The Scarlet Thread (32 page)

He had engaged a fashionable string quartet to play during the reception. They were placed discreetly in the hall, with orders to provide light popular music for the first hour and a half.

Maxton checked his watch again. The gendarmes were on duty to direct the traffic, and a crowd of sightseers stood on either side of the entrance. Red carpeting ran across the courtyard and up the flight of marble steps, protected by a long red awning in case it rained. He had dressed the doormen and waiters in red and gold livery, with powdered wigs. Yes, he had agreed when Angela protested, it was very vulgar. But the clients would love it. He wondered how much his efforts had been appreciated by that smug bastard. Then he quickly shrugged aside the silly self-pity. Just because he hadn't been invited to join the family gathering upstairs …

He sent a flunky out to see if the cars were approaching. The big fish would arrive late. Only the arrivistes would be on time. He smiled at his own witticism. It made him feel better. He could tell Madeleine. She would appreciate it. He hoped she would bring her rich, ridiculous lover early rather than fashionably late. He wanted someone to share the evening with him. The flunky reappeared.

“There are cars approaching, Monsieur Maxton.”

“Right. Go upstairs and tell Monsieur Lawrence.”

Charlie was just proposing a toast. Angela remembered he had done the same on their wedding day. She was so proud of him, and he was so proud of Steven.

“Here's good luck tonight, Dad. Good luck, good fortune and lots of lovely money!” They all laughed and drank with him.

Steven said, “Thanks, Charlie. To
la bella fortuna
—and to you, my darling, who's done so much to make it come to pass.” He took Angela's hand and kissed it.

Charlie grinned at them. “Mum's blushing,” he said. Then, glancing out the window: “Gosh, I can see masses of cars.”

The flunky knocked, and Steven said, “It's time we went downstairs. You ready, Angelina? And you too, Charlie. I want you with us.”

The main hall was soon full; the buffet and champagne bars set up in the ground-floor reception rooms were crowded with people. The music was drowned out by the sustained chattering of four hundred people circulating around the food and drink, greeting each other, vying for the house photographers to take their pictures. Steven had given up shaking hands, trying to hear names; Maxton presented the important guests as they arrived, and he was close at hand when the prize guest arrived on the arm of a big, handsome man.

Maxton moved forward, taking a hand that glittered with diamond rings and kissing it. “Nettie, my sweet. How absolutely fabulous you look! Come and let me introduce you.”

Angela saw the woman approaching. She was more than beautiful. There were so many beautiful women, exquisitely dressed and bejeweled, that she had lost count. But this one was exceptional. She was tiny, and yet she created space around her. She was always center stage. Dark hair with a single streak of blond from her left temple, a perfect face with huge blue eyes, and a pink, pouting mouth that opened in a charming smile as she came up to Steven.

“May I present Monsieur Lawrence. And Madame Lawrence? Her Highness Princess Orbach.”

She lingered for a moment, letting her hand stay in Steven's. Her neck and bosom were hung with sapphires and diamonds, and huge earrings danced and flashed as she moved her head. Then she paused by Angela. “Madame.” She inclined her head and kept the charming smile, but the blue eyes were filmed with indifference. She passed on, and her escort, who had an unpronounceable name, kissed Angela's hand, muttered, “
Enchanté
,” and hurried after his princess. After that, everything threatened to be anticlimax.

“Well,” Maxton murmured. “At least she turned up. That's something.”

“But she accepted,” Angela said. “I saw her name on the list.”

“That doesn't mean a thing,” he corrected. “She says yes to anything that looks amusing, but she's quite likely not to come at the last minute. Now let's see how long she stays. That's going to be important. What did you think of the Hungarian hunk?” He laughed mirthlessly.

Angela had always hated his laugh. It cackled without a note of kindly humor in its high pitch. It was cruel, she thought suddenly, as if he laughed only at misfortune or at someone's expense.

“I don't know,” she said. “He didn't exactly stop to make conversation.”

