Although Alain St Clair proved to speak English as faultlessly as his grandson, in deference to his years they spoke French during the meal, and after Elizabeth had conquered her embarrassment and firmly thrust her guilt to the back of her mind she actually enjoyed herself. The old man knew more about rare books than anyone she had ever met, including her uncles, and his conversation was sharp—witty, arrogant and very opinionated in his beliefs, drawing her out into the kind of furious debate that revealed the fiery emotionalism she usually eschewed.
Elizabeth had no difficulty at all in imagining him and Uncle Miles and Uncle Seymour in a huddle over their port and brandy, three eccentric old men like witches around a brew, debating books and the sad decline of the world from the standards of their youth, heads filled with over two hundred years of combined life-experience coming to the certain conclusion that the modern generation were leading the world to rack and ruin by ignoring the shining wisdom of their elders and betters.
Dinner had begun at an elegantly late hour and it was after eleven when Alain St Clair rose, looking much less robust than he had earlier, and he didn’t demur when Jack firmly suggested that he forgo his usual port and forbidden cigar before bed.
'No doubt I shall be seeing much of you now that you have finally found your way here,' he murmured obscurely to Elizabeth as he bent creakingly over her hand. He addressed himself to his grandson. 'Now, mon petit-fils, you will help me up to my room. I do not wish to disturb Andre this late and, besides, it is necessary for me to have a few words with you before you retire.'
With a silent gesture that she interpreted as a request for her to wait for his return, Jack assisted his grandfather from the room and Elizabeth was left with only her half-empty coffee-cup and the discreet whispers of the servants removing the debris of the meal. After they had gone she sat in exquisite isolation and listened to the measured tick of the ornate clock on the marble mantelpiece above a fireplace that was surely only ornamental in the sub-tropics.
She sat for so long that she began to imagine that the shadows in the corners of the chandelier-lit room were moving. She tapped her fingers uneasily on the arm of the chair. She finished her wine and put the wine glass down on the pristine table, rising restlessly to her feet and pacing the room.
She had come to a decision. Thankfully tonight had proved to her complete satisfaction that Alain St Clair was not the sternly self-righteous ogre conjured up by her guilt-ridden imagination. Her fear that he would immediately demand the arrest and prosecution of her uncles was groundless, as was the anxiety that his heart might not be equal to so great a shock. Judging from his cynicism at dinner, Alain St Clair was virtually un-shockable, and he had revealed a mistrust of authority, born in the war, which extended to all representatives of officialdom. If there was punishment or revenge to be administered he would, like Jack, be far more likely to take care of it himself than brook outside interference into his private affairs.
However, she didn’t think that the Alain St Clair she had met tonight would think in terms of punishment when she handed back his property and questioned the inexplicable mix-up in shipping which Uncle Seymour had sadly taken temporary advantage of. With his depth of human understanding, coupled with a devilishly ironic sense of humour, Monsieur St Clair would probably find the whole sorry episode amusing once he knew that he had suffered no lasting loss.
And Jack? Her heart was foolishly optimistic.
He would be relieved, wouldn’t he, that the 'deeper game' she had been playing had been nothing more than an honest desire to right a wrong? And no doubt order a complete inventory of the chateau's contents to make sure that no other careless breaches of security had occurred—if that was indeed what had happened.
That wouldn’t be his first reaction, of course. She knew what that would be. She had already learned how volatile he could be under that ultra-disciplined façade. Coward that she was, she thought she would ask his grandfather to explain everything while she stayed discreetly out of the way, until the dust had settled sufficiently for him to listen to reason.
Suddenly the doors to the dining-room burst open, slamming back against the pale walls, and Jack strode in, in the grip of a magnificent fury.
'So! You beautiful, conniving bitch! You are a thief, nothing but a common thief!'
He grabbed her, slamming her bottom against the bevelled edge of the table as he arched her back until her expression of wide-eyed horror was starkly illuminated by the pool of light cast by the central stem of the chandelier.
'You do well to look terrified, chérie,' he snarled as his hands wrapped with loving violence around her throat, his eyes silver daggers that slashed her with razor-sharp contempt, 'because I am very close to giving in to my most primitive instincts! You played me well, didn’t you, you—?' He used a French obscenity that made her blanch.
'To appear so inept at deception when you are really so incredibly skilful,' he sneered, 'so vulnerable when you are as hardened as an old whore. And that is all you are to me, chérie, a lying, cheating whore. In spite of all my suspicions I actually had faith in your nonexistent integrity!' He laughed rawly, in sa
vage self-derision . 'How arrogant I was, when all you were doing was using me for access to a bigger bounty—I suppose you would have whored with my grandfather, too, if he had proved himself as gullible as I!
'But you won’t get away with it, you treacherous bitch, so you may as well tell me what you have done with it—tell me what you have done with La Flèche de St Clair?’
CHAPTER TEN
'LA FLÈCHE DE ST CLAIR? The arrow? What arrow?'
Her strained whisper seemed to fan his white-hot rage. He applied an even greater pressure to her throat, forcing her flat against the table as he loomed over her.
'The necklace, Beth, as if you didn’t know! And don’t try that dewy-eyed look of bewilderment on me because it won’t work any more. It's a lie—and this is the truth!'
'This' was a crashing blow against the table beside her head that vibrated her skull against the wood. The hand that encircled her throat closed on her jaw and wrenched her head roughly sideways so that she was forced to confront the cut-out pages of the shabby book as he fanned them furiously bare inches from her cringing nose.
'Where is it, Beth?' he demanded savagely.
‘If you'll just let me up I'll tell you,' she choked, trying to marshal her shattered courage. ‘I can explain everything—'
‘I’m sure you can, you little liar!' He jerked her head back again and thrust his grim face close to hers, speaking swiftly and with a lethal softness. 'But there is no explanation that can excuse this—violation! If you knew about La Flèche, then you knew that you were stealing the one prize that my grandfather managed to hide from the Nazis when they tried to wipe the St Clairs from the face of the earth.
'That necklace was made for my family in the seventeenth century— La Flèche is our sole connection with the past... our hope for the future! It means something to this family. The only way you could fence so unique a necklace is to break it up and sell the pieces, but of course that probably wouldn’t bother you! Or were you planning to ransom it back to the insurance company—?'
'Jack, please—I wasn’t trying to steal anything—'
She stopped as he shifted his hand back to her throat, choking off the words.
'Lying slut. I found this in your room, along with the rest of your cache!' From lightning-softness to cracking thunder! Elizabeth's burning ears rang with the ugly accusation. 'No wonder you jumped when I walked in on you in the library this morning! I must have nearly caught you in the act!' He slammed the table again, punctuating his furious self-contempt. ‘I knew you were hiding something, I knew it! But, God forgive me for being a fool, I thought it was something innocent—'