him “no” for an answer?’
She knew his perversity at these times. She removed the box from his fingers and snapped it shut. ‘I’m sure,’ she said, crisply. ‘Pol—’ She held the box out to Pol. Before Pol could take it the door swung open, with no knock. Framed in the opening stood a young man, foppishly dressed, a silk handkerchief drooping elegantly from his frilled cuff, a diamond pin glimmering in his matching creamy silk cravat. His soft, already thinning sandy hair fluffed above puffy, tired eyes. His mouth was that of a petulant child. He ignored both Luke and Pol.
‘Kitty—’ He stepped delicately into the room, holding out both hands to her. ‘You were divine this evening.’
‘Thank you.’ Kitty tried to temper the tartness of her tone, but she made no move to take the outstretched hands.
Luke, an astonished and entertained half-smile that Kitty very strongly mistrusted playing about his mouth, stepped to the wall and leaned there, watching, flask in hand.
‘You got the baubles I see. But – you aren’t wearing them! Naughty girl! Here, let me—’
She stepped back from him. ‘Mr Belcham,’ she said, very firmly indeed. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here – I did instruct the doorman that I was very tired tonight—’
‘And I, m’dear, instructed him that I was very rich,’ the insufferable Mr Belcham interrupted.
Kitty ploughed on, ‘—and that I wanted no visitors.’ She saw the young man’s bloodshot eyes flick for a moment to Luke. Luke smiled, pleasantly. Faint colour rose beneath the boy’s thin skin. Kitty frowned ferociously at Luke, turned back to the Honourable Ernest. ‘However, since you are here it will save Pol a journey. I was about to ask her to return these to you.’ She held out the box. ‘I really cannot possibly accept them. It’s out of the question.’
The petulant mouth pouted. He made no move at all to take the box. ‘But, dammit—’
‘But nothing, lad,’ Luke said softly. He had pushed himself away from the wall and stood, relaxed and infinitely dangerous-looking, arms folded, still smiling. ‘Do as you’re told. Take them and leave.’
Kitty spun on him. ‘Luke – please! Let me handle this!’
‘Just who is he?’ The boy’s colour was high. ‘What’s this to him?’
‘Nothing,’ Kitty said.
Luke’s smile was tranquil.
Kitty still held the box. ‘Mr Belcham’ – she made no attempt to hide her exasperation – ‘will you please take these? You must know that I can’t accept them—’
‘I know no such thing. Why, Gertrude Daley had a sapphire ring as well! Come now, Kitty, stop bein’ so tiresome. Put the damn’ things on like a good girl and come and have supper—’
She took a breath, praying for patience. ‘Mr Belcham – perhaps I should make the situation brutally clear? I don’t want the earrings. I don’t want supper. I don’t, I’m afraid, want you. So please – take your toys and run along. Perhaps,’ she added tartly, ‘if you hurry you’ll catch the end of Miss Daley’s performance. The Berkeley’s just a short cab ride from here, and they have a late performance tonight, I believe.’
‘I don’t want to see Gertie. I want to see you.’
His likeness to a spoiled child at that moment was quite remarkable. Almost it made Kitty laugh. She shook her head in amused amazement. ‘Mr Belcham—!’
‘Time,’ Luke said conversationally, ‘to put an end to this, I think.’ In two long strides he was beside the young man, towering over him, a light hand on his shoulder. ‘Out.’
The Honourable Ernest, outraged, struck at the hand that rested upon his perfectly tailored shoulder. ‘I say, Sir! Take your hands off me! Kitty – who is this bully-boy?’
‘Luke, will you please leave this to me?’ Kitty caught his arm. ‘Go home. I’ll come later.’
Luke ignored her. He had been, she realized despairingly, looking for an entertaining diversion, an outlet for his nerve-bred mischief, and here it was. ‘This bully-boy, my little maggot, my snot-nosed Little Boy Blue, is Luke Peveral.’ His voice was tolerant and friendly. ‘Remember the name – Luke – Peveral.’ He had taken the young man by his cravat, held him so, one handed, and with each word shook him, sharply, as a terrier might a rabbit.
‘Luke!’ Furiously Kitty pulled at his arm – steel-like tendons, rock-like muscles – she might have been a kitten nipping at the heels of a stallion.
‘By God, Sir, I’ll have you horsewhipped for this! See if I don’t! Let go of me—!’ The Honourable Ernest was struggling fiercely, arms flailing in ungainly fashion, fists swinging full inches from Luke’s grinning face. ‘Let go of me, I say!’
‘Only if you promise to be a good little maggot and run along home to Mummy.’
‘Luke, will you for heaven’s sake—!’
The Honourable Ernest let out a squeal of rage and lashed out with a well-shod foot, catching Luke more by accident than design a sharp crack on the shin. Taken by surprise, Luke let go of him and stepped back. The sandy-haired young man, in an ill-advised fury of temper, launched himself at Luke.
Kitty flung the box she still held to the floor, shouted like a fishwife at the top of her voice. ‘Will the pair of you stop this! Get out of here! Both of you!’
