Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man

They were fighting for fame, fortune and love Hired as a publicist for the Duval salon, Alix Smith was caught up in the rivalry between aging couturier Henri Duval and his son, Paul, a brilliant new designer. Alix was strangely disturbed when the father-son rivalry extended beyond business to the courting of a beautiful actress. Then she realized she had fallen in love with Paul herself. The situation spelled trouble for everyone. And when events reached their terrifying climax, Alix knew that she would have to risk her life for the sake of her love.

CHAPTER ONE
Alix Smith put down the receiver and sat for a moment staring at it. Then she jumped up and ran to the glass- paneled door that led to the outer office. Flinging it open, she called out excitedly to her secretary. "From this day on, Willie, you're never to tell me that miracles don't happen! Do you realize who just called me?" Miss Wilkinson tossed her neatly waved gray head. "I'm not a fashion plate but even I've heard of Henri Duval. I was astonished when he gave me his name." "So was I," Alix admitted and leaned against the door lintel. Her mischievous smile was at variance with her appearance, which was dark and dramatic. Raven-black hair was swept from a center parting to fall in a glossy wing alongside either cheek. She was pale-skinned without looking anemic and had almondshaped eyes of an unusual blue violet, either color of which could be emphasized by her clothes. Today the violet predominated, the irises echoing the violet in the elegant tweed suit. "The great Henri Duval," she murmured. "Prince of couturiers and couturier to princesses! It's amazing to think how many years he's been at the top. He was dressing royalty and film stars when today's pop stars weren't even born.'" "And now he wants to dress the pop stars, too," Miss Wilkinson added, collecting a handful of letters from her "In" tray and beginning to open them. "Maybe he's young at heart." "Not only heart," the secretary sniffed. "You know what Frenchmen are like."

"Actually I don't," Alix said, straight-faced, "but I'd love to find out!" Even white teeth nibbled at her delicately shaped mouth. "He still has a heavy accent, you know, even though he's been living here for years." "He probably listens to French tapes! It's all part of maintaining the Gallic charm." "I'll let you know how strong the charm is once I've seen him. He's asked me to go to his salon this afternoon." "Did he, indeed?" Miss Wilkinson permitted herself a smile. "Let's hope he wants some proper publicity." "As opposed to improper publicity?" Alix teased. "As opposed to those gimmicky music clients of yours. A few more big accounts on our books and we could get rid of Hot Lips Charlie." "At the moment it's Hot Lips who's paying our wages," Alix said firmly, "and even if I had ten big clients I wouldn't get rid of him. He's my mascot." "I'd rather have Mr. Duval for a mascot." "You're old-fashioned, Willie." Taking hold of the letters her secretary was holding out to her, Alix returned to her own office. Seated at her desk, she pondered on her forthcoming meeting with the great couturier and wondered what he would say if she told him that until a couple of years ago she, too, had been a designer. Not of clothes, it was true, but of stage scenery. But some quirk in her temperament had made her dissatisfied with a career thatthe more successful it becamemeant more concentration at the drawing board and less involvement with people. She had been at a crossroads in her life when Dina Lloyda young actress whom she had met while working as scenic designer on the play the girl was inhad unexpectedly supplied the signpost. She and Dina had gone out as part of a foursome, and Alix, imbued with the confidence that came from an excellent Burgundy, had humorously invented a highly improbable romance between Dina and a current rich young playboy. Alix's escorta young man with a nose for news that would make moneyhad passed it on to a gossip columnist who had printed it the following morning. The playboydelighted at being linked with so pretty an actress, albeit an unknown onehad immediately invited Dina to spend a weekend at his country home. A large burglary therefortuitously occurring at the same timeonce more put Dina in the headlines.

A week later Dina's play had folded, but the actress herself was offered an excellent part in a comedy. "The director said it was because he saw pictures of me in the papers," Dina had told Alix. "Otherwise he'd never have known who I was." "Then I'll expect two free tickets to the first night," Alix had joked. "It's the least you can do." "The very least," Dina had agreed. "But I'll happily do more if you'll handle my publicity." "I know nothing about publicity." "If what you did for me came through ignorance," Dina had chuckled, "I can't wait to see what you'll do when you've had some experience. Give it a try, Alix. You've got nothing to Lose." Because this was true, Alix had taken Dina as her first client, though she had refused to take any fee until she was sure she could repeat her first publicity coup. Success had followed swiftly. Dina sang Alix's praises wherever she went and Alix soon had sufficient theatrical clients to put away her drawing board for good. "Daydreaming, Alix? That's not a bit like you. Or were you thinking of your loved one?" With a start Alix looked up to see her assistant, Peter North, standing in front of her. A tall, loose-limbed young man, he affected dandified clothes and a lackadaisical manner that was at variance with his watchful blue eyes and thin, cynical mouth. Alix still did not know if the cynicism was real and frequently wondered what lay behind his mask of studied indifference. Peter had studied history at Oxford and, after a brief spell in the city, had left the world of learning for the more lucrative one of marketing. "My loved one's too far away for me to enjoy thinking of him," she retorted with a smile. "In his last letter he said he was going into the Brazilian jungle." "What a topsy-turvy world we live in," Peter muttered. "Explorers give lectures sitting in a television studio and studious architects hack their way through the jungle to bring semidetacheds to the natives!" Alix's laughter was wry, for Peter's description of Mark Watson was all too true; an architect whose ability could procure him any number of jobs in England, he nonetheless preferred to work in the most uncomfortable parts of the world. "I'll tell Mark what you've said when I next write to him," she promised. "But I wish you'd show the same sort of humor when you write your press handouts. They're so dull, Peter!"

