The Velvet Touch Read online

  Laurel was silent, and he went on: 'Who knows? I may even return to find that Carlota has seized the opportunity to return to her forbidden amour. I should not care to be responsible for providing that excuse.'

  'Yes, I see. It's quite a problem, if she is as self-willed as you say,' Laurel said slowly. 'But do you think the presence of strangers will make any difference?'

  'Oh, yes. The presence of guests, with the necessity of her taking the strain of a hostess's duties from my grandmother's shoulders, will compel her to remain. So please, seňorita, consider the matter. Your acceptance of my invitation will solve both problems. And remember, if you decline, Renaldo must be removed immediately from his post. I will not permit him to remain there near a young girl as impressionable as your charge appears to be, and certainly not near one as rudely abused as yourself. But this will sadly inconvenience Seňora Alien, and a replacement in her staff may be difficult to arrange at this particular time.'

  'Would it?' Laurel was not entirely convinced. 'I shouldn't have thought so.'

  'You do not know my island, nor its labour resources; still less the capabilities of those resources. Therefore you will permit me to deal with these matters as I think fit.'

  'Of course, seňor,' she said hastily, 'but there is the financial side to consider. I don't know what to do about that— I mean, we've already paid for our accommodation, at least part of it, and what about Mrs Allen? It's not fair that she should lose out over this.'

  He shocked her by laughing out loud. 'Mrs Allen will not lose by it, nor will you, my obstinate little inglesa. And I will feel a great deal happier to know that you are safely in my care. For, if you will forgive me saying so, I fear you are somewhat accident-prone, and goodness knows what else may happen to you before your stay on Destino reaches its close.'

  Laurel bit back an indignant retort; accident-prone indeed! But the time for anger was over; he seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare and very generous with his offer of hospitality—even though he had been frank about the reason for it and that it would suit his own purpose. But she did not know what to say. The last thing she had expected was an invitation to stay at the castillo.

  Aware that he was waiting, she said at last, 'This is all very kind of you, seňor, and I am already indebted to you, but surely it is not necessary that you should feel bound to assume responsibility for two strangers. And as far as your cousin is concerned, well,' she hesitated awkwardly, 'we would be delighted to meet her and— and help in any way we can to prevent her from feeling lonely.'

  'Seňorita!' He slewed round to face her, and all the disarming charm of a few moments ago had vanished. Once again those dark eyes glittered with anger. 'I believe I have already disclaimed all knowledge of any debt. But it seems you are not convinced! Or is it merely that the English must for ever protest, lest something be proffered from empty politeness?'

  'No, of course not!.' Laurel recoiled from the aura of sheer power this man could exude. 'Please don't think I—'

  'Listen to me, seňorita. We too have our set of social mores. As we left my home I might have said to you: Ya sabe usted donde tiene su casa! Not to do so could cause affront to a guest used to our formalities. But tell me, seňorita, where during our discussions this night have I ever conveyed a sense of mere empty pleasantries not worth the breath expended upon them?'

  Laurel restrained a gasp of dismay. Could she never say the right thing? She looked at him wearily and shook her head. 'No, seňor, never. Oh, try to understand. It's true—we do protest from a sense of politeness. And I do know of the pleasantry about taking possession of your home, which surely answers the question. I have to make sure I do not presume too much.' She sighed and looked down at her hands, trying to still their nervous movements. 'But it seems I only succeed in offending you, seňor, which is the last thing I wish to do.'

  There was a small silence. Then he reached over and touched her hand. 'I think in my heart I am aware of that. And now I have detained you quite long enough. Tomorrow I will call upon you and all will be resolved.'

  He raised her hand and touched his lips to it, and Laurel wondered if she were dreaming. Less than half an hour since he kissed her in violent anger and taunted her for the conventional reactions; now he was utterly formal, quickly leaving the car and handing her out, escorting her to the shadowed entrance and making a brief mocking salute with a whispered 'Adios—we must not disturb the sleeping colonels!' and then slipping back into the darkness.

