Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

‘So am I,’ Victor replied, shaking Kim’s hand vigorously. And he apologized and again explained his reason for being late.

‘Oh, please don’t give it another thought,’ Kim exclaimed. He grinned. ‘We’ve been very cosy here, guzzling champagne and chatting. Now, do come and meet my sister, and then I’ll get you a drink. What do you prefer? Champagne, or something else, perhaps?’

‘I’d like Scotch-on-the-rocks with a splash of soda, please.’

Kim took hold of Victor’s arm and propelled him across the room to the fireplace. ‘This is Francesca,’ he said, and, after bestowing a bright smile on them, he disappeared in the direction of the drinks chest to pour a Scotch for Victor.

‘How nice to meet you, Mr Mason,’ Francesca said.

Their hands met and held and their eyes locked, and simultaneously they exchanged a startled glance. Looking down into the delicate face upturned to him, Victor saw the shining amber-flecked eyes widen and fill with the astonishment he himself was feeling. A tremulous smile touched her mouth briefly, and was gone. I’ve never met her before, but I recognize her, he thought with incredulity. I know her. I’ve always known her, somewhere deep in my heart and soul. This strange and surprising knowledge shook him, and momentarily he was thrown off balance.

Being adroit, he swiftly pulled himself together. ‘I’m pleased to meet you too, Lady Francesca,’ he said with a slow lazy smile, but his black eyes were serious and searching, and his gaze remained unswervingly on her face.

‘Oh please, do call me Francesca.’ Two faint spots of colour stained her ivory cheeks.

‘I’ll be glad to, if you’ll call me Victor.’

She nodded and gently extracted her hand, which he was still holding tightly, and stepping back, she lowered herself into the chair. Victor remembered the package under his arm, bent forward and handed it to her, instantly wishing it were something more personal, more appropriate like – like an armful of fragile white May lilac, fragrant after a drenching of spring rain. Yes, lilac was the ideal flower for her. It suited her delicacy and freshness. He said, ‘I almost forgot. This is for you.’

Francesca looked up at him, surprised. ‘Why thank you. How very kind.’ She began to unwrap it, her head bent, her fingers moving slowly, and she wondered why she was suddenly trembling internally, not recognizing the dynamic chemistry interacting between them. However, Victor, who was wise in the ways of the world and of men and women, knew it. At least, he knew she had affected him strongly, and that he had responded to her on a variety of levels, not the least of which was sexual. He looked at her sharply, a keenness in his eyes. She appeared serene and unperturbed. Cool as a cucumber, he thought. He remembered that look of astonishment they had shared a moment ago, the startled glance exchanged. Had he imagined them? He was not sure. Perhaps the attraction had not been mutual, but merely one-sided. His side. He smiled faintly to himself.

Victor had no way of knowing that Francesca had a natural poise that belied her years, and a great measure of that special self-confidence so endemic to the English aristocracy. She rarely lost her composure. And so, despite her equally strong reaction to Victor, one she found extraordinary and baffling, she let no emotion show on her face. But she was disturbed, and understandably so. To begin with, she had had little or no experience of men, and certainly she had never encountered one of Victor Mason’s ilk. Then again, her boyfriends had been, for the most part, chums of Kim’s and the same age, and she had never taken any of them seriously. At nineteen she was sexually inexperienced, and, in comparison to her girl friends, who were much more worldly, unusually innocent for a young woman who mixed in smart London society.

In all truth, Victor Mason had unnerved Francesca. Gradually this realization began to formulate in her mind. How absurd she was being, allowing herself to become rattled by this man. Yet, she had to admit he was devastatingly attractive; she thought: If Katharine Tempest seems improbable, with her stunning beauty and allure and vivacious personality, then he is undoubtedly larger than life. And very disconcerting.