“He daren't,” Maxton said. “She calls the tune. She has the money. He thinks she's going to marry him, poor sod, but she won't. She'll suck him dry and then suddenly tell her friends he's such a bore, darling, I simply couldn't stand another
moment
.…” He mimicked her mercilessly. “And that's the sentence of death among the so-called smart set down here.”

Angela didn't smile. She said, “What an awful woman she must be. I'm going to find Charlie.”

“He's through there.” Maxton indicated the supper room. “Let me get you something to eat,” he said quietly. “You're quite right. She is absolutely ghastly, but I've lived among those sorts of people so long I've got used to them. Thank God you haven't.”

“I hope I never will,” Angela said.

At eleven-thirty the gaming rooms were opened. Maxton had left Angela in Charlie's care after supper and hurried after a very pretty girl who signaled him from the doorway.

“I can't eat another thing, Mum,” her son said. “Can I get something else for you? There's a super pudding called a Bombe Surprise. Have a bit of that?”

“No, thank you, darling. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, I'm having a super time. Who's Ralph gone off with? Jolly pretty, isn't she?” He watched Madeleine admiringly. She had an overweight man in tow and was introducing him to Maxton.

“No pudding for me,” Angela said. “Let's go and find Steven. I haven't seen him for ages.”

It was silly to feel ill at ease. Silly to be lonely among such a throng of people, some of whom she knew and had come up to her, all smiles and congratulations. Ralph had taken care of her. Charlie was solicitous in his concern that she share his enjoyment of the “super” food and drink, but she realized that he, too, was out of his element.

“Come on,” she said.

He caught her arm. “Look, he's over there. I'll get him.”

“No, don't. He's talking to people; we'll go and join them.”

Madeleine was laughing. She pinched her protector's plump cheek and made a charming little grimace at him.

“Now, Bernard, my sweet, you know you're dying to go upstairs and win some money for me. You go on, and I'll come and bring you luck. One glass of champagne and then I'll join you, eh?”

Her fingers had left a little red mark on his sallow skin. He glanced at the ugly man, with his hooked nose and narrow features, and decided he could safely leave Madeleine with him for a little while. He was itching to play, and she was encouraging him. She always encouraged him to do what he liked, whatever form it took. And she had such an adorable laugh, like a naughty little girl. A vicious child, he called her, vicious and wicked and irresistible, like the gambling demon that devoured him equally. He left her with the ugly Englishman.

“Oh,
Dieu merci
,” she breathed when he had gone. “He's so
boring
, Ralphie … and such a dirty old devil. You know what he wanted me to do to him before we came here?”

“No,” Maxton said firmly. “And you're not going to tell me. To me you're just a sweet little innocent. Now let's sink some champagne, shall we?”

She hooked her arm through his and pressed against him. “Okay,” she said. “Then we go up and I get some chips from him and we have a bit of fun, eh?”

They settled into a sofa upholstered into an alcove. Madeleine made him laugh; she cheered his spirits and encouraged him to show the snide and cynical side that had upset Angela. He felt at home with Madeleine. They were part of the same worthless, superficial world. He poured and drank, never becoming drunk, just blurring the edges of sensitivity.

“Is that your boss?” Madeleine's strong little fingers gripped his wrist. “I saw him shaking hands with people in the hall.”

“Yes. Didn't you meet him?”

“No.” She lifted one silky shoulder in disgust. “My old fart wouldn't queue up—you know what he's like. My God, Ralphie, isn't he attractive?”

“If you say so,” Maxton answered.

Steven was talking to a couple whom Maxton had invited to the villa. The man had made a lot of money out of property on the coast. Angela was busy with the wife; she'd feel more comfortable with the pleasant French matron than with the glittering Nettie Orbach and her kind. Maxton realized he was being nasty about Angela because she had rebuked him. He had never been able to accept criticism—a major failing. His father used to thunder at him, “Never in the wrong, are you, my boy? Well, God help you, you'll find out one day.”

Madeleine was staring at Steven. Maxton knew that look: the narrowed eyes, the full, greedy mouth parting to show the tip of a libidinous tongue.