"How can one be funny about a combine harvester? I wish you'd put me back on stage clients." "I can't. This is the best account I've got, so far, and it definitely needs a man's touch." "Prejudice," he said with pseudo bitterness. "I'll report you for sexual discrimination." He rummaged on the desk. "I can't find the photographs I took last week. The ones with ye olde farmstead in the background and ye olde harvester in the front." "Maybe Willie has them." "She says they're on your desk." He ferreted about among the papers and with an "Aha" of triumph, extracted a large manilla envelope. "Care to come to the Exhibition?" he asked. "There are tractors on every stand and our little darling has a stage to itself!" "I'll come and see it another time," she promised. "I've an important appointment this afternoon." "Business or pleasure?" "Business, of course. And if it goes the way I hope, it'll make all the difference in the world to us." Shortly before half-past three Alix parked her red Fiesta outside a Regency house near Berkeley Square and went up a short flight of steps into a mirror-lined hall. A white and gold staircase, carpeted in red, swept in a wide curve to the second floor and a massive ormolu chandelier hung from the ceiling, its lights ablaze even though the sunshine was still strong. Almost directly below it sat a slim redhead at a desk, an appointment book open in front of her. "Monsieur Duval is expecting me," Alix said and gave her name. The girl nodded and gracefully preceded her up the stairs and down a corridor, at the end of which an enormous window looked out over a small garden ablaze with flowers. White and gold doors led off the corridor and the redhead stopped at the second one and, with the air of a high priestess, ushered Alix into a large room. It was furnished in the same ornate manner as the rest of the house, with gilded chairs, thick, wall-to-wall carpet and a plethora of small tables covered with silver-framed photographs of some of the most famous celebrities of the sixties. In front of the window stood an enormous ormoludecorated table, its top covered with fashion sketches, and behind them sat a man who, rising to greet her, was tall and heavily built. He reminded Alix of an aging rugger player.

She winced at his powerful grip and accepted a chair. His coloring was unusual for a Frenchman: thick blond hair with a sprinkling of gray and vivid blue eyes in a fresh, almost florid, complexion. "I am delighted to meet you at last, Miss Smith," Henri Duval smiled. "I have heard glowing reports of your work from my theatrical friends and hope you will be able to do as well for the name of Duval." "Building up a name is a slow processunless you employ gimmickswhich I don't like using anymore. However," she added, "your name is already well known, and that's a great help." "It is known," Henri Duval said gravely, "but not in the way that I wish." Alix allowed her expression to show surprise and he leaned forward. "Let me explain myself, Miss Smith. A good fashion house takes on the character of its designer. This betrays itself in many ways: the kinds of material it favors; the cutting of the suits and coats; even the way a zip is placed! At Yuki, flowing lines are its signature; at Zandra Rhodes it's the unusual embroideries, while at Duval's" Well-shaped hands made a circle in the air. "My signature tune was always to make a beautiful woman more desirable. As the years passed my aim changed and I tried to hide from the unkind world the fact that she was not as desirable as she once was." He paused dramatically. "I have been all too successful in my aim. The beauties I dressed in my youth and in theirs are still faithful clients, but in the process, alas, Henri Duval has become known as the couturier of aging women! An old ladies' dressmaker!" he added bitterly, his charm forgotten. "It is more than I can bear." Alix nodded. The reason for Henri Duval's telephone call was now clearer. "You want to acquire a younger clientele?" "Sans doubt! We must let the world know Henri Duval is not finished. That there is life in the old dog yet!" Blue eyes began to twinkle. "He can offer the young woman as much as he can offer the lady of a certain age. I want you to put that across for me. Do you think you can do it?" "I don't see why not." "How would you begin?" "With you." Alix always found it advantageous to incorporate her clients in some part of her scheme. It made them feel important and also gave them the chance of finding out what hard work publicity was. "When people hear the name Duval they immediately think of you. So it will be necessary for you to change your image. I'd like you to be seen with well-known young womenthe new actresses and T.V. stars, the young socialites and writers."