  Laurel listened to the fading sounds of the car before she let herself quietly into the silent house. Suddenly she was aware of a distinct shakiness and a feeling of lightheaded unreality. It seemed aeons since this morning when she had set out to explore the island. The Conde had been only a name then; now he seemed to have filled her entire horizon… Unless it had all been a dream…

  'Laurel! Where have you been?'

  Yvonne sped down from the shadows under the dim light that burned all night on the staircase. Her face was white with strain, and almost accusing as she reached the hall and faced Laurel.

  'I've just about been out of my mind! Who was that? I saw the car and thought…' She did not give Laurel time to reply and held out her hand. 'Did you get it?'

  For a moment Laurel stared blankly at her, then almost hysterical mirth came as she remembered. The ring! The cause of all the trouble.

  The Conde still had the ring.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  'Did he say definitely what time he would call?'

  'No.' Laurel replaced the cap on her toothpaste tube and ran water into the washbasin. 'He simply said he would call tomorrow—that's today,' she added with a trace of tiredness.

  'But what if he doesn't?' Yvonne inspected her eyelashes, then pouted into the mirror. 'What if I don't get that ring back? Honestly, Laurie, you're the limit. I can't think how you could forget to ask for it.'

  'Because I'd had enough to cope with for one day.' Laurel lost patience as she groped for the towel. I'd had one row with him, and then… All I wanted was to get back here. Fending off your Lothario wasn't exactly a picnic.'

  'I say!' Yvonne forgot her grievance for a moment and a gleam came into her eyes. 'Was it true? Did he really?'

  'Really what? Rape me?'

  'Yes—well, if what's-his-name had to rescue you…'

  'He had a jolly good try,' Laurel said dryly. 'Just make sure you keep out of Renaldo's way in future.'

  'Golly!' Yvonne's eyes rounded. 'I wasn't sure whether you were having me on or not last night. But you must have led him on a bit.'

  'I did not lead him on,' Laurel said bitterly, turning away to drape the towel over the rail.

  Yvonne waited, then said hopefully, 'Aren't you going to tell me?'

  'I told you last night.'

  'You didn't! Not properly.'

  'If you're after salacious details you won't get them from me,' Laurel said flatly. 'I want to forget the whole unpleasant business.'

  'Oh, you are mean!' Yvonne pouted again. Then her eyes brightened dreamily. 'All the same, it must have been exciting—being rescued at midnight by a stranger, a real Spanish count, on a great black horse, and carried off to his castle.' She sighed. 'Some people have all the luck!'

  'It was luck—and excitement— I could well have done without,' Laurel said tartly. Refusing to be drawn into any further appeasement of Yvonne's curiosity, she began to dress. The shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the strain of the previous day and the night's lack of sleep, for it had been well after two before Yvonne allowed her to settle down, and by then she was in that highly strung state when sleep becomes unattainable. The events of the day, culminating in the disastrous encounter with Renaldo followed by its unexpected sequel, had chased through her mind like a feverish dream. She had tossed and turned, and the last time she had looked despairingly at the little glowing dial of her watch it had said ten past five. After that, she had at last drifted into a heavy sleep from which she was awakened, anything but refreshed, by th
e little maid bringing in the morning cup of tea. Now, rein the bright clear light of morning, it all seemed like a dream, the most disturbing, exhausting dream of all time. But Yvonne had no intention of allowing dreams to fade.

  All through breakfast she persisted with questions.

  'Are we really going to stay at the castillo?'

  'I don't know.'

  'But if he's invited us…'

  'I don't know if we'd be wise to accept.'

  'But why not? I want to! I think it's a super idea.' Yvonne leaned eagerly across the table. 'You still haven't told me what he's like. Is he young?'

  'I didn't ask him his age,' Laurel snapped, then instantly repented as Yvonne looked hurt. 'I should imagine he's somewhere in his early thirties. He's not a youth like Renaldo.'

  'Oh.' Yvonne wrinkled her nose. 'He's older. Is he good to look at? You know, warm and dark and sort of velvety, like Renaldo?'

