Dawn Song (18 page)

'You make it sound so simple,' he said with cold irony. 'Why then did you

hide your identity? Pretend to be someone—something—you were not.'

'I can't really explain...'

'Try,' he invited silkily.

She felt icily cold suddenly. She pulled the covers up, hiding her body from

his sardonic gaze.

'Margot didn't want her godmother to think she couldn't be bothered.'

'Although it was nothing but the truth.'

'Not altogether. She had strong reasons for not leaving England.'

'Of course,' he said. 'This lover—who never sounded quite real when you

spoke of him, for obvious reasons.' He paused. 'The affair had reached a

crisis. She did not dare leave, in case he changed his mind in her absence.

She needed to be there to hold him—to keep the pressure going.'

'I suppose so.' But, of course, that was exactly how it had been, she thought

miserably.

'And you were happy to be her confederate in this?' His contempt grated

along her raw nerves. 'You were so eloquent about my grandfather, yet it did

not trouble you to help destroy a marriage?'

Meg stared at him. 'You know about that?' she asked, bewilderment

mingling with her wretchedness.

'I know,' he said. 'Corinne Curtess is my cousin. We were brought up

together, as close as brother and sister. When I saw her last time, it was clear

she was deeply distressed about something. Eventually, I made her confide

in me.' His smile was grim. 'And that was when I became aware, once more,

of Margot Trant.'

'Once more?' Meg queried, shakily. 'Oh, I suppose
madame
had mentioned

her to you.'

'Bien stir.'
His tone was almost savagely derisive. 'Her god-daughter, the

only person approaching a relative whom she possessed—someone she had

not seen for many years, because she'd felt no rapport with her as a child.

Because she'd seen in her too much of the mother she disliked. Someone to

whom, perhaps, she'd been unfair, and should make reparation.

'When Corinne told me about Steven's affair, I prayed for it not to be the

same woman. My cousin was convinced that she had no real love for Steven,

that she wanted him for ambition—for prestige only. The enquiries I had

made only seemed to confirm her fears. No one had a good word to say for

Mademoiselle Trant. She was hard, selfish, a gold-digger, concerned only

with her own advancement.

'I was as grieved for
madame
as I was for Corinne. I could see her loneliness,

could guess why she wanted to be reunited with this girl—to establish a

relationship. And I knew that her
petite
Margot was totally unworthy of her.'

'But you didn't say anything. You didn't tell her...?'

'How could I? Corinne had begged me to say nothing about her troubles. She

was desperate to save her marriage—convinced that, in time, Steven would

come back to her.

'When
madame
decided to invite Margot here, it seemed to me it would kill

two birds with one stone. After all, it could only be a matter of time before

she betrayed herself in some way—let Madame Marguerite see what she

was really like.' His face softened slightly. 'The loss of her sight has given

her added perception, in many ways. I relied on that.'

He paused. 'She would also be separated from Steven Curtess. Corinne was

sure he was not her only lover, but could get no proof.' His mouth twisted

cynically. 'So—I decided to supply it. To establish* beyond doubt that she

was a tramp, with a penchant for casual affairs by seducing her myself.'

His voice hardened. 'What I did not take into account was
I'inconnue—
the

unknown quantity. You.'

His words were like a knife going into her heart. She might have been

playing a part, but so had he. Every touch—every kiss—had been a

pretence, designed to lure her into self-betrayal. He'd just admitted as much.

The lover who'd brought her to rapture in his arms had never existed. Or if

he did exist, then he belonged to that other girl at the
mas—
the girl they had

both betrayed.

She thought numbly, He didn't even want me. And wished she could die.

She heard him say, 'Why did you do it?' and dragged together the remnants

of her pride—her self-respect. Jerome must never know how well he'd

succeeded in his cynical, amoral quest, she thought in agony. He must never

suspect that she was in love with him.

'I didn't feel I had a choice.' She sounded unutterably weary even to her own

ears. 'There's more than one kind of pressure.'

'Without doubt.' His tone was dispassionate. 'You are out of work, of course.

That was why you were free to come here, yes? And Margot paid your

expenses.'

Her nails dug into the palm of her hands. 'You make it all sound

so—mercenary. It wasn't—just that '

Jerome flung up a hand. 'Oh, spare me the rest.' He was bitterly silent for a

moment. 'I should have known that you were a cheat. There were too many

discrepancies—your ability to speak French, your failure as a typist—all of

it should have told me you were not what you seemed.'

He gestured impatiently at the bed. 'But what made you take the charade so

far, you little fool? Did you think you could just—carry off the loss of your

virginity?'

Meg bent her head, despair a dull ache inside her. She said tonelessly, 'I

suppose—I just didn't realise...'

I let loving you—wanting you—blind me to everything else.

'So—where is your
belle-soeur
now?'

'I've no idea.' Meg hesitated. 'You know, of course, that Corinne has left

Steven—and the children?'

'Yes. She wanted to see if drastic action would bring him to his senses. Not

that she was happy to leave
les petits
to Margot's tender mercies.'

Meg said shortly, 'She hasn't. The children are with my old nanny and quite

safe. And Steven Curtess has gone off after his wife. So her ploy seems to

have worked.'

He gave a wintry smile. 'Then everything arranges itself. You, of course,

remain the exception.'

She said, off the top of her head, 'I can look after myself. Please don't

concern yourself about me.'

'Don't talk like an idiot,' he returned impatiently. 'We cannot leave things as

they are. There is so much still that we must discuss...'