"That sounds splendid," Henri Duval said, his expression so enthusiastic that Alix realized it was not only his reputation as a couturier he felt to be at stake, but his reputation as a man. It was not only the fear of losing his place in the world that had made him seek her out, but a more personal attempt to keep the years at bay. "I take it you're prepared to accept the assignment?" he questioned. "I'd be delighted." "Good. You will work from here, of course?" "I couldn't do that. I employ other people and I have other accounts. I'd work from my own office." "That is out of the question. I would lose face if it were known I was employing a publicity agent!" "But most couturiers do." "The top ones have their own. And it must be the same with me. Besides, if you were here, I could say you were public-relations adviser for all the Duval interests, not only the fashion." "You're playing with words," Alix said swiftly. "No one will be fooled by the deception." "All life is a deception," came the smooth answer. "And the more successful you are, the greater the need to deceive." Lithely he walked around the room, exuding an animal magnetism that Alix had never encountered before. No wonder he had such a reputation as a lady-killer! But under the charm she sensed steely resolution and knew that unless she gave in to his request she would lose the account. But she did not want to lose it; it could lead her to so many more. "I have half a dozen other accounts," she said carefully. "Even if I wanted to give them up, it might be six months before I was free to come here." "It might be better to wait six months then." She bit back a sigh. "I'd be terribly expensive. Even now I'm the highest paid." "You're the best," he said. She decided to take a chance. "That's why I won't only work for one client. You will have to compromise, Monsieur Duval. I am prepared to have an office here and spend some time in it each day. But not full time and not to the exclusion of my other clients."

For a long moment he was silent. "Very well, Miss Smith. It shall be as you say. I will arrange for you to have a room on the first floor, near the salon. You will be able to talk to me when you wish and you'll be close at hand to see all our important clients." Hiding her jubilance at. having called his bluff, for bluff she believed it to have been, she said, "When do you wish me to start?'' "As soon as you can.'' "Next week then." "Excellent." He was on the point of continuing when a door leading to the next room burst open as if caught by a sudden gust of wind, and a young man came in. Over his arm he carried a jacket of some light material, which he thrust into Henri Duval's face with an exclamation of anger. "Look at this!" he cried. "The color is hopeless." He flung the offending garment onto the desk and only then noticed Alix seated beside it. "I'm sorry," he muttered to the older man, "I didn't realize you had a visitor." "Never mind." Henri Duval turned to Alix. "This graceless young man is my son, Paul, and my chief assistant. Paul, I wish to present you to Miss Alix Smith. You remember my speaking to you about her?" "Indeed I do." The man gave a slight bow and surveyed her with a faintly cynical look. She returned it coolly, struck by the contrast with his father. Where Henri Duval was a powerful six-footer, his son was slight in build and only a few inches taller than herself; where the father was blond, with a florid complexion and firm voice, the son was pale and brown- haired, with a quiet voice and the faintest suggestion of a stammer. "Miss Smith has agreed to be our publicist," Henri Duval was speaking again. "She understands our position and is confident of being able to help us." "We don't need any help," the younger man said decisively. "We do. We have rested for too long on our laurels. That's why the young have passed us by. We must learn to move with the times." "It isn't enough to move with the times," his son retorted. "A designer must be ahead of his time. Frankly, I don't see how Miss Smith can help us. All we need are the right clothes. They'll bring us all the publicity we need without our having to stoop to vulgar methods."

With an effort Alix controlled her temper. "There is no question of my vulgarizing the name Duval. My job will simply be to keep it in the public eye." "When you're not doing a similar service for the latest brand of deodorant! " Paul Duval said. "I tell you our clothes don't need false praise." He picked up the cream-colored jacket from the desk and tossed it onto her lap. "There!" he said, pointing to the inside of the collar, where the name Duval was sprawled in bold purple across the silken label. "That's all the publicity we need. Not trumped-up stories that everyone knows are lies!" "Be quiet, Paul!" his father ordered and turned swiftly to Alix. "Please forgive my son for his rudeness. But he is an artist and has no understanding of what a business requires. Even his dresses are designed for wraithlike beings of his imagination, rather than women of flesh and blood. If only he" "I'm sure Miss Smith isn't interested in your opinion of my work," the younger man cut in angrily. "And I don't want to hear it anymore, either. Sometimes I think I'm crazy to go on staying here." "Forgive me." This time Henri Duval made the apology to his son. "You misunderstand me. I was making a joke and it was wrong of me. You have talent and I would be the last to deny it. But you are not a businessman and you must realize it. I'm trying to restore our name for your sake, Paul, not for mine. This business will be yours when I die." "I don't like you to talk about dying," Paul said stiffly. "Nor do I like the idea of your engaging a publicist." "You must learn to like it," Henri bellowed, his anger returning. "Kindly stop interfering in matters you don't understand." The little color that was in the younger man's face drained away completely, though his voice remained steady. "You must do as you want, father. But don't ever involve me in any discussions in the future." Turning on his heel he walked out swiftly, closing the door with a gentleness born of violence dangerously controlled. For a moment Henri Duval was silent, but watching him, Alix saw his hands were clenched. At last he forced a smile to his lips and spoke. "It is useless to argue with my son. When he gets an idea in his head he is as obstinate as a mule. If he had his way, the salon would look like a clinic, with white walls and polished wooden floors!" Privately thinking this might be preferable to the plethora of gilt and glass she had already seen, she smiled politely and stood up. "I expect you have other business to attend to, Monsieur Duval."

