No Just Cause Read online

  “But that is quite all right, my dear James,” the widow assured him in those dulcet tones of hers. “I was not expected, and naturally I cannot expect to be received as if my arrival was anticipated. You must put me anywhere. I shall not mind, I assure you! You once told me of some special suite of rooms your father had prepared for a lady he was to marry, but that, no doubt, has already been assigned to your little Miss Sterne...” She glanced under her fluttering eyelashes at Carole. “Since she has here a role to fill at the moment!” she added.

  Carole and Mrs. Bennett both spoke at the same time.

  “You can have my room—” Carole began; and the housekeeper said doubtfully, with her eyes on the exquisite Frenchwoman who would have fitted so beautifully into her favourite White Suite, that there was the Orchid Room, which had been recently redecorated, and which could be got ready in a matter of less than a quarter of an hour. But the adjoining bathroom was rather small, and there was no dressing-room.

  On the whole, it might be better if the Comte allowed Madame St. Clair to occupy the Rose Room, which had been got ready for him, and his things could be conveyed to the Orchid Room ... which, apparently, was not as delectable as it sounded—by comparison, of course, with the White Suite.

  Carole spoke up again, and more clearly this time. “I think Madame St. Clair should have the White Suite, particularly if she has heard about it and was no doubt looking forward to occupying it. I shall be perfectly happy put somewhere else.”

  Madame St. Clair smiled slowly, and still with her eyes partially screened by her lashes. But James—who still permitted her, however, to cling on to his arm—replied sharply:

  “Don’t be silly, Carole. We are not about to indulge in a sort of musical chairs where the bedrooms are concerned. There are plenty of bedrooms at Ferne Abbey, and Mrs. Bennett must make up her own mind about where to put Madame St. Clair. In the meantime I suggest that we go into the drawing room for a drink.”

  Drinks were usually served in the hall or the library, but today—no doubt because Chantal had arrived to swell their numbers—the tray was carried to the long drawing-room, that had a peerless view through its open windows of the gardens that were a blaze of beauty under the hot summer sky. Chantal removed her hat and roamed round the room, picking up priceless ornaments and examining them with the utmost interest, lapsing into French and excitedly discussing the beauties of the hand-woven carpet and the silk tapestries that lined the walls. She even went so far as to examine very closely the material of which the curtains were made, holding it between her white fingers and stroking it lovingly, declaring it was so beautiful it took her breath away. Carole could almost see her working out in her head how much a pair of console tables with silver-gilt legs would fetch in an auction-room; and she went into such ecstasies over a Charles the Second lacquer cabinet mounted on a solid silver base that the girl who might have married James because of her—and, because of her, had refused to marry him—was profoundly shocked.

  For although it was quite possible she was in love with James—in her volatile French fashion—there was no doubt about it, she was prepared to fall rapturously in love with James’s possessions.

  She must have known for some time that he was a rich man; but now she could see for herself that he was very rich, and his background would provide her with entirely the right setting for one who was as beautiful as she was.

  Already, as she walked about the room, arriving at a rough estimate of the value of its contents as she did so, she saw herself as the mistress there, queening it as only she could queen it, remoulding the servants to her own wishes, perhaps altering a great many things in order to satisfy her own taste.

  And James, who went through the ritual of pouring pre-lunch aperitifs for them all, was already thawing towards her ... Carole could tell that. He still frowned rather noticeably, and his eyes were not entirely satisfied, but they wandered often in the direction of Chantal as she roamed about the room, and while Armand and Marty and Carole talked he went over to her and they stood together in the opening of the french windows, looking out across the sunbathed lawns.

  She looked up into his face and her great dark eyes spoke to him. No doubt she also said something to him, softly, in an undertone ... But he accompanied her out on to the terrace, and while listening to Armand and trying to pretend an interest in the details of the expedition he was planning to somewhere that sounded horribly grim and isolated and cut off from the ordinary essentials of civilised life Carole could not fail to observe what a graceful picture they made as they stood posed at the head of a short flight of steps, with a riot of crimson petals dripping upon them from a stone urn.

  They descended the steps, and after a single moment of hesitation, during which James glanced back at the house, they strolled away across the magnificent stretch of Cumberland turf that was the central lawn; and, inevitably, Madame St. Clair slid her hand inside the man’s arm and clung to it.

  Marty, looking unusually agitated, apologised for leaving Carole and the Comte alone together, but said she simply must rush away and interview the cook, just in case she had not made sufficient provision for the midday meal and an extra guest. And as soon as they were alone Carole became aware that Armand was regarding her almost hopefully, and his attractive brown eyes had a warmth and a friendliness in them that was a little embarrassing ... particularly as she had not the least idea why that hopeful expression had appeared the instant Marty had taken her departure.

  “Mademoiselle,” he began. And then he obviously decided that was much too formal. “Carole...” The way he uttered her name, it sounded like a caress. “I hope you didn’t object to my sending you roses?”

  “Of course not.” Hurriedly she recalled that she had not actually acknowledged them. “It was most kind of you.”