'On the contrary, I think you've said more than enough already.' Meg

reached down for her discarded nightgown, dragging it over her head, before

pushing back the bedcovers. 'Done enough too,' she added with bitter

emphasis.

She went to the dressing-table and dragged open the drawer. The velvet

jewel case was in her hand as she turned.

'This is the only unfinished business between us,' she said, and threw it to

him. 'And that's the end of it. Now get out.' She swallowed, fighting back the

tears that threatened to overwhelm her. 'Go back to where you belong,

Monsieur Moncourt.'

'Marguerite.' He took a step towards her, and she recoiled.

'No.' She almost shouted the word. 'Just—go. And leave me in peace.'

'Peace.' His laugh was like the cut of a whip. 'Dear God, what peace will

there ever be for either of us again?'

She watched his long, lithe stride carry him to the door, and out of her life.

She said, again, to the empty room, 'And that's the end of it.' Then she began

to cry.

She would have to go away. That was the thought that preyed on her mind as

she went mechanically through the morning ritual of bathing and dressing.

She couldn't stay, and put herself through the torture of seeing Jerome each

day, knowing that he despised her, remembering those brief ecstatic

moments when she'd lain in his arms, and thought that they belonged to each

other. What a fool, she thought. What a pathetic lovelorn
idiot.

Well, she knew better now. And somehow she was going to have to face

Madame de Brissot. Her secret was out now, with a vengeance, and she

owed it to Tante to tell her the truth before Jerome did.

But that wasn't an immediate ordeal.
Madame
breakfasted in her room, and

she would wait to talk to her until she came down to the
salon,
she decided.

It would have to be done, although she could imagine the probable reaction,

she thought, setting her teeth.
Madame
would not relish being imposed

upon. She could only hope that Jerome hadn't got there first.

But when she got downstairs she learned from Philippine that Jerome wasn't

there—that he'd gone off in his car more than two hours earlier.

'Driving,' Philippine added with severity, 'like the wind.'

'Oh.' Meg was taken aback. 'Did he say when he'd be returning?'

Philippine shrugged. 'He was displeased,' she said. 'Therefore one does not

ask unnecessary questions.'

Meg made her reluctant way to the library. She needed to retrieve her robe

before the girl from the village who helped with the cleaning got to it first.

She folded it up neatly but it was still too bulky to fit into the pocket of her

jeans, and she balked at the idea of carrying it back to her room in plain

view. Philippine's button eyes were far too shrewd.

She glanced round the room, the breath catching in her throat. She found she

was going over in her mind everything Jerome had said to her. He'd accused

her of bewitching him. 'I'm caught in my own trap...' She could almost hear

his voice echoing back at her from the walls. 'I try to despise you, and I end

up wanting you even more.'

But it was useless trying to dredge some morsel of hope from any of that, she

told herself desolately. Because it wasn't desire she craved from Jerome but

love. And, in his eyes, she was just as bad as Margot, if not worse. Quite

apart from the fact that he belonged to someone else. Something he chose to

ignore. But she could not.

Her best move would be to go back to her room and pack. Then, when

madame
asked her to leave, she'd at least be prepared, she decided.

She saw the document wallet still lying on the table where Jerome had left it

the night before. She'd borrow that to put her robe in. As she emptied the

papers it contained on to the table, a few of them fluttered to the floor. Meg

looked them over casually as she picked them up. As he'd said, they were

estimates from local artisans—carpenters, masons and plumbers, and Meg

whistled in dismay as she saw the amounts they were asking. How could

Tante afford anything approaching that kind of money? she asked herself.

As she sorted them into a pile, she saw the same letterheads recurring, and

realised that some of the estimates appeared to be in duplicate. Presumably

Jerome intended Madame de Brissot to have one copy, while he retained the

other for his records, she thought.

She put the two tenders from Mauristand et Fils side by side, then stopped,

her brows snapping together. The work being estimated for was exactly the

same in both, but the amounts quoted couldn't have been more different.

One of the estimates was asking for hundreds of thousands of francs less

than the other. And a hundred thousand francs was roughly worth a thousand

pounds, Meg thought numbly.

She compared the rest, aware that her hands were trembling, and that there

was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The disparity was more or less

the same in all of them.

She sank down on to the chair. No, she thought frantically. It's not possible.

It can't be.

She found the sheet Jerome had been working on, remembering how he'd

pushed it out of sight as she entered, and said, 'Madame Marguerite is

impatient for the work to begin.'

So impatient, she thought, swallowing, and so trusting that she'd accept any

figure without question from the grandson of the man she'd loved. And when

the money had been handed over the firms concerned would do the work at a

cut rate, and Jerome would share the profit with them. It wasn't a novel idea,

by any means, but Madame de Brissot would suspect nothing, because it was

Jerome—
Jerome.

Disillusion rose in her throat, bitter as gall. And he'd dared to take the moral

high ground against her. Her pretence seemed innocent by comparison, she

thought, pushing the papers away from her in disgust. He'd dared call her a

cheat. Well, he was a cheat too—a two-timer—but this was fraud—and

perpetrated against an old half-blind woman whom he claimed to love and

respect.

Meg's hands clenched impotently into fists. Hypocrite, she accused silently.

Thief. He couldn't be allowed to get away with it. She'd drive to the
mas

right now and confront him, and his woman, threaten to expose him to

madame
and to the police unless he suppressed the false estimates.

She thrust the papers back into the wallet, and made for her room, leaving