"I am always busy," he agreed, "but before you go I should like to show you my Collection. I assume you do not buy my clothes?" "I can't afford them." Then lest he think she were hinting, she hastily added, "I wear casual clothes in the main." Without replying he led her down the corridor, past the head of the stairs and along a shorter corridor to the salon. It was a spacious room decorated in white and gold, with the expected chandeliers sparkling high above their heads and small gilt chairs ranged around the walls. Alix took a seat alongside the couturier and the show began. For three-quarters of an hour she watched as three models showed the splendid dresses for which the House of Duval was famousmost of them sumptuous brocades or billowing chiffon, and nearly all of them richly embroidered. There was no doubt the clothes were beautiful and striking, but for all that, they had an indefinable air of the day before yesterday. As she thought this, a bone-thin girl with straight fair hair came out in a dress so disarmingly simple that Alix nearly missed it. But when she looked again she was struck by the precision of the cut and the simplicity of the line. Four more outfits followed this one: three dresses and a coat, all modeled by the same girl and all made in plain material in subtle, moon-washed colors. "Waithlike beings of the imagination" Alix recalled Henri's words and was sure these clothes had been designed by his son. She turned to ask him if she was right but, seeing his brows contracted in a frown, diplomatically swallowed the question. As she drove back to her office her mind was filled with the experiences of the afternoon: a confused kaleidoscope of richly furnished rooms, lavish clothes and two men of totally different temperaments: one big, blond and confident, the other seemingly ascetic yet resolute. She also remembered Henri Duval's outburst of fury against his son and knew it stemmed from more than a disagreement about the use of publicity. It came from fear. But fear of what, she had no idea. I've certainly taken on a job, she mused as she parked outside her office. I hope it won't be more than I bargained for!

CHAPTER TWO
For the next couple of days the thought of Henri Duval was never far from Alix's mind. What was the best way of bringing his name before the public? There was no difficulty getting him an occasional mention in the pressfor he was still regarded as a personality but that was exactly the type of publicity Paul Duval had sneered at and she was determined not to give him a chance to sneer again.

She wondered whether to wait till the new Collection was shown in August but decided it was too far away. If she could persuade someone important to visit the salon she might be able to make a news item out of it. It was then she thought of Dina Lloyd. Dina was always willing to help her and since she was going into a new play soon, what better than for Duval's to design her clothes? With a happy smile Alix dialed the actress's number. "Darling!" The girl's lilting voice came over the line. "I've been expecting you to come to a rehearsal. My part's sensational." "Who's doing your clothes for it?" "I haven't decided yet. Christie's are doing the rest of the cast but I can choose my own designer." "How about Duval's?" Alix suggested boldly. Laughter bubbled over the wire. "You can't be serious? Duval's style went out with Directoire knickers!" "If you see his latest Collection you'll change your mind." "Never. What on earth made you think of them?" Knowing she had to be honest, Alix was. "At least come to the salon," she concluded. "There are several dresses in their latest show that are absolutely you." "I find that hard to believe," Dina said dubiously, "but I'll go along to please you." "You're an angel," Alix said gratefully. "I'll meet you there on Monday at twelve. That's when I officially start work for them." At nine o'clock on Monday morning Alix installed herself in the tiny office on the first floor of the mansion in Mayfair. Hardly had she done so when Paul Duval walked in and explained that his father had gone to New York the night before to attend the wedding of one of his most illustrious clients. "It's her fifth wedding in ten years," he added, "and my father regards the jaunt as a biannual holiday for himself!" "I hope he's asked to design the trousseau?" "Naturally." There was no smile on the narrow face and though his manner was polite, she guessed he was not here because he wanted to be but because, as his father's representative, he felt he had to be.