“You can forget him,” he mocked her. “That's his wife, the blonde in the white dress.”

“So what?” she demanded. “She's not anything special. His son's so good-looking too. Why don't I meet him, then?”

“He's seventeen, darling,” Maxton jeered. “And it's his stepson anyway.” He tipped the last of the champagne into his glass.

Madeleine turned to him, her eyes wide open now. “Don't be silly! Stepson, my foot! They're the image of each other. They
must
be father and son.”

He'd never noticed it before. He took a long look at them, a proper look for the first time. She was right. Absolutely right. The same hair and eyes; very similar features; gestures and expressions that mirrored each other. You say stepson and nobody bothers to take a second look.

“You're bloody clever, aren't you?” he murmured. “Sharp eyes, haven't we, sweetheart? You're bloody right. The boy must be his.”

She smiled and squeezed his wrist again. “Have they been telling Ralphie lies? And Ralphie swallowed them? Ooh, that's not like you, darling. You can spot a lie coming before it gets around the corner.”

“That's because it's usually my lie,” he countered. “I tell lies to people, and they tell them back to me. Let's go and see what your fat friend is up to, shall we? Maybe he'll give you a few francs to play with.”

She got up, linking arms with him, and walked with the provocative hip swing that made men stare after her. He was cross, she realized. Poor Ralphie; the con man had actually been conned. She giggled. How very funny. He really was cross; she could tell by the set of his thin lips.

They went upstairs to the
salon privé
. Her friend was at the baccarat table. He had been losing, and he looked up, scowling, when she touched him.

“Where have you been? You said one drink,” he complained.

“I'm so sorry, my sweet, but I'm here now, and don't you worry. I'll change your luck.”

She did, and Maxton stood beside her as the cards came out of the shoe and he began to bet and to win. An hour later she demanded, and was given, ten thousand francs. She went off with Ralph to play roulette. She was lucky that night. Her excitement grew as her chips piled up.

He wondered whether she banked her money. The looks and the body wouldn't last forever, if he was right about the Moroccan blood.

“I'd stop now, if I were you,” he said.

She looked up at him. There was a bright flush on her cheeks. “Why?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You mean the wheel's fixed?”

“Nothing like that,” he answered. “We play on the law of averages here. We don't run any crooked games. The law of averages says you're going to start losing. But it's up to you, darling.”

“I always do what you tell me,” she declared. “I always think a man knows best.” She gave him a huge wink, gathered her winnings and left the table. “I'd better go back to Bernard,” she said. “I shan't tell him I won. Then if he's lucky he'll give me a present. When will I see you, Ralphie?”

“When's he going home?”

She changed the chips for cash, folding the notes into a tight little wad that fitted into her evening bag. It was a large bag, not a smart little
pochette
.
I bet she banks every penny
, he thought.
Good for her
.

“I'll let you know,” she promised. She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You're such fun, darling,” she said. “I love our afternoons together. I'll telephone you.” Then she slipped away, the bag with the money pressed close under her arm.

“My darling,” Steven said. “If you're tired, why not go home? It's been a long evening. I'll call the car, and Charlie can go with you. Has he enjoyed himself?”

“Yes, he's loved every minute. But he's a bit young for it. I wouldn't let him gamble. He was very disappointed.”

“I'll talk to him,” Steven said. “You wait there, and I'll send him along to you. You were right. I'm going to tell him so.”

He had to look for Charlie. He wasn't in the supper room, where breakfast was being served. He'd slipped away, sulking perhaps, and left his mother. No excuses, Steven insisted. He must learn. He must learn to take care of her and to respect me. I love him enough to be angry, even tonight.

Charlie was upstairs in the smaller salon, watching the roulette. He started when Steven came up behind him.

“Oh, hello, Dad. Dad, I wanted to cash some money and have a try on the wheel, but they won't give me any chips. Can't you say something? It's pretty stupid.”

“The cashiers are doing what I told them,” Steven said quietly. “You are not to gamble. Come with me, Charlie.”