Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3) (35 page)

Our eyes meet and we smile knowingly, the smile of our shared secrets and our shared passions. I shiver lightly at the thought of our next rendezvous and the lessons I might be compelled to learn.

A speech is starting in the other room. They are going to toast Mark in his favourite champagne. Dominic takes my hand and we go to re-join the others.

Epilogue

The parcel arrives for me care of Mark Palliser.

‘As though whoever it is doesn’t know he’s dead,’ remarks James as he props it up in the office. ‘You’d think they’d know. His obituaries were in all the papers, after all. And you sent out the official notification, didn’t you?’

I nod. We had cards printed at the Queen’s stationers and sent out to all Mark’s clients. The condolence cards sent back are on every surface.

‘It’s addressed to me, anyway,’ I say. ‘So perhaps it’s just a mistake.’

‘Shall we open it?’ James gets some scissors off the desk and starts to slice carefully away at the wrapping. Underneath there is bubble wrap and below that is a wooden case sealed shut with metal ties. It takes all of James’s strength to cut through them so that we can open it.

At last James lifts the wooden top and there is one final layer of softest cotton. He lifts that, and I gasp.

It is the painting of the girl reading that I bought for Andrei’s bathroom in Albany. It is a stunning masterpiece by Fragonard himself, a portrait so lifelike and moving that I’ve always imagined the girl is just about to turn the page of her book.

James whistles and says, ‘Oh my Lordy. Look at this. Is this what I think it is?’

I nod, my eyes wide. ‘The Fragonard. But James – why would Andrei send this to me?’

James laughs. ‘Who knows? But I’ll tell you something, it’s the best present you’re ever going to get!’

I stare at the picture. I have no idea why Andrei would give me this precious painting unless it was somehow to protect it. But why this one, among all his treasures? Perhaps it’s because it is the only one I chose for him myself. I wonder if he knows that all his art will be taken from him, when justice inevitably catches up with him, whenever that day may be.

I remember Mark’s present to me of the tiny miniature. Suddenly it occurs to me that that tiny painting is a real Fragonard too. For some reason, Mark gave me a real painting, worth thousands. A strange thought floats into my mind. Did Mark suspect that Andrei was using him all along? Was he too protecting one tiny precious work of art by giving it to me?

‘Beth? Are you all right?’

I look up. ‘Yes. I’m fine. I’m not sure what to do with this. It should be in a museum really.’

‘Maybe.’ James puts his head on one side and looks at it. ‘But I know where it would look beautiful. What about that adorable Chelsea house you and Dominic are going to buy? Won’t it look amazing in the drawing room?’

I think about the sweet little cottage we’ve found and how pretty the painting will look above our fireplace. Every time I imagine our home, I feel a surge of warmth and excitement.

‘Or how about your New York pad?’ James says wickedly. ‘Or haven’t you chosen that yet?’

‘Not yet,’ I say with a laugh. ‘We’re going to stay with Georgie for the time being, even if it doesn’t quite fit with Dominic’s idea of himself as a Park Avenue kind of guy.’

‘Take her home with you,’ James urges. ‘She’s yours. I know you love her.’

I look at the painting’s lavender and yellow tones, the girl’s delicate skin, the kink in her little finger where she holds her book.

‘Why resist?’ smiles James. ‘What would Mark say?’

I smile back. ‘All right, I will. She can hang in the cottage and remind me of an incredible time in my life.’

‘Good girl. You deserve her. Now, let’s put her away for now, and get on with the rest of our work. I want to go through your New York itinerary.’

I watch as James puts the cotton covering back over the portrait. The girl vanishes beneath the soft white sheet. We can store her in the box room where Mark kept his paintings on their way to be packed or unpacked. Like the ring that sparkles on my finger, something tells me that she is another kind of promise.

But, try as I might, I can’t think of what.

Acknowledgements

Once again, I owe a great deal to my editor, Harriet, and copyeditor, Justine – thank you both for your hard work. I’m thankful to everyone at Hodder, particularly the amazing production department, and to Lucy for her wonderful efforts in publicity.

Thank you to Lizzy and Harriet, my agent and her splendid assistant, for everything they do on my behalf.

Thank you to my friends and family for all their support, and to my husband for not minding when I vanish for long stretches into another world. I couldn’t do it without you.

Most of all, thank you to the wonderful readers of these books who’ve told me how much they’ve enjoyed reading about Beth and Dominic. I feel so happy to have shared them with you and to have received such encouraging messages on Twitter. Thank you all so much!

If you haven’t read the first two books in

Sadie Matthews’ thrilling and provocative

After Dark
series, then indulge yourself with

a teaser extract from book one,

Find out how it all began . . .

The First Week

Chapter One

The city takes my breath away as it stretches beyond the taxi windows, rolling past like giant scenery being unfurled by an invisible stagehand. Inside the cab, I’m cool, quiet and untouchable. Just an observer. But out there, in the hot stickiness of a July afternoon, London is moving hard and fast: traffic surges along the lanes and people throng the streets, herds of them crossing roads whenever the lights change. Bodies are everywhere, of every type, age, size and race. Millions of lives are unfolding on this one day in this one place. The scale of it all is overwhelming.

What have I done?

As we skirt a huge green space colonised by hundreds of sunbathers, I wonder if this is Hyde Park. My father told me that Hyde Park is bigger than Monaco. Imagine that. Monaco might be small, but even so. The thought makes me shiver and I realise I’m frightened. That’s odd because I don’t consider myself a cowardly person.

Anyone would be nervous
, I tell myself firmly. But it’s no surprise my confidence has been shot after everything that’s happened lately. The familiar sick feeling churns in my stomach and I damp it down.