"I wonder if you would introduce me to the most important people in the house?" she said. "The vendeuses, the head fitters and the manageress in charge of the boutique." "We don't have a boutique. My father thinks it would lower the tone of the house." Alix restrained a desire to say "Nonsense," and made a mental note to have a word about it with Monsieur Duval. "Would you like one?" she asked carefully. "Naturally. Although I'm against your sort of publicity, I'm well aware of all the things we could do to regenerate our image." He walked to the door. "And now, if you will come with me, I will show you around." Suitably chastened, Alix followed him. Although Paul Duval had made no secret of his dislike for her presence at the salon, nothing of what he felt was apparent in his demeanor as he introduced her to the main members of the staff and then left her in the hands of Madame Lelong, the head vendeuse, who took her on a complete tour of the building. Alix saw the fitting rooms, each with its gilt chair and tall mirror, the stockroom piled high with glorious materials and the workrooms on the upper floors. The farther away they went from the main floor, the shabbier grew the surroundings. Indeed, the rooms at the top were attics, their windows so small that the seamstresses worked by artificial lightcutting, stitching and pinning amid such a welter of confusion that it was amazing any garments emerged from the chaos. Tempers seemed to run high, too. Here a vendeuse was complaining that the wrong trimming had been used on a skirt, there a modelin scanty bra and pantieswas bewailing the fact that the dress she was due to show in five minutes' time had disappeared into thin air. What a contrast to the dignified atmosphere downstairs, Alix thought as she descended the staircase again and saw Paul in earnest conversation with one of the fitters. He smiled faintly at her as she came toward him and she smiled back warmly, anxious to overcome the coolness between them. "Now you know what goes on behind the scenes," he said. "I hope it hasn't taken all the gilt off the gingerbread for you!" "There's still plenty of gilt left! Though I'm amazed to see what a little world of its own this place is." "All large couture houses are the same. Few people realize the effort that goes into the creation of a Collection and the enormous problems in maintaining the standards."

She nodded. "I've asked Dina Lloyd to come and see the Collection this morning." His thin, well-curved eyebrows came together in a frown. "The name's familiar but I can't quite place it." "Miss Lloyd's an actress," Alix said without expression. "I would like you to meet her. I'm hoping she'll ask you to design the clothes for her new play. It would be a magnificent shop window for Duval!" "No doubt," he said coldly. "But I've no intention of playing shop assistant to an actress! I will arrange for Madame Lelong to attend her." With a cursory nod he walked away and Alix, fuming, returned to her office. Promptly at twelve Dina mounted the steps of Duval's Regency house, tiny and slim in a silver gray suit that acted as a perfect foil for her red gold hair. Her elfin face, with its pointed chin and large blue eyes, had a flowerlike innocence belied by the determined set of her mouth and her clear and penetrating voice. Here, Alix felt as the actress came toward her, was a young woman fully conscious of her charm and willing to use it to attain her own ends. "I nearly decided not to come," Dina said in a stage whisper that could have been heard throughout an auditorium. "I know it's going to be a waste of my time." With a shrug Alix led her up to the salon and introduced her to Madame Lelong. As soon as they were seated the first model came in and Dina smiled disparagingly. "It's even worse than I thought," she said, this time managing to keep her voice down, though she made no attempt to hide the way she felt as one richly encrusted garment followed another. Alix's heart sank. She had not asked Madame Lelong if Paul Duval's clothes would be shown, taking it for granted they would be. "Honestly, Alix, I don't think I can" The rest of Dina's sentence died as a fair-haired model glided in wearing a long slim tunic of sandy gold silk shot with electric blue. Dina straightened in her chair. "Now that is something." She looked at the vendeuse. "What's it called?" "Wood Smoke. And I think myself it is perfectly beautiful." "So do I. Please make a note of it for me. Have you any more like itwithout ghastly beading and bits and pieces?"

Madame Lelong nodded and gave a sign to the fair- haired model who disappeared and, a moment later, returned in another elegantly cut dress. From then on two girls showed a group of clothes outstanding for their simplicity and Madame Lelong's pencil scribbled away as Dina picked out a dinner dress, a theater suit in wild silk and an afternoon dress in yellow chiffon aptly called Lemon Ice. "I've never seen anything so lovely!" she exclaimed to Alix. "Each one's absolutely right. I take back every word I said about Henri Duval." "These dresses weren't designed by Monsieur Henri," the vendeuse intervened before Alix could reply. "They are the work of his son, Monsieur Paul." Alix's heart missed a beat. So her original surmise had been correct. No wonder there was an undercurrent of hostility between father and son. Henri must be aware of his son's superior talent, even while he professed not to understand it. "I don't care who designed them," Dina cried. "The man's a genius and I want to meet him. Is he here?" "He's working," Alix replied. "I don't think" She hesitated a second and then made up her mind. "I'll tell him you want to see him," she said and went determinedly out of the salon and down to the ground floor. She had not yet been to Paul's room but, remembering her tour of the premises earlier that day, knew where it was. Reaching the door, she knocked on it quickly and, before she lost her impetus, opened it and went in. The room was totally unlike any other in the building. A few pieces of furniturepared down to the minimum, so that desk and chairs looked like skeletons of glass and steel stood on dark gray carpet against plain white walls. An easel in one corner held a sketch of a suit and there were several more sketches on the desk that stood in front of an uncurtained window. It was through this window that she saw Paul Duval himself. He was standing with his back to her in the small paved courtyard that served as a garden and was bending over a vivid blue hydrangea, his fingers gently tending the petals. He was not wearing a jacket and she was surprised at the way his silk shirt emphasized the muscles in his shoulders, and his sleeves, rolled back, disclosed powerful, sinewy arms. He had the lithe figure and supple movement of a ballet dancer, and as he straightened and lifted his head she was aware of the strength that emanated from him. She moved forward, and as she did so, he turned and saw her. Annoyance crossed his face but his voice remained polite and cool. "What are you doing here, Miss Smith? If you want me you can call on the intercom." "I wasn't sure you'd agree to do as I asked if I spoke to you on the telephone."

