Dawn Song (10 page)

He nodded, putting the papers into his briefcase. 'I will work out some

figures and include them in my report,' he said. He frowned slightly. 'But I

shan't be able to get it typed until Marie-Claude returns from her own leave,

and the delay is a nuisance.'

'In that case, perhaps Margot could help you,'
madame
suggested suddenly.

'She works as a secretary to an English politician, I understand. She turned

towards Meg. 'You would be happy to deputise for Marie-Claude, I'm sure,

ma chere?'

Meg felt as if she'd been turned to stone. This was a snag neither she nor

Margot had foreseen, she thought, a bubble of hysteria welling up inside her.

'Margot. You don't answer.'
Madame'
s tone held a hint of reproof, and Meg

recovered herself.

She said coolly, 'I doubt if I can help. You see, I'm not really a typist—more

of a personal assistant. Maybe my practical skills won't be up to Monsieur

Moncourt's standard.'

For a moment, she seemed to encounter that strange, frozen anger again,

then his smile slanted, and he shrugged. 'I will be happy to make use of

whatever skills you have,' he said softly.

'Then that is settled,' Madame de Brissot approved. 'Now let us go into

lunch.'

Leaning on her cane, she led the way into the dining-room. Meg followed,

aware that her appetite had deserted her. The brief commercial course during

her final year at school hadn't prepared her to be anyone's secretary, but that

was almost immaterial compared with the personal implications facing her.

As she sat down, she gave Jerome a burning look across the table. There was

mockery mingled with triumph and something else easily definable in his

own gaze.

It was almost as if Madame de Brissot was trying to throw them together,

she thought without pleasure as she drank her soup. She said, 'When do you

want me to start work? This afternoon?'

'I am not such a slave-driver.' His smile slanted again, twisting her heart.

'Tomorrow is soon enough.'

Altogether too soon, Meg decided sombrely as Philippine cleared the plates,

and brought in a platter of baked fish, supplemented by green beans and tiny

new potatoes cooked in their skins and sprinkled with parsley.

'So tell us,' Jerome said when they were all served, and he had poured out

pale golden wine from a carafe. 'What exactly are the duties of a personal

assistant?'

Meg concentrated on removing a bone from her portion of fish. 'They vary,'

she said at last.

'I'm sure they do,' he said silkily. 'But you must be able to name at least one.'

'Well—there's research.' She'd heard Margot mention that, she remembered

with relief. 'And I help sort out problems in the constituency.'

'And you can abandon such responsibilities to spend four weeks here?'

Jerome's brows lifted. 'If I were your boss, I wouldn't be pleased by such

desertion.'

Meg stared at her plate. 'I have six weeks' leave a year,' she said quietly.

'How and when I take it is up to me. And it will soon be the summer recess

anyway,' she added, hoping it was true.

'Nevertheless it is good of him to allow you to indulge me like this.' Madame

de Brissot looked faintly troubled. 'I had not realised what problems it might

cause when I issued the invitation.'

Jerome smiled at her. 'I don't think you need worry,' he said silkily. 'I'm sure

our lovely Margot is a paragon among secretaries—far too valuable to lose.'

His gaze meeting Meg's was like the clash of swords before some duel. She

almost flinched under the impact. 'Isn't that so,
ma belle?'

'That's not for me to say.' Her voice sounded wooden, even to herself.

He laughed softly. 'You're too modest.' He leaned forward suddenly. Like

some predator, she thought with swift breathlessness, waiting to pounce. 'So

tell us something about this prince among employers, Margot,' he prompted.

'What is he like?'

'I don't think any man is a prince in his secretary's eyes,
mon cher,' madame

put in with amusement. 'Usually she knows him too well- rather like a wife.'

'All the better.' Jerome's eyes were fixed on Meg's flushed downbent face,

his own expression enigmatic. 'Such intimate knowledge should prove- most

enlightening.'

Meg bit her lip. 'It's hardly ethical for me to discuss him,' she evaded.

'Oh, come,' Jerome urged mockingly. 'You are among friends, and nothing

you say will go beyond these walls, so where is the harm?' He paused. 'I'm

sure nothing damaging will emerge.'

Meg groaned under her breath. She wasn't going to be let off the hook, that

was clear. They were both looking at her expectantly, and, in Jerome's case,

with an odd intensity.

She ran the tip of her tongue round her dry lips as she thought rapidly about

Steven Curtess. 'Well, he's dynamic and ambitious,' she began. 'A

realgo-getter and very hard-working,' she added rather lamely. It wasn't easy

to paint a verbal picture of someone you'd seen on television and heard

discussed in intimate detail all too often but never actually met, she thought

with an inward grimace.

'Young or old?' Jerome queried.

Meg moved restively. 'In his thirties, I think.'

'You're not sure?' Jerome's glance was sceptical. 'Intimately acquainted as

you claim to be with him?'

Meg lifted her chin at the faint sneer she thought she detected in his tone. 'I

claimed nothing of the kind,' she denied coolly. 'That was your own idea,

and not one I necessarily share.'

She saw Jerome's eyes narrow slightly. He paused. 'Even if you don't know

his age, you'll be aware if he's married or single.'

'He's married.' Meg felt her flush deepen, as she wondered whether it was

still true, or whether Margot's devious machinations had finally succeeded.

'And is he good-looking?'
madame
asked indulgently.

Meg shrugged again. 'I suppose—yes.' If you like that kind of thing, she

added silently. Steven Curtesy's rather florid brand of handsomeness had

never had the slightest appeal for her.

Madame
patted her hand. 'In your case, my dear, it sounds as if familiarity

has indeed bred a soupgon of contempt,' she said with faint amusement.