  “To me you have so much in common with a white rose that there was no other flower I could send you.” There was no doubt about the warmth in his eyes. It was increasing moment by moment. “Red roses, in any case, would have been quite unsuitable in the circumstances. But one day I shall almost certainly send you red roses!”

  “Oh!”

  Carole wished that Marty would return, or the other two decide they had had enough of strolling about the lawn, for it seemed to her that the Comte was deluding himself about something that was obviously important to him. He even moved closer to her and looked long and ardently into her eyes. “That night we met ... to me it was like coming unexpectedly upon a very rare treasure, and feeling elated as a result. You know that I spend half my life roaming about the world looking for treasures ... the kind that later will be housed in museums. But when I met you it was far more personal, far more exciting, for not merely were my eyes enchanted but, long before the evening was over, I became convinced that we speak the same language. And I am not, of course, referring to the fact that you are English and I am French, but we nevertheless know enough of each other’s languages to be able to carry on a rational conversation,” with a slight, crooked, attractive smile that revealed his excellent white teeth.

  Carole hardly knew what to say, so she said the first thing that sounded relevant.

  “I’m afraid my French is not nearly as good as your English, Monsieur le Comte. I think you speak English beautifully, quite faultlessly.”

  But he frowned instantly.

  “That is not what I meant. I meant that even if you had been born a Hottentot and I Chinese we would still have had the power to communicate with one another even if we were both bereft of speech. By that I mean that instinctively I knew that we had the same interests, that we reacted in precisely the same way, and therefore would understand one another ... always. And please, I beg of you, do not call me Monsieur le Comte. To you I must be Armand! Just as I hope you will allow me to call you Carole.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  “Then, Carole,” putting out a hand and resting it lightly on her shoulder, “please make it clear to me that this engagement o
f yours ... this farce you and James Pentallon have entered into together—for a reason that I understand, although I don’t entirely approve—will not continue for very much longer? Marty seemed to have no real idea when it would end, but I must know!”

  “Marty?” Carole literally stared at him. “But you don’t mean to tell me that Marty has given away her brother’s secret?”

  He nodded gravely.

  “Before you left Paris she hinted something, and then she telephoned me at my apartment. She explained the situation—which, I admit, had considerably confounded me—and issued to me the invitation which brought me here. Without the knowledge that I was not working you any harm I would never have allowed Chantal to accompany me; and indeed, I suggested to her that she accompany me. For you cannot go on pretending to be James’s fiancée any longer! It is basely unfair to you, unfair to Chantal, and unfair to me!”

  “Unfair to you?” Carole echoed him, weakly. She found it hard to believe that Marty—Marty, of all people!—had let her brother down.

  “Does that seem to you so very strange?” There was a faint note of reproach in his voice, and a glimmer of it in his eyes, too, as he replied. “Haven’t I just admitted that that night we met was a kind of red-letter night to me ... And to you I was hoping that it might have meant something too!” with even more reproach in his voice.

  She moved away from him and started picking up books and papers and magazines and setting them down again. Under the influence of unusual agitation, and much perturbation, she even started shaking up the cushions on the settees.

  “Monsieur le Comte—”

  “Armand!” he commanded.

  “I don’t know what Marty has said to you, but at the moment—at the moment I am engaged to Mr. Pentallon—to James!” Before the shattered look on his face, and the linking of his slim dark brows, she felt that she was stumbling head-on into a quagmire. “I don’t deny that it’s an arrangement... that’s to say, it isn’t really true—”

  He uttered an exclamation that was so filled with relief that she knew she had said the wrong thing.

  “Then I can breathe again, and the arrangement must be terminated at once!”

  She shook her head at him.

  “It isn’t as simple as that,” she pointed out. “The servants here—even the vicar—believe that I am James’s fiancée. That much, I’ll admit, is accidental, because we did intend to end matters once we got to Ferne Abbey. In Paris it was different. James simply wanted to—to deceive someone...”

  “Chantal,” with an air of scorn.

  Curiously enough, that filled her with indignation on James’s behalf.

  “Madame St. Clair was making herself a nuisance.” she declared, with unusual heat. “James couldn’t get away from her, and even Marty knew that she was trying to trap him into marriage, so—so I agreed to the deception that really hurt no one.”

  “Except Chantal and myself,” he pointed out grimly. “And,” he added, “yourself!”

  “It hasn’t really hurt me.”

  Surprise and disappointment flashed into his face.

  “I don’t understand you, Carole,” he admitted. “It is well-nigh impossible to believe that an English girl like you would allow herself to be used ... and it does little for James’s credit, either. Far from trying to trap him into marriage, Chantal has every reason to expect marriage from James. For months he has been paying her the most marked attention, and the fact that she is a widow doesn’t excuse him if he was not serious. Young men like James, to whom life is a game, must not be allowed to get away with everything. Just because they are wealthy, of excellent family, and with a lot of friends ... There is all the more reason why they should treat others with respect. And James is treating neither you nor Madame St. Clair with respect.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting that, since you’ve come here to stay, he is your host?” Carole demanded on the same note of indignation, although his words had underlined so much that she herself had been thinking in the past few days that it was difficult to maintain the attitude she had taken up.