"Obviously you require a favor," he said dryly and walked over to his desk to put on the jacket that lay across the back of his chair. Properly clothed, he once more looked the diffident figure she had thought him to be and, seeing him thus, she lost her fear of him. "Dina Lloyd wishes to see you," she said bluntly. "I do not reciprocate the wish." "She's crazy about your clothes. You can't refuse to see her." "I can and I am." "Then you're not only the most conceited man I've met but also the most stupid!" Temper dissolved tact and nothing could stop Alix now. "Who are you designing clothes for? Ghosts? If you want women to wear what you create, you've got to go out and meet them." "Why?" "To show them you exist." "My clothes exist. That's the only thing that counts." "It isn't. The things you create are a part of you; and the women who buy those creations want to know what you're like." "I loathe personal publicity." His tone was frigid and his face, normally pale, had a flush on the narrow cheekbones. "However, you've been hired by my father and it's impossible for me to refuse your request. I will meet Miss Lloyd." Not giving her a chance to answer he walked rapidly from the room, making Alix run to keep pace with him. Only as they reached the salon did he pause to let her precede him and effect the introductions. Dina had used the time to advantage and had tried on one of the dresses she had ordered, and Paul, recognizing it as his own, looked delighted. "So you are Paul Duval," Dina said simply. "I couldn't leave without congratulating you on your exquisite clothes. I never imagined anything like this could be seen in London let alone here!" "You are very kind," Paul said quietly, his eyes momentarily resting on the delicate drapery that enhanced Dina's small, pointed breasts. "You are beautiful enough to show

them to advantage. Not many of my clients are actually able to get into the model's dress!" "How sweet of you to say so." Modesty was fuel to the fire. "Tell me, Mr. Duval, have you ever designed for the stage?" "No." "Then it's high time you did! I want you to do the clothes for my new play." "I'd have to read the script before I committed myself. Even then I" "I'll have it sent round this afternoon," Dina cut him off. "But I can give you a brief resume." They were soon so engrossed in a discussion of the play that they were oblivious to Alix's presence. Seeing the brown head bent close to the red one, she felt a pang of irritation. She had worked so hard to bring this unwilling couple together that, having achieved it, the least they could have done was to thank her! During the next ten days Paul worked nonstop to make the toilesthe muslin in which each new design was first madefor Dina's clothes. Frequently he created a garment directly on a model, and Alix, entering his office one morning to check with him on some information she wanted to give to one of the newspapers, watched in fascination as he draped a bolt of heavy silk jersey over the girl's supple body. The slithery material seemed to be alive in his hands, obeying every twist of his fingers, every turn of his wrist. So absorbed was he in his design that he did not see Alix, and only when the jersey had been molded into the shape he wantedand held that way by pins and quick tacking from a seamstressdid he suddenly become aware of being watched. "You wish to see me?" he asked in a distant voice. "I need your approval on a press handout." "Real news or fantasy from your fertile imagination?" He saw her stony look and went on, "You don't need my approval for what you do, Miss Smith. My father engaged you and you are only answerable to him.'' Seeing the look of quick interest that flashed from the model to the other two women hovering around him, Alix determined not to give them cause to gossip. "You're quite right, Mr. Duval," she said sweetly. "Forgive me for bothering you when you're so busy."

His surprised lookfor he had obviously expected a sharp retortwas Alix's only satisfaction as she went back to her cubbyhole of an office and contacted the gossip columnist. Fertile imagination indeed. Well, she'd show him how fertile it could be. "Designing the clothes for Dina Lloyd?" the reporter echoed. "That's an unusual departure for Duval's." "Mr. Paul is an unusual man," Alix said lightly. "Young, handsome and a genius." "How come we've heard so little of him?" "He likes to hide his light under a bushel of material! But take it from me, he's a heartthrob." "May I call him that?" "Why not?" The reporter didand more besidesand Alix, seeing the column next day, awaited repercussions from the "heartthrob" himself. How furious he must be to see himself so described. Yet the angry summons to his office did not materialize: instead a flowering plant awaited her, with a card bearing his writing. "Forgive me for losing my temper yesterday," he had penned, "and I will forgive you for the Express today." The sense of humor depicted in the message was unexpected and gave Alix yet another view on him; a more jaundiced one when she recognized the plant as being a particularly prickly type of cactus. But at least it showed there was an armed truce between them, which was as much as she could expect. Another few days passed and Dina started to come in for regular fittings. From Madame Lelong, Alix learned that the clothes met with her unanimous approval, but since neither Dina nor Paul invited her to see them, she returned to her Chelsea office and concentrated on her other clients. If Henri Duval complained at the lack of press mention his salon was getting, he had only himself to blame. He should not have disappeared for such a long holiday without briefing her first. She was almost tempted to hand in her resignation and only refrained from doing so because of the impending first night of Dina's play. That should give her the chance to get Duval's an immense amount of news coverage, and once she had, she would walk out in a blaze of satisfaction. She did not return to the salon until Monday and, stepping through the door, knew at once that the master was back. Black-garbed vendeuses fluttered about the salon like anxious