Luke met the Honourable Ernest’s senseless rush with a short, almost casual but entirely ferocious jab with his left fist. The boy shrieked and reeled back. His nose gushed blood. Luke stepped lightly after him. Once, twice, three times, his fists connected brutally with the boy’s face. The younger man staggered, making no attempt to strike back at Luke, trying only ineffectually and pathetically to protect himself from the remorseless blows. Luke slapped him, open-handed, caught him as he staggered and slapped him again.
Kitty’s temper snapped. She grabbed the first thing to hand and leapt forward, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Luke! Get back!’ The heavy candlestick she had picked up threatened him.
He grinned at her, totally impenitent, totally out of control. He let go of the younger man’s shoulder. With a groan Belcham slumped to the floor. Luke rubbed his knuckles, still grinning. The Honourable Ernest was making the odd, blubbering noise of a painfully crying child.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Keep back,’ she said to the still-poised Luke.
He held his hands above his head in a mocking gesture of surrender, stepped back against the wall.
Another knock, louder.
‘Oh, Lord, Pol – see who that is – and for God’s sake don’t let anyone—’
Too late. Tentatively the door had opened to reveal a small, dark man holding pad and pen. ‘Miss Daniels? I’m from the Daily’ – he stopped, the smile sliding from his face, interested eyes taking in every detail of the scene – ‘Argus—’ he finished. ‘And I see you are already engaged. So sorry to have troubled you—’ His quick black eyes were everywhere, taking in every detail. ‘I’ll come back some other – more convenient – time—’
Kitty lowered the candlestick. ‘Wait!’
But he was gone.
Luke threw back his head and laughed.
Kitty bent to pick up the mother-of-pearl box, all but hurled it at the Honourable Ernest. ‘Take them. And please leave. As I earlier asked you to.’
The boy scrambled awkwardly to his feet, sobbing. One eye was closing, blood was everywhere. ‘I’ll have the law on you!’ He retreated from Luke, his limbs shaking. Tears were streaming down his face, mingling with the blood that smeared his skin and flecked his handsome clothes. ‘I’ll see you punished! I’ll see you hanged! I have friends! Influential friends!’
Luke smiled derisively, reached into his pocket for his flask, tilted and drained it.
Still sobbing, the beaten man left. Kitty held the door open, making a small sign to Pol. Pol’s mouth set stubbornly. ‘Yer needn’t think I’m leavin’ yer with this drunken—’
‘Please, Pol, go.’
Reluctantly, Pol left. Kitty leaned against the closed door and looked at Luke. ‘You despicable bully,’ she said, quietly. ‘Is violence your answer to everything?’
The smile flickered from his face, but he said nothing.
‘You’re brutal and you’re cruel,’ she said, very clearly. ‘You’re self-centred and self-indulgent. You’re arrogant. A barbarian. Your answer to everything is to lash out at someone weaker than yourself. You coward. I pray some day you’ll find a man who can stand up to you. Who’ll beat you to a pulp. You deserve it. But at least, thank God, I won’t be there to see it.’
A pulse was beating rapidly in his jaw. His dark eyes had narrowed to fierce slits, glinting danger. She – miserably, intolerably angry – was beyond fear.
He stepped forward. Murderous anger, drink-fuelled, burned in his face. She had no chance to avoid the crashing, back-handed blow that sent her reeling across the room to smash painfully into the wall. She tasted blood. He came after her in brutal rage, hauling her upright, shaking her with a violence that threatened to break bones. For a moment, in real terror, she struggled. Then he let her go. She stumbled, righted herself, supporting herself against the wall. They stared at each other in numbed silence. Then ‘Get out!’ she said. ‘Get out!’
He slammed past her, nearly knocking her off her feet, crashed the door almost from its hinges. She stood in the silence that followed his leaving, very still, trembling, fighting collapse. She felt the trickle of blood upon her chin. She touched it with her finger, looked bemusedly at the scarlet stain. Shakily she moved to a chair, sat down. Her head rang with pain and with the echoes of his awful violence. Slowly she bowed her head, burying her face in her hands, the tears flowing uncontrollably. For a long time she sat so, crying desolately, weeping for herself, weeping for Luke, weeping for the precious thing he had finally and utterly destroyed. She heard the door open, sensed Pol’s presence, felt a hand softly on her shoulder. Still crying, she leaned on the girl’s soft body, her arm about her waist, sobbing as if her heart would break. Pol held her, rocking her, wordless. The storm passed at last. Kitty, sniffing, groped for a handkerchief, mopped at her face, her breath catching frequently and painfully in her throat.
‘Bastard,’ was all Pol said, but the tone of her voice grated in Kitty’s ears. Then, ‘Feelin’ better?’ she asked.
Kitty nodded, shakily.
‘Could you manage a cup o’ tea?’
‘Oh, yes. Please.’
After Pol had left Kitty examined the wreckage of her face in the mirror, gingerly touching her swollen, bleeding lip. Her head ached terribly and try as she might she could not control her trembling. She looked awful. On the floor still lay the candlestick with which she had threatened Luke. As she bent to pick it up the tangle of her hair fell across her face. She sat up, straightened her back, pushing the long hair out of her eyes. She sniffed, dashed her hand across her bloody mouth. She’d get her hair cut. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Some time, anyway – before she left for Paris.