Abruptly, Victor left his position in front of the fire, and without glancing at her or addressing another word to her, he moved over to the chest. He stood talking to Kim as if they were old friends, and not total strangers from worlds so wide apart it was debatable whether they had any common ground upon which to meet. Francesca observed him through the corner of her eye, her head still bent in concentration on the package. It struck her that he looked unconcerned, as if she no longer existed, as if he had not given her those fierce stares. It was then that she wondered whether he always behaved in this manner, when first meeting women, in view of who and what he was, believing, perhaps, that it was expected of him. Although she was not the typical film fan, she was sufficiently well-informed to know that Victor Mason was idolized by women all over the world. Few men had ever been the recipients of the kind of female adulation which was showered on him. There was no doubt in her mind that he could pick and choose at will from a galaxy of women infinitely more beautiful and interesting than her, and so she concluded she had not been singled out for any special treatment. And why should she be?

Francesca swung her eyes away from Victor when Katharine’s clear laughter echoed across the room; then she could not resist focusing her attention on the three of them. Victor turned slightly, also laughing, and leaned towards Katharine, teasing her. Katharine looked up at him as she returned his banter.

Clutching the crumpled wrapping paper and the bottle of Pommery and Greno, Francesca got up and went to the door. Without looking at Victor, she exclaimed, ‘Thank you for the champagne. It’s lovely. Look, Katharine. Kim. Victor brought this.’ She held out the bottle and went on, ‘I’ll go and put it in the refrigerator. And turn the oven on, otherwise we’ll never get supper tonight.’ She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.

When Francesca returned a few minutes later, she was surprised to see Victor standing at the far end of the drawing room, quite obviously admiring the paintings that graced the walls. He and Katharine were listening attentively to Kim, who was giving them a long dissertation on the Constables and Turners in the room. Francesca chose not to join them. She went to the fireplace, picked up the brass fire tongs, plopped a couple of logs on the diminished embers, sat down in the chair and picked up her glass. She peered at Victor over the rim. A faint image of him from his films had apparently lingered at the back of her mind, for it surfaced suddenly. It was the image of an excessively handsome man, glossy and too sleek, who looked as if he had been patted and pummelled and polished, and then varnished into smooth and characterless perfection. She sneaked another look at him, and saw how utterly false this image now proved to be.

He was handsome, there was no quarrelling with that, yet in reality he was rough-hewn and rugged. His face was more craggy and raw-boned than she had remembered and, far from lacking character, it had a virility and strength, and was webbed around the eyes with those faint tell-tale lines of experience which are the real evidence of a life well-lived, and to the fullest. His skin had a leathery, almost weather-beaten texture, and she knew that his deep sunburn was the type acquired only by a man who is always out of doors. His features were more sharply defined than she had recalled, from the strong Roman nose and the prominent black brows above those black and forceful eyes, to the wide humorous mouth and the large white teeth. Even the thick black hair, brushed smoothly back from the furrowed brow, seemed to have a vitality and life of its own. He was powerfully built, broad-shouldered and massive across the chest and back.

In all truthfulness, the only sleek things about Victor Mason were his clothes. They were of the finest quality and appeared to have been assembled with unerring precision. And they’re just a little too perfect, Francesca thought. She noted the excellent cut of the black cashmere jacket, the grey flannel slacks with their knife-edge creases, the pale blue cotton-voile shirt, the darker blue silk tie, the grey silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket, the velvet-soft brown suede loafers on his feet. He lifted his hand at this moment and put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, and she caught the gleam of sapphires in the French cuff, the flash of gold on the wrist. Poor Kim, he looks positively shabby in comparison, she said to herself, even though he is wearing his new suit. Unaccountably, this had a crumpled and well-lived-in appearance. Francesca had to smile. Victor Mason’s clothes would never look crumpled, of that she was quite positive.