ravens, and sewing hands scurried up and down the floors, their feet barely seeming to touch the ground. No sooner was Alix in her office when the telephone rang, summoning her to Henri Duval, and seeing his scowling face, she knew he was seriously displeased. "Will you kindly tell me what's been going on here during my absence?" he demanded without any other greeting. "My son is too busy to talk to me and half the workroom has been given over to the making of theatrical costumes!" "They're the dresses for Dina Lloyd's new play," Alix said stiffly. "So I understand. And while my staff are making them, some of my most valued clients are kept waiting." "The play opens on Thursdaythat's why there was so much rush." "Thursday! No wonder everyone's been doing overtime." He strode around the side of the desk and glared at her. "How is it that when Miss Lloyd came here she didn't see the complete Collection?" Alix caught her breath. Here was the real reason for Henri Duval's anger: all the dresses Dina had chosen had been designed by Paul. But no matter how tactfully she replied, the essence of her answer would still be unpalatable to the great man himself. "Miss Lloyd did see the complete Collection, Monsieur Duval. But she picked out certain dresses that appealed to her because of the part she is playing. And your and your son had to design additional clothes for her because she wanted them to be entirely new." "I see." Henri's expression was somber. "It's a pity you couldn't have waited until I came back before bringing her here." "When I arranged it I didn't know you would be in America. But I'd like you to meet her the moment you can. I have tickets for the first night and I hoped you and" She hesitated, then said quickly, "You and Mr. Paul would be able to come." "Of course we'll come. Duval's hasn't designed clothes for a play for fifteen years." Henri Duval's ill-humor had been replaced by a look of determination that filled Alix with foreboding, for she knew he was seeing Dina as a challengeas indeed he would see any woman who preferred his son's designs to his own. For the next few days she kept out of his way, but from Madame Lelong learned he had personally supervised the departure of the dresses for Dina Lloyd. It was as if he wanted

them to be regarded as belonging to Duval's rather than to Paul, and though Alix saw it as a pitiable conceit she could not help realizing that were she in Henri's positionjealous of her good name and reputation as a couturiershe might do the same. The bond between a father and son might be strong but so was professional jealousy. She was thinking of this as she dressed for the premiere and, relaxing on her bed in a fleecy bathrobe, hoped that any future publicity she did for Duval's would not cause antagonism between the two men. Logic told her that one day the two men would have to part professionally; their concepts of fashion were too different for them to work happily as a team. In fact, it surprised her that Paul still remained with his father, for he not only had creative talent but also the coolness of mind to organize and run his own establishment. His clothes were adaptable, too, and could easily be made for the highstreet market. She was still pondering on this as she slipped on her evening dress. Henri Duval had offered her one from the Collection, but knowing she would have to choose a dress he himself had designed, she had declined the offer, tactfully explaining it would look less obvious if she wore something neutral. "If you were the publicist for Ford cars, you wouldn't drive around in a Citroen," he had responded. "I agree. But then I'd probably drive about on a scooter!" "It would still have to be a Ford scooter," he had said. "You are refusing to wear a Duval dress because you don't wish to make a choice between one Duval and another." "Can you blame me?" she had asked, accepting the fact that her tact had not pulled her out of a tricky situation. "A man should never blame a woman for anything," Henri smiled. "He should always take the blame himself! If my brain had been functioning properly, I would have presented you with a dress in your size and made it impossible for you not to wear it!" She had laughed. "You're too clever for me, Monsieur Duval." "I haven't been this time," he had said good humoredly. "But I will be in the future." A car horn sounded below her window, and glancing out, she recognized Henri Duval's Rolls. Picking up her satin cloak she descended the single flight of stairs to the ground. The full skirt of her dress rustled as she moved, and she paused to look at herself in the mirrored wall that lined one side of the lobby. The crimson silk was so deep in color that it took on the purple bloom of a damson, giving blue lights to her raven black hair and adding luster to her skin. The bodice was simple and high-necked, her only ornament an antique necklace of garnets, carved in the shape of leaves and flowers and set in gold. Matching earrings dangled in her ears, sending forth an occasional spark of fire as they