  'I wouldn't describe him in the same breath.' Laurel's mouth tightened. She supposed the Conde was an extremely handsome man, if one liked his particularly dangerous kind of looks. And as for comparing him to Renaldo… it was like comparing a ran-tan young alley torn with a pure-bred tiger; a tiger in velvet… Suddenly she felt a strange reluctance to start trying to describe his physical characteristics to the avid Yvonne. She could not trust herself to remain completely cool and apparently indifferent. 'There's no comparison,' she said tersely. 'Anyway, you'll probably see for yourself soon.'

  'I've always wanted to stay in a castle,' Yvonne murmured dreamily, then remembered something. She looked up sharply. 'Hey, you said something about having a row with him. When? What for?'

  Laurel bitterly regretted her careless tongue. She had no intention of enlightening Yvonne about that fiery exchange in the sala of the Castillo last night, and even less of confiding the sorry little tale of her first, mortifying encounter with the autocrat of Destino. She said evenly, 'I was exaggerating a bit. Like you, the Conde seemed to imagine that I must have given Renaldo some encouragement. So I had to disabuse him of that notion. I don't think he's used to being answered back,' she added wryly.

  'Was that all?'

  'I think it was enough.' Laurel decided it was high time the subject was changed. 'Are you feeling better this morning?'

  'Me? Oh, yes, I'm fine now.' Yvonne appeared to have forgotten her indisposition of the previous evening. 'Do I look all right?'

  'Perfect!' Laurel responded instantly to the anxiety in the younger girl's expression. She smiled ruefully. 'If I felt half as good as you look at the moment I'd be quite content.'

  Yvonne looked surprised. 'But you always look super, Laurie. Sort of cool and beautiful and serene. I've always wished I could look like that,' she said in one of her endearing moments of candidness, 'but it never works out right for me.'

  It was Laurel's turn to betray surprise. The unexpected compliment was heartwarming. She said gently, 'You have no cause for worry on that score, Yvonne. You've plenty of appeal of your own. When you are a little older and have learned to exploit your full potential you'll never need to envy other girls. They'll envy you.'

  'Will they really?'

  'They most certainly will.' Laurel finished her coffee and smiled. 'I'm going to laze in the garden for a while. What are you going to do?'

  'Laze with you—and wait for the king of the castle. I'm longing to see him.'

  In this new mood of rapport the two girls took their books and sun-glasses out into the morning sunshine. But Yvonne's longing was not to be fulfilled. There was no summons before lunch time, and after lunch she began to fret again about the missing ring. All Laurel's assurances that the ring would be perfectly safe failed to banish the anxious cloud from Yvonne's brow, and at last she had to promise that they would walk up to the castillo that evening, should the Conde not have fulfilled his promise before then.

  After lunch the terrace soon echoed gently to the snores of Colonel Carlton and Mr Binkley. Mrs Carlton and Mrs Binkley were discussing crochet patterns, and Mr Jamieson, in a pair of very baggy khaki shorts which by the kindest of criterions hardly enhanced his large paunch and pallid matchstick legs, was practising swings with an imaginary club and bemoaning the lack of golfing facilities on Destino.

  'He's off again,' groaned Yvonne under her breath. 'Why doesn't he go to Gleneagles? Laurie, will you stay? Even if I miss him I can't face an afternoon of this.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'The beach—there might be somebody there. I won't be long.'

  She loped away, lithe and slender in brief scarlet shorts and a tiny cheesecloth smock dotted with blue florets, and Mr Jamieson paused to watch her with an old man's shameless eyes. Laurel sighed as she turned away, hoping there wouldn't be anyone on the beach, at least anyone like Renaldo! But what could she do? She couldn't keep tabs on Yvonne every minute of the day, even if she wished to, for it was no more pleasant being gaoler than captive. Perhaps the Conde was right; the castillo was the best place for Yvonne, if not herself. There, Yvonne would be more likely to be on her best behaviour, as the idea seemed to have caught her interest, and if Carlota proved amenable there was the possibility of a new friendship which might help to alleviate Yvonne's scarcely contained boredom. In her heart Laurel could not blame the younger girl for feeling as she did. At present the island, lovely as it was, belonged strictly to its own people. They welcomed visitors—provided those visitors accepted Destino and its unchanging tradition on its own terms. For someone like Yvonne a holiday there could seem a very tame affair indeed. Suddenly she found herself hoping that the Conde's invitation had not been an idle one and that he would remember his promise to call…

  With the intention of collecting her writing case from their room and then seeking the side terrace, where it would be cooler and shaded, Laurel entered the house and immediately encountered Miss Jessops.

