Read Online The Keeper of the Walls by Monique Raphel High - Free Book Online Page B

best. Lily can help you.”
    Claire’s face, very pale, met her husband’s eyes, and she said nothing. But she turned to Claude and looked at him with silent reproach. He smiled back, guiltlessly, and turned his hands palms up in the air. “You see,” he murmured. “Papa had the same idea.”
    â€œBut Prince Mikhail will refuse to come,” Lily spoke up suddenly. The compressed revolt inside her showed in red patches on her cheeks. “He’s a man of dignity—he’ll refuse.”
    â€œHe’ll accept,” her brother countered, smiling at her. “You’ll see.”
    Misha held the monogrammed vellum in his strong fingers, and was perplexed. Clearly this was the writing of a woman of breeding, of a lady. Under normal circumstances he’d want to meet her, his curiosity aroused. But not if it meant having to socialize with the Bruissons, father and son. He’d categorically refuse, so that they’d feel the extent of his rejection: so that they’d know it had been improper even to suggest it.
    He put the note down on his desk, and brought forward a thick folder. The sardine cannery. He leafed through the first few pages, then suddenly set them down and picked up the note from Claire Bruisson. Such fine, elegant handwriting! The girl’s mother.
    He’d thought of her on and off for the last few weeks, even though he knew he should have forgotten her. And now, this note. They were trapping him, he knew it. They were holding out the girl as their bait. How could he refuse the dinner invitation if he ever planned to see her again?
    There had to be some other way, a way of his own, not controlled by them. Misha sat at the large desk and thought. Then, impulsively, he reached for his pen and notepaper. He began to write:
    Chère Madame,
    I beg you to accept my sincere apologies for having to decline your kind dinner invitation. A previous engagement prevents me from complying.
    I would, however, be most unhappy if this meant that I must miss meeting you. Would you be so generous as to let me know when you would be free to receive me during the afternoon? I should be honored to make your acquaintance and call on you and your charming daughter, to whose memory I commit myself.
    With my compliments, I remain
    Your humble servant, Mikhail Ivanovitch Brasilov.
    Misha folded the letter and inserted it into a matching envelope embossed with the family crest. Then he rang for his secretary. “Rochefort,” he said. “See to it that this note is hand-delivered today, and have the messenger wait for a reply.”

    M ikhail Brasilov was hardly surprised by the Villa Persane. The maître d’hôtel was well trained, but as soon as the prince was inside the house, he began to feel shivers of revulsion. All his life he had liked simplicity; the villa was anything but simple. The salon into which he was ushered was an orgy of ornate Empire furnishings. Lowboys of mahogany and bronze lorded it over gilt wood ceremonial armchairs that resembled thrones, with bronze swans holding up the arms. On one of these bergères with sphinxes under the armrests sat one of the most beautiful middle-aged women he had ever seen. And this took him aback on the instant when he first crossed the threshold.
    Claire smiled at him with a kind of motherly understanding. He realized that he’d stood without moving for too many seconds, taken in by the cameo loveliness of the woman’s face. She was alone, out of place in this sitting room, but in no way ill at ease. He had been ill at ease, confused like a child. Now he stepped forward and brought to his lips the hand that she offered him.
    â€œI am Claire Bruisson,” she said, and he thought her accent was not quite French. “Welcome, your Excellency. My daughter and I were charmed by the thoughtfulness of your letter.”
    â€œI am pleased that you could receive me on such short notice, madame.”