caught the light. Baroque jewelry was a passion with her and she scoured the antique shops of London for unusual pieces. The horn sounded again and she hurried out. The chauffeur was holding open the door and she climbed in and sat next to Henri Duval, noticing that Paul was sitting in the front. "How charming you look," Henri said heartily. "You are wise to choose dramatic colors. You are not the type for pastels." "I wish I were," she said with a half sigh. "Pastel-type girls are the cosseted ones. It's the dramatic types who go on working forever!" "You wouldn't be happy unless you were working, my dear Alix." He moved slightly and she smelled the aroma of his shaving lotion: a woody tang that went well with his magnificent physique. She glanced at him covertly. In the light of the passing street lamps no lines were visible on his face and all she could see was the firm chin, the smooth plane of his cheek and the thick, gray-blond hair. Difficult to believe he was in his fifties! The rest of the journey was completed in silence and when they reached the theater they were met by a barrage of press photographers. Alix saw the look of irritation on Paul Duval's face, but his father smiled broadly and bowed to left and right as flashbulbs exploded on either side of them. It seemed that most of fashionable London was present to see Dina in her first dramatic part, and Alix recognized many of the people. She had vowed that tonight she was going to relax, but the sight of so many celebrities and scribes reminded her she was here only because of her work, and resolutely she flitted from group to group, always remembering to mention Dina's clothes and how magnificent they were. It was a relief to hear the final bell and she hurried to her seat and relaxed in it, wondering why she should be so on edge about the play. Dina was her client, it was -true, but the play had had excellent reviews when it had been shown in the United States and there was every reason to assume it would get the same response here. Could her nervousness be due to Paul Duval? She gave him a quick glance. He looked as he always did: aloof and calm, more like a young stockbroker than a dress designer, and with no sign of worry on his pale, narrow face. Drat the man. Could nothing ruffle him? The houselights dimmed, the curtains swung back and the sounds of the audience were muted. With a faint-sigh Alix gave her attention to the stage. Within ten minutes she knew she was watching a success. The part could have been tailor-made for Dina, so aptly did it suit her wistful fragility and pert tongue. But if the girl's acting was the first sensation of the show, the second was undoubtedly her clothes. Every woman in the audience gasped each time she appeared in a new change of costume, and during the intermissions, programs were scanned to see who had created

them. The name stated was simply Duval, and everyone automatically assumed it to be Henri and rushed over to congratulate him. To Alix's surprise he brushed them aside and gave the credit to his son, urging the younger man forward and withdrawing himself to the background. She had assumed he would sulk and try to take some of the limelight for himself; yet he was doing the opposite, and with such good grace that it was difficult to remember that a few days previously he had been furious with her for bringing Dina to the salon during his absence. Still, looking at it logically, he was doing the only thing possible: making the best of an irritating situation. When the final curtain came down, Alix took the two men backstage to Dina's dressing room. A crowd had already gathered there and it was then that the younger Duval surprised her; for knowing his aversion to people, she had assumed he would be reluctant to participate in mass adulation. But he seemed to enjoy the theatrical hyperbole and pushed his way forward to make his own congratulations to Dina. "Are you pleased with me as an actress or as your clotheshorse?" she asked gaily. "I saw you only as a woman," he replied. "You were magnificent." "What a lovely thing to say." Dina clasped his hands. She still wore her heavy stage makeup but nothing could disguise her youthful beauty. "I don't mind admitting I was terrified when I woke up this morning. But now I feel I could even tackle Shakespeare!" "What about tackling me first?" said a deep voice and Dina swung around to see Henri Duval beside her. In the brilliant light he looked a distinguished figure, his hair more blond than gray. "So you are Paul's father." Dina's eyes met the compelling blue ones. "What did you think of the clothes Paul designed for me?" "They were a fitting setting for a magnificent jewel." Dina giggled and Alix, afraid her friend would say something indiscreet, went forward to intervene. But before she could do so, Dina sat at her dressing table and pulled Henri down beside her. "Your son may have inherited your gifts as a designer, Monsieur Duval, but he can take a lesson from you when it comes to gallantry." "He didn't do badly a moment ago." "But he's known me for weeks," Dina pouted. "You've only met me tonight."

"My son was born under the gray skies of England," Henri replied, "and he has the English reserve. But I was born in a land of spice-laden breezes where beautiful women were used to compliments." Dina listened with seeming fascination as Henri continued to talk, and Alix wondered which one of the two was putting on a better act: Henri, who was deliberately setting out to charm the young actress with a profusion of sophisticated gallantries, or Dina, all simpering innocence. She glanced at Paul. He was talking to the producer, his thin face absorbed. She could read Henri like a book, yet the son, who was her own generation, was impossible for her to assess. Even when they went out to dinnerto which Dina happily accompanied themshe still could not tell if he was piqued by the fact that his father was still holding the girl's attention with amusing stories of how he had started as a couturier and had found inspiration among famous women of the past. "But now I am thinking only of the present," he smiled, "and I would like to design my next Collection with you in mind." Alix caught Dina's eye and felt the pressure of a narrow heel on her foot. What was in the back of that determined little red gold head? Anxious to know, she picked up her bag and rose. "I'm going to powder my nose. Coming, Dina?" