Secrets After Dark (20 page)

And then there’s my worry that, if it was him, Andrei heard me call him the wrong name and has guessed my feelings for Dominic.

It’s an awful mess but I remind myself that I’m seeing Dominic later. Surely then I’ll find out one way or another, even if I can’t ask him directly what happened.

I feel the need for coffee before I start, so I wander out in the direction of the kitchen, hoping to find Sri there. She can show me how to make it.  I’m lost in thought and almost bump into a tall figure in a red silk robe.

‘Dreaming again?’ says a teasing voice and I look up into Anna’s bright green eyes. She’s standing in the hallway, glamorous despite her lack of make-up and her tousled hair.

‘Hello, Anna,’ I say, flushing. It’s obvious she’s just come out of Andrei’s bedroom.

‘Hello to
you
.’ Her rich voice always sounds as though it has a laugh rolling somewhere inside it. ‘Have you recovered from your little adventure the other night?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, a little stiffly. I don’t want to discuss it with her and I hope she gets the hint.

She stretches a little and yawns. ‘Good. Now, I need some coffee. Shall we get some together?’

Without waiting for an answer, she turns and heads for the kitchen, her dark-red silk robe fluttering around her long legs as she goes. She doesn’t seem to find it at all awkward that she has just emerged from Andrei’s bedroom after having clearly spent the night there.

‘Sri, your finest Columbian blend, please, strong as you can make it without dissolving the spoon,’ she cries as she breezes into the kitchen. ‘You always make such excellent coffee, the best anywhere.’ Sri obeys, bustling about as we sit down at the kitchen table.

Anna fixes me with her direct look. ‘I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing in Andrei’s bedroom.’

‘Not at all,’ I say politely.

She laughs. ‘You’re so English! So funny.’ Then, adopting an exaggerated English accent, she says in a funny voice, ‘Nort et awl.’

‘Well,’ I say, relaxing a little, ‘it’s obvious, isn’t it? I think you and Andrei were playing a very long drawn-out game of Battleships.’

She throws back her head and laughs properly, showing her elegant white throat. ‘Yes, that’s right! Battleships. That’s an excellent name for it. One day you will tell me what Battleships is. It sounds good fun.’

Sri brings over a pot of steaming coffee, a milk jug and some cups, and puts them on the table for us.

‘Thank you, Sri,’ says Anna. She takes the pot and starts to pour out our coffee. ‘You have guessed no doubt that although Battleships sounds like a marvellous way to spend a night, that is not what Andrei and I were doing. We are lovers. Occasional, but no less passionate for that.’

I take the cup she proffers and tip in some milk.
Why is she telling me this?
I say nothing and she continues.

‘I expect you’ve already noticed that Andrei has a passionate nature, very passionate indeed. He’s quite the romantic hero, in some ways: strong, powerful... dominant.’ She fixes me with her liquid gaze and lets it rest on my face for a while as if reading my reaction carefully. I stay silent so she goes on. ‘I thought that when I saw you both come up out of the catacombs after the party. He was carrying you as easily as if you weighed nothing, his arms wrapped around you. You looked rather dramatic, as though you’d fainted, with your head on his shoulder, your arms around his neck, that pretty dress floating all around you. I was glad to learn that you were all right. Dominic and I were quite worried about you.’

My stomach twists nervously. ‘You were?’
Can she tell me more about that night, something that might give me a clue? Does she know something?

She nods. Before answering, she takes a sip of her black coffee, then says, ‘We were afraid you’d managed to get lost. We all went off to look for you, each one of us took a different route to the surface, hoping to find you on the way, and it was Andrei who did.’

I can’t stop myself asking, ‘Not Dominic?’ There’s almost a pleading note in my voice. I hope she hasn’t noticed.

‘Oh no. He met me at the surface not long after we all separated.’ She laughs again. ‘If I were a jealous woman, Beth, I might be jealous of you.’ She shakes her finger at me as though scolding me. ‘To see you in my lover’s arms, as helpless as a rescued kitten... well, I might be afraid that you’d stirred something in him, something protective, perhaps even... loving.’