  The gentle, lonely little woman always sparked a feeling of compassion in Laurel and she paused to exchange pleasantries before going upstairs. When she returned Miss Jessops was still there, poring over the view postcards displayed in a rack near the reception desk. She blinked nervously at Laurel.

  'I still forget about this siesta time. Do you think it'll be all right if I help myself to a few cards—I don't want to disturb Mrs Allen?'

  Laurel smiled. 'I'm sure it'll be all right. I'm choosing a couple and I think I'll just leave the money in this bowl.'

  Miss Jessops did the same, and it was inevitable that she should follow Laurel out to the terrace where the wide awning deflected the direct heat of the sun and let the light breeze be pleasantly cool.

  Miss Jessops said suddenly, 'Has your friend deserted you?'

  'Oh—' Laurel glanced up—'just for a while. She's gone down to the beach.'

  Miss Jessops nodded. 'I'm afraid she's finding us dull company. It's natural, I suppose. All the same,' she sighed and gave a rueful smile, 'it amuses me sometimes the way the youngsters today seem to imagine we never lived. Emmie and I used to have such fun. I'll never forget the Boat Race Night when Reggie threw Freddie into the fountain. He was a devil! Emmie could have married him, but she didn't love him. Then she went crazy over a young Frenchman we met in Nice. He and his friend followed us for miles, simply miles, along the Promenade des Anglais, and we were trying to pretend they weren't there. Because of course in those days it was considered quite daring for nice girls to allow themselves to be picked up. Emmie's mother would have been shocked to the core if she'd ever found out. Oh, that was a wonderful holiday…' Miss Jessops sighed deeply. 'It was the year the war broke out, and afterwards it was never quite the same. Freddie never came back. We were going to be married on his next leave, and then… he never came back from Dunkirk.'

  'I'm sorry,' murmured Laurel.

  'It was like the end of the world; except that I had to go on living…'

  A bee drowsed lazily in the blossoms near where Laurel sat, drugged with nectar and the sun, and an unseen bird rustled and twittered among th
e creepers while Miss Jessops plucked the memories of bygone years and peopled the terrace with the ghosts from her past, some sad, some happy, but strangely evocative. Until she stopped, her eyes clouding with guilt.

  'My dear, I must be boring you to extinction. Forgive me.'

  'There's nothing to forgive. And I'm certainly not bored.' Laurel was being perfectly truthful. Miss Jessops had a beautifully modulated diction and also the raconteur's gift for selecting the more telling items from her far from dull life, once she was given a willing listener, and somehow she brought to life the essence of a decade that began a turning point in history.

  'You are too accommodating, my dear! I'm not going to say another word!'

  Miss Jessops applied herself to the writing of her cards, and for a little while there was silence, until the others began to drift round from the garden. It was getting near to four, and Mrs Allen kept true to the tradition of afternoon tea for those of her guests who wished it, invariably serving it on the side terrace.

  Somewhat to Laurel's surprise Yvonne landed back just as the trolley was being wheeled through the dining room towards the sliding doors that gave out on to the terrace.

  She plumped herself down into a chair and fanned herself, pulling a meaning grimace at Laurel. Tactfully, Laurel ignored it, and Miss Jessops enquired innocently if Yvonne had had a nice afternoon.

  'You're joking!' Yvonne heaved a sigh of disgust, and Miss Jessops, with a sympathetic smile at the girl, rose to go towards the far end of the terrace, where the tea trolley now stood.

  It was the custom for the guests to help themselves to the dainty sandwiches, tiny scones and little cakes which Mrs Allen herself baked freshly each day, and which vanished remarkably quickly in spite of the show of languid reluctance with which the guests gathered round the trolley to select their fancy.

  'Just look at them,' said Yvonne. 'They positively live from one meal to the next in this place. But of course they haven't much else to live for, poor dears.'