Watching them, or more precisely, watching Victor, Francesca was struck by a sudden and unsettling thought. There was something about Victor which disturbed her, something she could not put her finger on. It came to her. She felt curiously threatened by him. But why? She did not have to do much analysing to define the reasons. Because he is extraordinarily good looking, a famous celebrity, and very, very rich, she said to herself. And all of these so-called assets add up to one thing – power. Yes, he had immense power, albeit of a somewhat special nature, and powerful men, whatever the roots of their power, were eminently dangerous to know. He is also arrogant and so … so … sure of himself, and filled with a conceit that is quite insufferable. She shivered involuntarily and goose-flesh ran up her arms. He also frightens me, she thought, and she resolved, at once, to be on her guard with him.

Francesca Cunningham was not really afraid of Victor Mason. She was afraid of herself in relationship to him. And her judgment of Victor was flawed. She was accurate in her assumption that he was a man who wielded power, and a great deal of it, but mistaken in her belief that he was arrogant and conceited. He was neither. What he did possess, though, was great presence, that rare and curious combination of authority and savoir-faire, mingled with a vital charisma. In essence, these ingredients created in him an animal magnetism that was quite magical, and it was this which came across on the screen with such force. It had made him one of the biggest box-office names in the world. Victor was the first to admit this, since he did not believe himself to be a great actor in the grand tradition of the theatre. In this he did himself something of an injustice, for he was a well-rounded, well-seasoned and disciplined performer, a real professional whom few of his peers in Hollywood ever underestimated. Especially those who had worked with him. Having seen him on the set, they were aware of how brilliantly and skilfully he used the camera to his own enormous advantage, thereby diminishing any other actor or actress who happened to be on the screen with him at the same time.

Victor was also a man of sensitivity and understanding. Now he was very much aware of Francesca seated at the opposite end of the room, and he knew she had carefully and minutely appraised him from head to toe. Although he could not see her face, intuitively he sensed that somehow he had not fared well in her estimation, that he had received bad marks, and this made him smile. He stood and sipped his Scotch, chatting to Kim and Katharine about art for a few seconds longer, and then he excused himself and headed back to the fireplace.

When she saw him approaching, Francesca leapt up. ‘Please don’t think I’m being rude, but I do have to attend to the food. Excuse me for a few minutes.’

He did not miss the crisp tone. He seated himself in the chair she had vacated, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. Settling back, he smiled and with a vast and secret amusement, although he was not truly certain who amused him the most – himself or Francesca. She had just bolted like a frightened filly, obviously to avoid him. On the other hand, he had behaved like a dumbstruck schoolboy on first meeting her. And now that the initial impact had dissipated, he was damned if he knew why. Francesca was lovely in a fresh, girlish way, but not exactly his type. And in any event, beautiful women were the norm of his life, not the exception and, as his friend Nicky Latimer was always saying, were a dime a dozen for a man of his calibre and looks and unquestionable fame. And money. He sighed. Two new wives and countless other less legal liaisons in the past few years had left him immune to beauty, and these days he felt jaded and weary of the emotional turmoil women invariably created in his life, once they became entangled with him. He had sworn off ‘les girls’, as he laughingly called them, six months ago, and when he had come to England he had determined to concentrate on his career. He had no intention of breaking this rule. Not even for Francesca Cunningham. Victor was not given to self-delusion, and he was always brutally honest with himself, and so he readily admitted the attraction had been powerful, that he had momentarily been bowled over by her. But apparently she had not responded in the same way. He shrugged. He was not in the mood to pursue.

Another thought struck him and he nearly laughed out loud. He was thirty-nine years old, almost forty, and Francesca could not be more than eighteen. A baby. Was it possible he had suddenly become susceptible to young girls? Was he afflicted with the nymphet syndrome? Not long ago, dear old Nicky, the soothsayer, had told him he was suffering from a terminal Don Juan complex. This had made him roar with laughter, considering the lustful mouth from which this caustic little comment had issued forth, even though it was based in truth. After his first wife’s tragic death Victor had gone haywire with grief. And then, in the intervening years, he had become something of a womanizer, and he didn’t mind who knew it. Conversely, he did not relish the idea of being dubbed a dirty old man.

Katharine sat down on the sofa, struck an elegant pose and said, ‘What are you doing on Monday night?’