‘Don’t be afraid of that,’ I say. My voice is strong simply because I feel numb and almost horrified.
Is it really true? It was Andrei who found me – not Dominic?
‘There’s nothing going on between Andrei and me. And besides, that was two nights ago, and he was with you last night. So you’ve got nothing to fear.’

She sighs happily, almost contentedly, as though recalling a delightful, voluptuous experience. ‘You’re right. He was.’ She puts her hands up to her face, propping her chin on her fists, and her silken sleeves slide down her arms, revealing her wrists. My eye is drawn immediately to the bright circlet of colour around her right wrist. A beautiful enamel bangle edged in tiny diamonds sits there prettily, the stones glinting in the overhead lights. She sees where I’m looking and says casually, ‘Oh – I see you’ve noticed this. Do you like it?’ Her other hand goes to it and circles it gently around her wrist, showing me the enamelled pattern. ‘Lovely, isn’t it? Andrei gave it to me. It belonged to a Russian princess, an ancestor of mine, in fact. He bought it for me especially, knowing the connection. Isn’t that sweet of him? He’s so busy and yet he found this for me.’ She smiles. ‘I’ll always treasure it.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I respond, not knowing whether to call her on the exact Russian princess she’s talking about, or just be pleased that the gift I bought has so obviously been a success. I can’t help glancing at her earlobes in case Andrei has taken the earrings I left in their box in the guestroom and given them to Anna after all. But her lobes are bare. ‘Your relationship with Andrei must be serious.’

‘Mmm.’ She smiles again. ‘I think so. But time will tell, I’m in no hurry to tie myself down just yet. What about you, Beth? A pretty girl like you, there must be someone important in your life...?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s wonderful. It’s going well.’

She leans towards me and I catch her perfume in my nostrils: a rich and dark scent. ‘What’s he like? Tell me about him.’

‘I... I don’t like to talk about him. I prefer to keep it private.’

‘Does Andrei know?’

I wonder why she’s asking but I say, ‘Yes. I told him.’
Just in case you two indulge in some pillow talk. Your stories will tally.
I take a gulp of my coffee and say, ‘Thank you for the charming chat, Anna. I must get back to work now. Perhaps I’ll see you later.’

‘Perhaps,’ she replies, lounging back in her chair, playing with her bracelet again. ‘Or some time. Take care, Beth.’

I get up, thank Sri for the delicious coffee, and head back to the study. In the safety of my own space, I shut the door, lean against it and let out a deep breath. This place is getting stranger, with the odd Marcia replaced by the even odder Edward, and now with Anna wafting about in a cloud of sexual satisfaction and very much marking her territory, while her lover has been coming on to me...

And perhaps even going further.

I close my eyes, trying to keep calm. If Anna’s telling the truth about what happened after the party, it seems more and more likely that I made a terrible mistake that night in the catacombs. The thought of it makes me feel sick with regret and fear of what the consequences might be.

I go back to my work, trying to push it out of my mind. I need to get this job done so I can get out of here, and one step closer to a normal life with the man I love.

If I haven’t wrecked it already, that is...

Chapter Twelve

The thoughts rolling around my head in a ceaseless loop are almost driving me crazy. The only way I can cope is to put them out of my mind altogether, and think solely about the job in hand. That afternoon, I finish going through the collection in the study, an achievement that raises my mood just a little.

I go to the office to finish typing up my work, and try not to listen to Edward gossiping on the telephone to his friends. I suppose he doesn’t much care about this job, as he’ll only be here till Marcia gets back.

An email pings into my inbox and I click on it. It’s from Dominic, sent via his private account.

Hi gorgeous

I can’t wait to see you tonight. Shall we say the boudoir at 8? I think we’ll eat in tonight, don’t you? Let me know if you can’t make it, otherwise I’ll see you then.

Dx

Just a few days ago, an email like this would have sent me into the stratosphere with delight and anticipation. Now I read it over, feeling guilty and miserable. No matter that I’m innocent in my heart, if I’m technically in the wrong, then how can I possibly explain it in a way that Dominic will understand?

How will I live with myself? And if it was Andrei, surely he’ll speak to me about it – and what on earth will I say?