  And outside on the lawn James and the lovely French widow were still indulging in a very private form of conversation. Indeed, even as she turned to look through the window at them Carole saw them disappear into the shrubbery, and that meant the conversation was probably getting very personal.

  The Comte shook his head at her rather sadly.

  “My dear,” he said gently, “I am forgetting nothing. And it is not my practice to behave badly to my host. But James isn’t at all pleased that I have come here, and therefore he is an unwilling host ... and the only reason I have come here is because of you!” He went up to her again and took her hands. “Carole, James is a fascinating young man who looks upon love as a form of entertainment, and if Chantal seems to you a little pushing, a little unfeminine, it is because she has every reason to feel hurt, and she is not going to allow herself to be badly hurt. Every one of our friends—including Sir Darrel and Lady Bream—have expected the announcement of Chantal’s engagement to James for a long time. It is something that has been awaited ... And I’m afraid I must make you aware of the fact that the announcement of your engagement to James has created a storm of speculation in Paris. Quite honestly, it took everyone by surprise.”

  “Why?” Carole whispered, feeling as if her lips had grown suddenly stiff. “Because they considered that I’m unsuitable?”

  “No, of course not.” He patted her shoulder gently. “But you are not James’s type. You are very far from being James’s type! If he ever marries—and I hope very much that he will marry Chantal—then it will almost certainly be someone like her, even if it is not her. For she is James’s type.”

  “I see,” Carole said, and her voice was very flat. She spoke again a moment later. “Do you think he is in love with her?”

  “In love with her and unwilling to admit it to himself? Yes,” Armand answered.

  “I see,” Carole said again.

  “It happens to a lot of men,” the Comte assured her. “The kind who are unwilling to be caught. But once caught they accept the situation philosophically, and usually settle down quite happily. Besides, Chantal would be the perfect mistress here.”

  Carole regarded him with strange eyes.

  “I think she already considers herself the mistress here...” she was beginning, when James himself appeared in the open window behind them, with Chantal only a few paces behind.

  The master of the Abbey looked hard and a little cynically at the girl for whom he had bought an opal ring, and the man who was looking at her so earnestly... and still had his hand upon her shoulder.

  “I hope you two have had a completely satisfactory conversation,” he remarked, and Carole turned and met his icy blue eyes with her slightly widened and dilated grey-green ones. She did not answer—and neither, for that matter, did the Comte—and Carole turned away without even muttering an excuse and made for the door to the hall.

  At first she walked steadily across the hall, and then her feet began to race and she simply flew up the stairs to the corridor off which the White Suite opened. Mrs. Bennett, for some reason that she never afterwards explained, was standing in the centre of the bedroom floor and looking about her with a mild air of frustration, and Carole welcomed her presence as if it was something she desired more than anything else at that moment.

  She even caught hold of the housekeeper’s arm to prevent her making a slightly embarrassed escape, and her words tumbled over one another as she spoke swiftly.

  “I want you to get this room ready for Madame St. Clair, Mrs. Bennett. If you have already arranged for her to sleep somewhere else then it doesn’t matter, because I can sleep there, and I’ll help shift my own things.” She started collecting together her hairbrushes and the rest of her toilet things that were set out on the dressing-table, and while Mrs. Bennett gazed at her as if not quite certain that she had heard aright thrust them into one of her smaller suitcases, and dragged open
the doors of the wardrobe and pulled forth the rest of her suitcases.

  Mrs. Bennett voiced a mild protest.

  “But it isn’t really necessary, miss ... And the master did seem to think it would be perfectly all right to put the French lady into the room we got ready for the Comte.”

  Carole, who was stuffing nylon underwear into one of her cases, answered with a touch of impatience.

  “That wouldn’t be really suitable ... and Madame St. Clair wanted to sleep here. Besides, I wish her to do so.”

  “But why, miss?”

  Mrs. Bennett ventured to put the question bluntly, and Carole lifted her head and gazed at her as if she didn’t know the answer herself ... not really. And then all at once she knew, most decidedly. She had once seen Chantal with her arms fastened tightly about James’s neck, and far from objecting to being her prisoner James had appeared absolutely content. At the moment that Carole surprised them James’s sleek, dark head was bent, and Chantal was plainly waiting for his kiss. Her lovely, inviting lips had been upturned to his, and her long eyelashes had been fluttering voluptuously down on to her cheeks.

  It would have been a long, close, lingering kiss, with closed eyes...

  “I might as well tell you the truth, Mrs. Bennett,” she said huskily. “Mr. Pentallon and I are not going to be married. We were engaged, but it wasn’t a very permanent kind of engagement. And in a few days I shall be leaving here and returning to Paris. Madame St. Clair, on the other hand, will probably be remaining for quite a while. So you see, it’s important that she should be made really comfortable.”

  Mrs. Bennett gazed after her as she picked up one of her cases and walked with it to the door. She paused with it to enquire:

  “Which is it to be? The Rose Room or the Orchid Room? I don’t wish to upset the arrangements you’ve made for the comfort of the Comte de Sarterre, and although I prefer roses I can settle down with orchids. You should have put me in there in the first place, and then the White Suite would have been ready for Madame St. Clair.”