Blood Stones (35 page)

She rocked him a little, it was an old childhood habit. When either one had been given the stick by their father, the other used to cradle them in their arms. She let the subject go, because she knew he didn't want to blame Julius Heyderman. He would let Heyderman kick him, and lick his hand like a beaten dog afterwards. It made her seethe with fury, but she couldn't do anything about it. For some reason beyond her understanding, her brother needed that relationship. He needed his hero to worship. Joy didn't suffer from a dependence on anyone but him. And her mother's Afrikaans blood made her a good hater. She would hold the grudge for a lifetime. One day, she muttered to herself, one day I'll pay them out, those bloody Heydermans … one day. She cooked him a special supper that evening and fussed over him till he cheered up. In bed together he drew her close to him.

‘Joy,' he whispered. ‘What would I do without you?'

‘We've got each other,' she said. ‘That's all that matters …'

Elizabeth had dressed after the examination. Now she sat facing the doctor in his consulting room.

‘Madame Hastings, the backache is the first sign of uterine contractions. It means the uterus is irritable and may try and reject the foetus. It is close to the menstrual cycle, and that is always a dangerous time.'

He saw her lose colour. She had been a good patient, sensible and unfussing and he liked her.

‘You should go into a clinic for the next few days. With complete rest and treatment, we should be able to prevent a miscarriage.'

She didn't answer; she sat looking at him.

He said kindly, ‘It is a sensible precaution. I will make arrangements for you to be admitted this afternoon.'

Elizabeth found her voice. She tried to keep it steady.

‘Am I going to lose my baby? You must tell me.'

He shook his head. ‘No, as I said, this is only a precaution … It is quite common for a first pregnancy to have little grumbles. You are healthy, your child is healthy; all you must do is rest and you may not even need any medical treatment. Above all, Madame, you must stay calm and not worry. Stress causes more miscarriages than many people realize. I am very confident everything will be all right after a few days.'

She opened her purse, took out a handkerchief, put it back unused. She felt too shocked to cry. They were due to leave for Cap d'Antibes that day. The niggling discomfort had died down over the last weeks and she'd seen no reason to consult the doctor. But that morning it had returned, and the niggle was now a definite pain. To lose the child, after so long, so many disappointments. To call James and tell him …

She said it aloud. ‘I can't bear it. It's too much.'

The doctor said, ‘I'll telephone the clinic now. I'll tell them to expect you by midday. Go home now, and don't worry. Will your husband be with you? Would you like me to telephone and reassure him?'

‘No,' Elizabeth said quickly. ‘No thank you. I'll tell him myself. But I can't go in until this afternoon. Not before three o'clock. Will it make all that much difference?'

He came and helped her into her coat. ‘No no, I told you, it's a precaution.' She looked so stricken that he decided not to argue. An hour or two would be less harmful than any added emotional trauma. ‘But you are to go straight home and rest. No engagements, no exertions. I'll call in to the clinic to see you this evening.'

She had a taxi waiting. Three o'clock. By then James would be on his way to Cap d'Antibes. He had to go. She reasoned with herself during the drive back to the apartment. The weekend was vital. If he missed this opportunity, his career prospects were ruined. He had made that clear often enough. The chance to meet Karakov's client was vital to him. If he knew she was in danger, that there was any threat of a miscarriage, he wouldn't go … It was only a precaution, the doctor said. She kept repeating this, insisting on it. Going into a clinic was just being sensible because of the little pains. Grumbles, he had called them. A few days and she would be home and her pregnancy would be on course. If she let James know anything, he would sacrifice his one chance for nothing. They had arranged to meet at Charles de Gaulle and catch the two o'clock flight to Nice. He had taken his cases to the office, hers were already packed. Casual clothes, evening dress for the inevitable dinner party.

She paid off the taxi and went slowly up the steps to the front door. Her legs felt as if they might buckle under her. Inside she broke the rules and poured herself a small glass of brandy. It made her feel sick. She rushed to the bathroom and threw up into the basin. She was shaking all over, and the pain had moved from back to front. She washed her face and went back to her bedroom and lay down. Keep calm, don't worry, rest, wait till he was at the airport and call him there. Convince him it was a muscle, a disc … It wouldn't be long. If I can sleep a bit, she thought, just doze and try to relax. She took deep breaths as recommended by the antenatal teacher, and folded her hands across the little swelling in her belly, as if she could still the ache in her treacherous womb.

Poor Liz, James kept thinking. The aircraft rose steeply through a thick bank of clouds and juddered with turbulence. Poor kid, putting her back out. Stuck in bed over the weekend. His first reaction had been to turn round and go home. He could go to the bloody villa on Saturday in time for the dinner party. She had been very firm when he had suggested it. Even angry, saying he was fussing about nothing, reminding him how important it was to meet the Arab and his girlfriend, and all she had was a twisted muscle needing a couple of days' bed rest.

The flight to Nice was being called as they argued … He gave way because she convinced him it would worry her more if he cancelled. He'd call this evening, he promised. And if luck was on his side, he might be able to get back on Sunday morning. He'd do his damndest. She had the maid Louise sleeping in; she even teased him by saying she could call Jean Pierre to come round and keep her company. They were laughing as he rang off and went through to catch his plane.

The sister in charge came up to him. ‘Monsieur Hastings?'

‘No.' Jean Pierre got up. ‘No, I'm not the husband. I'm a friend. How is she?'

‘She's quite well,' the answer was brisk. ‘But I'm afraid she miscarried. There are no complications. It was quite straightforward. She's sedated and sleeping now. She asked for her husband. Can you contact him? I understand he's away for the weekend.'

She wasn't hiding her disapproval when she said it. She had a very cold eye.

‘I haven't an address or telephone number. I went round when she telephoned. She was too distressed to tell me anything. I'll call his office. They'll know where to find him.'

He had been on his way out when the telephone rang. He had been tempted to leave it, he was already late for an appointment. Then he realized he must have forgotten to switch the ansaphone on, and with some irritation he turned back and took the call. It was Elizabeth.

‘Jean Pierre … Jean Pierre … Can you come round? The maid's out, and I'm bleeding … I'm having a miscarriage.'

He heard her sobbing. He jumped lights and nearly collided with a lorry on his way to rue Constantine. The door was open; she must have dragged herself to open it before she collapsed in the hall. It was a blur after that. The call for an ambulance, the rush to the clinic. The long wait for news. He would never forget the agony on her face as he held her hand in the speeding ambulance.

‘Poor little thing,' she kept saying. ‘Poor little thing …'

He bowed his head and shed tears as if the child was his own.

He got through to the Diamond Enterprises office. He asked for James Hastings' secretary. There was a buzz and then a woman answered.

‘Mr Hastings' office.'

‘I need to contact Mr Hastings. My name is Lasalle. I understand he's away for the weekend.'

‘Can you tell me what it's about?' She sounded pleasant but firm. ‘Perhaps I can help? We're not supposed to give out private numbers. I'm sorry.'

‘Yes,' he nearly shouted at her. ‘Yes. Tell him his wife's had a miscarriage and she's asking for him. She's in the Marthier Clinic.'

There was a pause, then he heard the cool voice say. ‘I'm so sorry to hear that. Is she in any danger?'

‘No, she's not,' he answered. ‘But she's very traumatized. She needs him. Now can you give me the number?'

‘That won't be necessary. I'll speak to him myself and give him the message. Please tell his wife how sorry I am and wish her better soon.'

Then she hung up.

A car sent from the Villa Roc d'Or met James at Nice Airport. It arrived in Cap d'Antibes and took a long private road behind electronically controlled gates out onto a rocky promontory overlooking the sea. James's case was taken by a uniformed flunkey and he was greeted in the hall by his hostess.

‘Monsieur Hastings? I am Françoise de Reayles de Zulueta. How nice of you to come. Where is your wife?'

She was so ugly he was taken by surprise, until she smiled. The charm of her personality made up for everything.

‘Oh, I am so sorry, Countess,' he explained. ‘She was taken ill at the last minute. She hurt her back and she only called me at the airport. Her doctor insisted she stays in bed. She's expecting a baby, you see. She was so upset about it, and I feel terrible arriving without her, but I had no way of letting you know.'