'Well, perhaps that is not such a bad thing. Is he the only person you have

worked for?'

'Yes.' Meg felt on safer ground here. Margot had gone straight from an

expensive secretarial school to work for Steven Curtess in some private

capacity in the City of London just before he'd decided to embark on a

parliamentary career.

'So all your experience has been in one milieu.' Jerome sounded meditative.

'Then your boss may well be grateful to me for—broadening your horizons.'

Meg said shortly, 'Perhaps,' and prayed for a change of topic.

'I hope, that he is able to manage without you.'
Madame
signalled to

Philippine to bring in the dessert of cheese and fresh fruit.

'No one's indispensable,' Meg said, ignoring Jerome's derisive smile.

'You're not afraid that when you return he'll have found someone else to take

your place?' he asked softly.

Meg shrugged. 'That's a risk I'll just have to take.'

'Another?' His brows lifted. 'You like to live dangerously.'

She kept her smile bland, but her heart hammered as she thought, Not until

now.

Within twenty-four hours her ill-advised masquerade could be over, and

herself dismissed from Haut Arignac with all the ignominy she deserved.

Because no one in his right mind was going to believe that the human

dynamo she'd described would put up with her level of incompetence even

for a moment.I could bluff, she thought, but for how long? In a way, it would

be a relief to be sent away, although her failure was going to cause all kinds

of problems at home. But at least she would be removed from temptation

where Jerome was concerned. If she was going to eat her heart out for him, it

would be safer to do so at a distance.

'You are very quiet,
ma chere,' madame
observed. 'And you look

sad—doesn't she, Jerome?'

'Perhaps she's homesick,' he said, as he peeled an apple. 'Pining for those

she's left behind.'

'Of course. You must telephone your home, Margot. Reassure your mother

that you are here and safe. You may use the phone in the library at any time.

Jerome will show you where it is.'
Madame
reached for her cane. 'Now I am

going to my room for this absurd rest.'

'Shall I come with you?' Meg asked awkwardly. She had no real idea what

duties she'd be expected to perform.

'No, enjoy your freedom while you can. We have tea at four o'clock, and the

English newspaper comes at that time. I like to have it read to me.'
Madame

shared a smile impartially between them.
'A bientot
,
mes amis'

Jerome opened the door for her, and she made her way slowly upstairs,

attended by Philippine. Then he turned back to Meg. 'Now for the

telephone.'

She hung back. 'There's no hurry, really.'

'One thing you should know at once is that your godmother's wishes are law

in this house. She feels that your mother will be worried about you, and that

her mind should be set at rest. That's all that matters.' His tone was brusque.

'Yes,' she said quietly. 'I—I didn't think.'

'Then have the grace to pretend.
Madame
is disposed to think well of you.'

Jerome paused. 'I would not wish her to be disappointed—in any way.'

She lifted her chin. 'Nor would I—believe me.'

'Then perhaps we understand each other.' His faint smile was grim. 'Come

with me,
ma belle.'

As she followed him from the room, it occurred to her that she would go

with him to the ends of the earth, if he asked. Which, she thought

detachedly, must make me the biggest fool in creation.

And she wanted to weep for her own foolishness.

MEG put the receiver back on the rest with a faint sigh. She had tried to get

through to her home three times, but each time the line had been engaged.

She would have to try again later.

The de Brissot library certainly lived up to its name, she thought, glancing

round her appreciatively. Apart from the space occupied by the inevitable

French windows, the walls were lined, ceiling to floor, with books, many of

them leather- bound and dating from other periods in the chateau's history.

She wandered over to the nearest shelf and began to glance along it, her

excitement mounting as she examined the contents more closely. She

dropped to her knees, pulling volumes out at random, her fingers reverent as

she turned the pages.

One book seemed to have slipped down behind the others on the shelf. Meg

saw that it was a collection of early French poetry, but a more modern

edition than many of its companions.

She began to look through it, searching for the
aubade
Jerome had quoted to

her, but to her disappointment it was not included in the selection, although

most of the poetry, she realised, was about love. The language might be

archaic but the message was familiar. Love sought, love fulfilled, and, even

more potently, the loss of love—they were all there. As she read the lines,

the grief and yearning that seemed to spring from the lines was as fresh and

poignant as if the outrush of emotion which inspired it had been experienced

yesterday, rather than the far-off days of the Middle Ages.

'You seem very absorbed,' Jerome's voice remarked behind her.

Meg started convulsively, dropping the book, as she swung round to face

him. He was lounging in the doorway, hands in pockets, watching her.

She said huskily, 'You—you startled me.'

'Evidently.' His mouth twisted in faint amusement. 'Are you always so

nervous?'

'Not usually,' she said tersely.

'So it's me,' he said softly. 'I'm amazed. I thought you were made of stronger

stuff,
ma belle.'

'But then,' she said, 'you know nothing about me.' She saw his smile widen,

and flushed. 'I mean—nothing that really matters.'

'Perhaps we would differ on what those essentials are.'

'I think we'd probably differ on just about everything.' Meg retrieved her

poetry book with hands that shook a little, and got up from the floor.

'Including my need for privacy. I'd like you to return the key to my bedroom

door, if you please.'

'I am desolate to have to refuse you,' he said. 'But I think it is best that I keep

it—as a safeguard, you understand. In your over-sensitive condition,
cherie,

you might be tempted to use it, and that would not be wise. The electrical

wiring in this house is as decrepit as everything else, and if there was a fire

you could be burned alive while we were breaking down your door.'

Meg met the mockery of his gaze, stony-faced. 'I can think of worse fates,'