Victor threw her a questioning look. ‘Nothing. You should know that, considering you’ve completely taken charge of my social life. Do I ever make a move without you? But why do you ask?’

‘Because I’ve invited Francesca, Kim and their father to be my guests at the play. I’m sure you don’t want to see it again, but I thought it would be nice if you took us all to dinner afterwards, to reciprocate this evening.’

‘Sure, why not,’ he said amiably. He took out a packet of mentholated cigarettes and lit one, drawing on it deeply.

Kim, who had seated himself next to Katharine, looked at her askance. ‘Oh, I say, darling, that’s not necessary. Victor doesn’t have to reciprocate,’ he exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t want to be saddled with our tribe –’

‘Sure I do,’ Victor interrupted. ‘I think it’s a terrific idea. I’d love to take you all to dinner. Now, where do you want to go, Katharine? Ziegi’s Club, the Caprice, Les Ambassadeurs, the Casanova or the River Club?’

‘Why, Victor, I wasn’t thinking of such ritzy places,’ cried Katharine, who had indeed had one of them in mind, considering it essential for her career to be seen in smart restaurants. She looked across at him, her eyes wide with innocence, and smiled winningly. ‘But since you did ask my preference, I think it would be super if you took us to Les A. I haven’t been there for ages, and it’s one of my favourite places. Wouldn’t that be lovely, Kim?’

Kim, who had never set foot in Les Ambassadeurs, but frequently read about it in the columns, nodded slowly. ‘It’s most awfully kind of you, Victor,’ he said. He lifted his glass, wondering what his father would think, whether he would approve of such goings-on with show-business folk in a fancy supper club. But then, why not? After all, the old man was squiring Doris around, and she was a leading light in international café society. It also struck him that Victor’s presence might make the evening less tense. This cheered him up and helped to dispel his mild irritation with Katharine for placing Victor in such an awkward position. Perhaps she, too, had considered this point.

Katharine said, ‘Should I get a ticket for you, Victor darling?’

‘No. Thanks anyway, honey. I’m afraid I have to do some work on Monday night. I have a number of calls to make to the Coast and New York, and because of the time differences I can’t really start until five or six o’clock. I’ll make a reservation for around eleven and meet you there.’

Francesca poked her head around the door. ‘Supper’s ready, if you’d like to come in,’ she said.

Katharine joined Francesca, and the two girls crossed the hall to the dining room. In a confiding voice she told Francesca about the newly-made plans. ‘I do hope your father is going to be free. I just know we’ll have lots of fun.’

Francesca drew in her breath sharply. After a short pause, she said, ‘I’m sure he will be.’ And then, hearing the echo of Victor’s voice behind her, she hoped her father had another engagement. She had been looking forward to seeing Katharine in the play, but unexpectedly the whole idea of the evening had now lost its appeal.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_84d1a271-5440-59ad-895e-e3aa94a5320d)

The dining room was impressive, both in its dimensions and its decoration. Tonight the room was dimly lit, but attractively so. Tall white candles flickered in the heavy, chased-silver candelabra placed at each end of the sideboard and in the centre of the dining table. In this warm and golden light the mahogany table gleamed with dark, ripe colour, and its highly polished surface had the glassy sheen of mirror. Reflected against it was the glitter of Georgian silver and hand-cut lead crystal wine goblets, the sparkle of white bone china plates, rimmed in gold and bearing the Langley family crest, also in gold.

The fir green walls, as cool and dark as a bosky forest, gave the room its restful tranquillity, made a superb muted backdrop for the incomparable oil paintings. Each one was mounted in an ornately carved and gilded-wood frame, and effectively illuminated by a small picture light attached to the top of the frame. The fluttering candles and the picture lights, the only illumination in the room, infused the ambience with a mellowness that was quite lovely, gave it an intimacy that was at once both charming and inviting.