‘What a disappointment,' Françoise said graciously. ‘And how miserable for her. Backs are such a nuisance and so painful. I shall look forward to meeting her another time … Now, Paco will show you your room, and then please join us through here,' she gestured to an archway on the left of the hall, ‘for a drink before we change for dinner. All our other guests are here.'

James didn't waste time in the bedroom. He could see that money and taste were evident down to the smallest detail. He could unpack later. All he wanted to do was get down and meet Luchaire and the Arab. He had everything planned. Word perfect, like an actor knowing his lines. Thank God for old Wasserman. Only a real diamond man would have thought of it.

Privately, Françoise was irritated that the wife had backed out at the last minute. She didn't believe in sudden slipped discs. Nothing so trivial would have made her cancel an important engagement. She was annoyed because the missing girl was a social asset, and because it left her with odd numbers at too short notice to get someone else. Eugene might have got the price of her pearls reduced, but he had upset the balance of her houseparty by asking her to invite the English couple. She would be very sharp with him next time.

As they sipped champagne in the big vaulted room with its magnificent view over the sea, she was mollified by James's good looks and charming manners. He paid her a lot of attention, and was making a good impression on her other guests, the Wildensteins, France's richest and most prestigious racehorse owners. The Saudi prince was passionate about horses, and was the most successful racehorse owner in his own country. His ambition was to rival the Mahktouns, but so far his father had forbidden him to own and race horses in Europe. Madeline Luchaire and her prince were the last to come down before dinner. Being an actress she had to make an entrance. James was talking to Wildenstein's elegant wife with one eye on the archway. He saw the countess move forward. They had been absent from the brief drinks before he went upstairs to bathe and change. Madeline came in on the prince's arm. She was a lovely woman, James admitted, sheathed in a special glamour, and she had a radiant smile that encompassed them all. Her lover was in Western evening dress. A white tuxedo showed off a tall, athletic figure. He had a classical Arab face, strong features, acquiline nose and a rather cruel mouth. He was as impressive in his own right as any European royal. James was the last to be introduced. He kissed Luchaire's hand, brushing an egg-sized sapphire ring as he did so, and bowed when he shook hands with the prince.

‘Unfortunately,' Françoise was saying, ‘Lady Elizabeth had to cancel at the last minute. She isn't well. Such a pity.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' the Prince said. ‘It's not serious?'

His English was impeccable, with a faint American accent. He had been educated in the States.

‘She's pregnant,' James explained, judging that a bad back wouldn't be considered reason enough to opt out.

The prince smiled. ‘Ah, then she is right not to take risks. Travelling by air is bad for women when they are expecting children.'

He passed on, leaving Madeline with James. ‘She's lucky,' she said. ‘I would love to have a child, but my career makes it impossible. It's so demanding.'

By the look of her, James thought, she'd been getting sore heels upstairs for most of the afternoon. He had tried to phone Elizabeth from his room, but the number was engaged.

‘My wife was dying to meet you,' he said. ‘She's a tremendous fan. We both loved you in
Twilight World.'

He'd done his homework. He'd memorized the names of recent plays. If he couldn't get an opportunity with the prince, she would have to be the target. It was important to make friends with her.

Dinner was a long and formal ritual. The prince only drank fruit juice, but for everyone else the wines were as superb as the food. The conversation didn't spark; rich and cultivated though he was, he lacked humour and lightness. He had a brooding personality that only warmed when he looked at Madeline Luchaire. She gave a great performance. James watched the clever nuances of a competent actress with a small talent in a one-woman part. A woman hopelessly in love and lost in admiration for her noble lover. She gazed at him, she deferred, and she flirted in a language that excluded other people. She earns her loot, James decided. She's got that bloody great hawk of a man on a silk rope, but I bet she never puts a foot wrong. She wouldn't dare. And she'll get her red diamonds out of him unless I pull this off. He realized there wouldn't be a chance that night. It was too soon to manoeuvre himself into a private conversation with the prince. Even with Luchaire herself. Above all, it had to be done in seeming innocence, almost a throw-away remark …