that,” said MacGregor soothingly. “Think of Andrew Harvey.”
“He can’t like them much either,” said Lucy, “or he would have been married before this.”
“Oh, Viscount Harvey’s been too much of a man of action to settle down. Been in the army for a long time. Major when he retired last year. Could have been made colonel had he stayed on.” He looked at her slyly. “Of course it’s said that he plans to settle down now….”
“He may be married already,” said Lucy, shivering, as a black cloud appeared to materialize out of nowhere and hide the sun.
“Not yet. I check the court circular regularly. Perhaps we had better go back. It looks like a storm is coming.”
They both turned. The increasing wind whipped Lucy’s pink, still-open parasol from her hand and sent it flying.
“Don’t worry,” said MacGregor with a grin. “There goes your first gallant.”
A slim blond man in a striped blazer suddenly appeared and was off in full pursuit of the parasol. He finally caught it with one magnificent leap as it was about to commit suicide in the depths of the Mediterranean, and turned toward them, waving his trophy triumphantly.
Lucy stood still, leaning lightly on MacGregor’s arm and watching him walk toward them. The gaudy colors of Monte Carlo fled before her eyes. For a split second she was back on a Highland road, watching a fair-haired man and his horse standing in a blaze of autumn colors. Then she blinked and the scene fled. She found herself looking up into the gray eyes of a very tall young man. He had a square tanned face and a riot of golden curls. His clothes were simple and elegant and slightly worn. He gave Lucy an enchanting smile as he handed back her parasol.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “Jeremy Brent, at your service.”
“We are much obliged to you, young man. I am Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and this is my daughter. We both thank you for a very gallant rescue.”
“Oh, we are acquainted already in a way,” said Mr. Brent cheerfully. “I saw you at the casino last night with … er … another daughter, I presume.”
The pair in front of him went suddenly very still. The sky above had turned black and a jagged flash of lightning lit up the pallor of Lucy’s face.
“Just so,” said MacGregor heavily. “Now if you will excuse us, we must be on our way….”
Heavy drops of rain began to thud down on the promenade and black-clad waiters dashed out to gather in chairs, tables, and umbrellas.
“You’ll be drowned if you leave now,” said Mr. Brent cheerfully, leading the unwilling couple to a nearby café. “Come … let me offer you a glass of wine.”
To run away through the rain would have seemed eccentric to say the least so the unwilling couple followed him into the café.
These cafés were only meant for the sun, thought Lucy. Bereft of its gay striped umbrellas, it seemed a dismal affair inside with flyblown mirrors, a sanded floor, and rickety wooden tables and chairs. A small brown-and-white dog of indeterminate breed urinated with Gallic indifference against the doorway.
Seemingly oblivious of his new friends’ stony faces, Jeremy Brent ordered champagne and then settled back comfortably in his chair.
“Well, sir, I must admit I was very impressed by the play of your daughter at the casino. Extraordinary luck. Yes. Wouldn’t think she was your sister, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. You aren’t very alike, you know.”
“Quite,” said Lucy.
The rain lashed down on the promenade as if trying to prove that winter could be just as nasty in Monte Carlo as anywhere else.
“Does she usually have that kind of luck, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor?”
“Beginner’s luck, that’s all. She is a very retiring sort of girl. Going into a convent next week,” said MacGregor, improvising wildly.
“Oh, I say, that is a shame. You don’t happen to share her luck, miss . . ?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, wish I had luck like that. But baccarat’s the very
“He can’t like them much either,” said Lucy, “or he would have been married before this.”
“Oh, Viscount Harvey’s been too much of a man of action to settle down. Been in the army for a long time. Major when he retired last year. Could have been made colonel had he stayed on.” He looked at her slyly. “Of course it’s said that he plans to settle down now….”
“He may be married already,” said Lucy, shivering, as a black cloud appeared to materialize out of nowhere and hide the sun.
“Not yet. I check the court circular regularly. Perhaps we had better go back. It looks like a storm is coming.”
They both turned. The increasing wind whipped Lucy’s pink, still-open parasol from her hand and sent it flying.
“Don’t worry,” said MacGregor with a grin. “There goes your first gallant.”
A slim blond man in a striped blazer suddenly appeared and was off in full pursuit of the parasol. He finally caught it with one magnificent leap as it was about to commit suicide in the depths of the Mediterranean, and turned toward them, waving his trophy triumphantly.
Lucy stood still, leaning lightly on MacGregor’s arm and watching him walk toward them. The gaudy colors of Monte Carlo fled before her eyes. For a split second she was back on a Highland road, watching a fair-haired man and his horse standing in a blaze of autumn colors. Then she blinked and the scene fled. She found herself looking up into the gray eyes of a very tall young man. He had a square tanned face and a riot of golden curls. His clothes were simple and elegant and slightly worn. He gave Lucy an enchanting smile as he handed back her parasol.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “Jeremy Brent, at your service.”
“We are much obliged to you, young man. I am Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and this is my daughter. We both thank you for a very gallant rescue.”
“Oh, we are acquainted already in a way,” said Mr. Brent cheerfully. “I saw you at the casino last night with … er … another daughter, I presume.”
The pair in front of him went suddenly very still. The sky above had turned black and a jagged flash of lightning lit up the pallor of Lucy’s face.
“Just so,” said MacGregor heavily. “Now if you will excuse us, we must be on our way….”
Heavy drops of rain began to thud down on the promenade and black-clad waiters dashed out to gather in chairs, tables, and umbrellas.
“You’ll be drowned if you leave now,” said Mr. Brent cheerfully, leading the unwilling couple to a nearby café. “Come … let me offer you a glass of wine.”
To run away through the rain would have seemed eccentric to say the least so the unwilling couple followed him into the café.
These cafés were only meant for the sun, thought Lucy. Bereft of its gay striped umbrellas, it seemed a dismal affair inside with flyblown mirrors, a sanded floor, and rickety wooden tables and chairs. A small brown-and-white dog of indeterminate breed urinated with Gallic indifference against the doorway.
Seemingly oblivious of his new friends’ stony faces, Jeremy Brent ordered champagne and then settled back comfortably in his chair.
“Well, sir, I must admit I was very impressed by the play of your daughter at the casino. Extraordinary luck. Yes. Wouldn’t think she was your sister, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. You aren’t very alike, you know.”
“Quite,” said Lucy.
The rain lashed down on the promenade as if trying to prove that winter could be just as nasty in Monte Carlo as anywhere else.
“Does she usually have that kind of luck, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor?”
“Beginner’s luck, that’s all. She is a very retiring sort of girl. Going into a convent next week,” said MacGregor, improvising wildly.
“Oh, I say, that is a shame. You don’t happen to share her luck, miss . . ?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, wish I had luck like that. But baccarat’s the very
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