Francesca showed Katharine and Victor to their places, and then went to the sideboard to serve the turtle soup, spooning it into green-and-gold Royal Worcester bowls from a large silver tureen. Victor observed her closely, struck by her elegance. His eyes roved around the room, and with interest. He admired its beauty and style. Background was the message it telegraphed to him, and that, he thought, is something no amount of money can buy. As he absorbed his surroundings his attention was caught by the painting on the end wall. It was a full-length, life-size portrait of a woman in an elaborate blue taffeta gown. Her pale blonde hair was piled high in an intricate pompadour surmounted by several plumes of blue feathers. Topaz earrings gleamed at her ears, and a topaz necklace fell down from her slender neck to fill out the décolletage. Of course, it was Francesca, and it was an exquisite portrait, beautifully executed and with explicit attention to every minute detail. Victor had the feeling that if he reached out and touched the dress his fingers would encounter silk, so realistically was the texture of the fabric depicted by the peerless brush-strokes.

After distributing the bowls of soup, Francesca sat down at the foot of the table, opposite Kim, who was seated at the head. Victor turned to her immediately, and said with some admiration, ‘That’s a remarkable portrait of you. And it’s very beautiful.’

She stared at him uncomprehending for a second, and then followed his gaze. ‘Oh, that one. But it’s not of me,’ she said, and picked up her soup spoon. ‘It’s of my great-great-great-great-grandmother, the Sixth Countess of Langley. Traditional and classical portraits of that nature are not in vogue any more. Furthermore, they are rarely painted these days, except by Annigoni occasionally. He did the Queen, you know.’

‘Oh,’ Victor said. Rebuffed, he dropped his eyes. She’s certainly put you in your place, he thought. Only the English have the knack of making everyone else look stupid and ignorant in an insidious way, and without really appearing to be rude. As he reached for his spoon he repressed a smile. It was a long time since he had been slapped in the face, figuratively speaking, by a woman. If it was a bit demeaning, it was also something of a novelty.

Katharine, who missed nothing, was dismayed at Francesca’s tone and nonplussed by the snub to Victor. She exclaimed swiftly, ‘Well, Francesca, it does bear a striking resemblance to you. It would have fooled me. Who painted it?’

‘Thomas Gainsborough,’ Kim volunteered. ‘Around 1770. And I agree with both of you. It does look like Francesca. There is another portrait of the Sixth, as we call her, at Langley. By George Romney. The likeness is most apparent in that one, too.’ He paused, and on the spur of the moment, said, ‘I hope you will both come to Langley soon, for a weekend, and then you’ll see it for yourselves. We must make plans for a visit. I know Father would enjoy having you. Wouldn’t he, Francesca?’

Stiffening, Francesca straightened up in the chair. ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone low, and she did not elaborate. She was flabbergasted. Kim was incorrigible, issuing an invitation like that. He presumed too much. If their father didn’t like Katharine, the invitation would have to be rescinded. Then Katharine would be hurt, and with good reason.

‘Kim, that would be wonderful!’ Katharine cried with genuine delight. Her face fell. ‘But, gosh, I don’t know how I could manage it, with the two Saturday performances. Unless –’ Her face lit up again, and she looked across the table at Victor. ‘Unless Gus drove us to Yorkshire late one Saturday night, after the play, and brought us back on Monday afternoon. That would work. Could we do it one weekend, Victor? Please.’

Victor nodded, and concentrated on his soup, not wishing to make another faux pas. Although Francesca’s disdainful attitude had amused him somewhat, he was experiencing a sense of discomfort. Since these feelings were unparalleled in him they were therefore all the more confusing and troubling. He tried to shake them off, and then he thought: But I’ve got to hand it to Katharine. She’s got guts, and a cool assurance, that is enviable. And she certainly seems in her natural element whenever she mixes in this upper echelon of English society. He wondered again about her background, as he had so often in the three months he had known her. Funny how she never mentioned it. The only facts he had been able to pry out of her told him virtually nothing. She had been born in Chicago. She had lived in England for almost six years. And she was an orphan. Well, she acquired her inimitable style somewhere, he commented dryly to himself. She’s to the manner born, to be sure.