I leave Albany at five o’clock and wander along Piccadilly, and then down to Jermyn Street, trying to take my mind off my worries by window-shopping. I turn off into another street where there is a series of art galleries, their windows displaying magnificent works, showing them off to their best advantage with the soft glow of spotlights. My eye is caught by a painting of a girl reading. She is in profile, sitting on a settle or in a window seat against a plump silk cushion, her head bent to read the volume she holds in one hand, while her other arm is draped comfortably over the arm of her seat. She is young, with fresh pink cheeks and a smooth forehead, her eyes downcast to the page she’s reading, her hair pulled up into a simple high bun around which a ribbon has been tied. She looks modern, and yet she’s wearing the costume of the eighteenth century with a distinctly French air: a pale yellow dress with a tight bodice, long sleeves with lacy white cuffs, a pink ribbon tied in a flouncy bow at the low breast. A white ruff – what they called a fichu, I think – is around her neck, fastened at the back with more of the pink ribbon she evidently likes so much. It’s serene and beautiful, and captures the girl so well I almost expect to see her chest move, or her fingers flutter forward to turn the page.

I can see that the gallery owner is about to shut up; he’s preparing to pull thickly latticed iron shutters across the windows. With a work like this inside, I can understand why.

On impulse, I hurry in. The owner is balding with a frill of white hair hanging wispily around his neck, and he’s red-faced and rather jowly. ‘We’re closing, I’m afraid,’ he says in curt tones.

‘The girl in the window, the beautiful painting of the girl reading. How much is she?’

The man blinks at me, open-mouthed, then says, ‘That, my dear child, is far more than I think you have to spend.’

I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Try me. Who is the artist?’

‘The artist is Jean-Honoré Fragonard.’

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. ‘Fragonard...
the
Fragonard?’

‘Well, there are several
the
Fragonards, not least Jean-Honoré’s wife, Marie-Anne, not to mention his son and grandson. But yes, if you mean the chocolate box, rococo Fragonard... well, that painting is by him.’

I can hardly believe it. Fragonard’s most famous works are highly theatrical: costume dramas of frills and flounces, unbelievably slender waists and limbs, and porcelain cheeks with spots of pink. It’s Italianate romance done French-style: aristocratic high-jinks in grottos, all silken gowns and picture hats, as kisses are stolen from society ladies by sighing swains. I remember my trip to the Wallace Collection earlier in the summer where I saw his famous painting
The Swing:
a Baroque lovely sits aloft in her swing, flinging her anatomically impossible legs in the air as one tiny pink slipper flies off a minute, white-stockinged foot, and giving her smiling beau a good look under her skirts as she sails over his head. Her pink flounces and ribbons probably inspired hundreds of portraits of fairy-tale princesses and made young girls hunger for dresses just like her rosy confection. The work is beautiful and masterful – but nothing like the painting in the window, with its bold, wide strokes, and its use of colour to show the effect of the light upon the skin and fabric. The girl’s face and hair are naturalistic, with tones of blue and lavender, and her proportions are true, which is why she looks more like a late-nineteenth-century, or even early twentieth-century, portrait. The only hint that she might be a Fragonard is her little finger with its jointless curl. Apart from that, I never would have guessed.

The gallery owner has been watching me absorb it all, and now says, ‘Yes, it is not the style he is renowned for. You’re thinking, no doubt, of his highly constructed works. You may not know his portraiture quite so well, but he was very influential on the Impressionists, including Renoir. Yes, this is his work.’ The gallery owner has warmed a little towards me as he enjoys my frank astonishment. ‘There is something similar in the gallery in Washington DC. Look it up if you don’t believe me.’

‘And how much is it?’

He looks at me almost pityingly before he says, ‘More than you can afford, my dear. And now, if you don’t mind, I must close.’

I let him chivvy me out of the gallery, my mind racing. It’s so beautiful. Could this be the Mona Lisa for Andrei’s bathroom? How gorgeous this girl would look there, her yellow and pink silk and her warm rosy skin against that grey marble! But wouldn’t it be wrong to put her in there, where no one but Andrei would ever see her? She should be in his drawing room, perhaps directly across from Napoleon, her quiet peacefulness contrasting with his vainglorious quest for power, her tranquil reading facing down the roar and clamour of the battlefield.