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Authors: Margaret Way
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your friend, Claude.”
“I’m sure Claude knows nothing about any relationship between my mother and your uncle. He’d have told me.”
“And risk word getting back to your father? Look, the Heysen watercolour just went for $35,000.” He noted it in the margin of his catalog.
“Are you saying Claude did know?” Camille felt shaken.
“Why don’t you ask him? Your father’s death changed many things.”
“As did your uncle’s. It poisoned you.”
“It certainly prejudiced me against your father.” He fell silent for a while. When he spoke again, his tone was quiet, contemplative. “Once when I was home from boarding school, my uncle brought your mother to our house. Young as I was, I understood completely why he was so in love with her. Not only was she as ravishing as a Renoir, she had a bewitching way about her. Nothing deliberate, but rather a bred-in-the-bone allure. She was full of charm and sweetness, but one could see she was fragile. She didn’t, for instance, have your fighting spirit—for all your porcelain beauty you don’t look as though you would break easily. I believe, as do my family, that your father broke Natalie in the end.”
Camille’s hands gripped the sides of her chair. “I’ve told you my parents were incredibly happy together. I remember the way my father used to hold her, touch her, kiss her. The way his eyes used tofollow her around a room. My parents were expecting another child. Does that mean they were unhappy?”
Whatever his thoughts, Lombard didn’t voice them. He changed the subject. “I have an interest in the Rodin silvered bronze.”
“It’s Rodin’s wife.”
“I know. A beautiful piece.” His eyes moved over Camille’s profile: the small straight nose, the shape of her soft full mouth, the pure line of jaw and throat.
“I very much dislike being stared at,” Camille told him in a low tense voice.
“You sound a little panicky.”
“I expect anyone would in the company of the devil.”
“Then perhaps you could sup with me tonight…”
She was so astonished she turned fully in her chair to stare at him. He was dressed in an impeccably cut dark gray suit, the jacket accentuating his broad shoulders. The pristine white of the collar of his fine-striped blue shirt heightened the dark gold of his skin, and his flowing silk tie was a particularly felicitous dark red. He had an entirely natural elegance, perhaps the result of his privileged origins. He was a marvelous-looking man, but he was as dangerous and destructive as a leopard, and like the leopard he would never change his spots.
“Your effrontery takes my breath away,” she said.
“You’re a seeker of the truth, aren’t you?” he returned. “On your own admission your father kept much from you. Could it be he feared what you might learn if you and I ever met?”
“I fear you,” she said simply, knowing it was true. Just then there was a small commotion behind them,and she turned her head. “The Mastermans have arrived.”
“She’s probably after the Streeton. It may help you to know she’s not going to get it.”
“Who is?”
“Don’t frown—it’s not me. To get back to dinner, I’ve asked you for a special reason. I have an old photo album I think you’d like to see.”
Her heart rocked. “Blackmail,” she said scornfully.
“Yes. I make no bones about it.”
“Who are these photographs of?” she demanded.
He leaned back in his chair. “Not here. Not now. We can go through them later.”
“No, thank you.” She declined, even though she was desperate to learn more. “I detest the manipulation.”
“Then both of us are caught in the same vortex. I’ll send my chauffeur for you at seven-thirty. We’ll have dinner at my home, where, I assure you, you’ll be a lot safer than you ever were with Garner. You have every right to see the album. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. So shall I expect you?”
“I—I’ll think about it.” Her
“I’m sure Claude knows nothing about any relationship between my mother and your uncle. He’d have told me.”
“And risk word getting back to your father? Look, the Heysen watercolour just went for $35,000.” He noted it in the margin of his catalog.
“Are you saying Claude did know?” Camille felt shaken.
“Why don’t you ask him? Your father’s death changed many things.”
“As did your uncle’s. It poisoned you.”
“It certainly prejudiced me against your father.” He fell silent for a while. When he spoke again, his tone was quiet, contemplative. “Once when I was home from boarding school, my uncle brought your mother to our house. Young as I was, I understood completely why he was so in love with her. Not only was she as ravishing as a Renoir, she had a bewitching way about her. Nothing deliberate, but rather a bred-in-the-bone allure. She was full of charm and sweetness, but one could see she was fragile. She didn’t, for instance, have your fighting spirit—for all your porcelain beauty you don’t look as though you would break easily. I believe, as do my family, that your father broke Natalie in the end.”
Camille’s hands gripped the sides of her chair. “I’ve told you my parents were incredibly happy together. I remember the way my father used to hold her, touch her, kiss her. The way his eyes used tofollow her around a room. My parents were expecting another child. Does that mean they were unhappy?”
Whatever his thoughts, Lombard didn’t voice them. He changed the subject. “I have an interest in the Rodin silvered bronze.”
“It’s Rodin’s wife.”
“I know. A beautiful piece.” His eyes moved over Camille’s profile: the small straight nose, the shape of her soft full mouth, the pure line of jaw and throat.
“I very much dislike being stared at,” Camille told him in a low tense voice.
“You sound a little panicky.”
“I expect anyone would in the company of the devil.”
“Then perhaps you could sup with me tonight…”
She was so astonished she turned fully in her chair to stare at him. He was dressed in an impeccably cut dark gray suit, the jacket accentuating his broad shoulders. The pristine white of the collar of his fine-striped blue shirt heightened the dark gold of his skin, and his flowing silk tie was a particularly felicitous dark red. He had an entirely natural elegance, perhaps the result of his privileged origins. He was a marvelous-looking man, but he was as dangerous and destructive as a leopard, and like the leopard he would never change his spots.
“Your effrontery takes my breath away,” she said.
“You’re a seeker of the truth, aren’t you?” he returned. “On your own admission your father kept much from you. Could it be he feared what you might learn if you and I ever met?”
“I fear you,” she said simply, knowing it was true. Just then there was a small commotion behind them,and she turned her head. “The Mastermans have arrived.”
“She’s probably after the Streeton. It may help you to know she’s not going to get it.”
“Who is?”
“Don’t frown—it’s not me. To get back to dinner, I’ve asked you for a special reason. I have an old photo album I think you’d like to see.”
Her heart rocked. “Blackmail,” she said scornfully.
“Yes. I make no bones about it.”
“Who are these photographs of?” she demanded.
He leaned back in his chair. “Not here. Not now. We can go through them later.”
“No, thank you.” She declined, even though she was desperate to learn more. “I detest the manipulation.”
“Then both of us are caught in the same vortex. I’ll send my chauffeur for you at seven-thirty. We’ll have dinner at my home, where, I assure you, you’ll be a lot safer than you ever were with Garner. You have every right to see the album. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. So shall I expect you?”
“I—I’ll think about it.” Her