Not today. I’ve got too much else to think about. Besides, I’ve done enough thinking and crying. That’s the whole reason I’m here.

‘Nearly there, love,’ says a voice suddenly, and I realise it’s the taxi driver, his voice distorted by the intercom. I see him watching me in the rear-view mirror. ‘I know a good short cut from here,’ he says, ‘no need to worry about all this traffic.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, though I expected nothing less from a London cabbie; after all, they’re famous for their knowledge of the city’s streets, which is why I decided to splurge on one instead of wrestling with the Underground system. My luggage isn’t enormous but I didn’t relish the idea of heaving it on and off trains and up escalators in the heat. I wonder if the driver is assessing me, trying to guess what on earth I’m doing going to such a prestigious address when I look so young and ordinary; just a girl in a flowery dress, red cardigan and flip-flops, with sunglasses perched in hair that’s tied in a messy ponytail, strands escaping everywhere.

‘First time in London, is it?’ he asks, smiling at me via the mirror.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say. That isn’t strictly true. I came as a girl at Christmas once with my parents and I remember a noisy blur of enormous shops, brightly lit windows, and a Santa whose nylon trousers crackled as I sat on his knee, and whose polyester white beard scratched me softly on the cheek. But I don’t feel like getting into a big discussion with the driver, and anyway the city is as good as foreign to me. It’s my first time alone here, after all.

‘On your own, are you?’ he asks and I feel a little uncomfortable, even though he’s only being friendly.

‘No, I’m staying with my aunt,’ I reply, lying again.

He nods, satisfied. We’re pulling away from the park now, darting with practised agility between buses and cars, swooping past cyclists, taking corners quickly and flying through amber traffic lights. Then we’re off the busy main roads and in narrow streets lined by high brick-and-stone mansions with tall windows, glossy front doors, shining black iron railings, and window boxes spilling with bright blooms. I can sense money everywhere, not just in the expensive cars parked at the roadsides, but in the perfectly kept buildings, the clean pavements, the half-glimpsed maids closing curtains against the sunshine.

‘She’s doing all right, your aunt,’ jokes the driver as we turn into a small street, and then again into one even smaller. ‘It costs a penny or two to live around here.’

I laugh but don’t reply, not knowing what to say. On one side of the street is a mews converted into minute but no doubt eye-wateringly pricy houses, and on the other a large mansion of flats, filling up most of the block and going up six storeys at least. I can tell from its Art Deco look that it was built in the 1930s; the outside is grey, dominated by a large glass-and-walnut door. The driver pulls up in front of it and says, ‘Here we are then. Randolph Gardens.’

I look out at all the stone and asphalt. ‘Where are the gardens?’ I say wonderingly. The only greenery visible is the hanging baskets of red and purple geraniums on either side of the front door.

‘There would have been some here years ago, I expect,’ he replies. ‘See the mews? That was stables at one time. I bet there were a couple of big houses round here once. They’ll have been demolished or bombed in the war, maybe.’ He glances at his meter. ‘Twelve pounds seventy, please, love.’

I fumble for my purse and hand over fifteen pounds, saying, ‘Keep the change,’ and hoping I’ve tipped the right amount. The driver doesn’t faint with surprise, so I guess it must be all right. He waits while I get myself and my luggage out of the cab and on to the pavement and shut the door behind me. Then he does an expert three-point turn in the tight little street and roars off back into the action.

I look up. So here I am. My new home. For a while, at least.

The white-haired porter inside looks up at me enquiringly as I puff through the door and up to his desk with my large bag.

‘I’m here to stay in Celia Reilly’s flat,’ I explain, resisting the urge to wipe away the perspiration on my forehead. ‘She said the key would be here for me.’

‘Name?’ he says gruffly.

‘Beth. I mean, Elizabeth. Elizabeth Villiers.’

‘Let me see . . .’ He snuffles into his moustache as he looks through a file on his desk. ‘Ah, yes. Here we are. Miss E. Villiers. To occupy 514 in Miss Reilly’s absence.’ He fixes me with a beady but not unfriendly gaze. ‘Flat-sitting, are you?’

‘Yes. Well. Cat-sitting, really.’ I smile at him but he doesn’t return it.

‘Oh yes. She does have a cat. Can’t think why a creature like that would want to live its life inside but there we are. Here are the keys.’ He pushes an envelope across the desk towards me. ‘If you could just sign the book for me.’

I sign obediently and he tells me a few of the building regulations as he directs me towards the lift. He offers to take my luggage up for me later but I say I’ll do it myself. At least that way I’ll have everything I need. A moment later I’m inside the small elevator, contemplating my heated, red-faced reflection as the lift ascends slowly to the fifth floor. I don’t look anywhere near as polished as the surroundings, but my heart-shaped face and round blue eyes will never be like the high-cheek-boned, elegant features I most admire. And my fly-away dark-blonde shoulder-length hair will never be the naturally thick, lustrous tresses I’ve always craved. My hair takes work and usually I can’t be bothered, just pulling it back into a messy ponytail.

‘Not exactly a Mayfair lady,’ I say out loud. As I stare at myself, I can see the effect of everything that has happened lately. I’m thinner around the face, and there’s a sadness in my eyes that never seems to go away. I look a bit smaller, somehow, as though I’ve bowed a little under the weight of my misery. ‘Be strong,’ I whisper to myself, trying to find my old spark in my dull gaze. That’s why I’ve come, after all. Not because I’m trying to escape – although that must be part of it – but because I want to rediscover the old me, the one who had spirit and courage and a curiosity in the world.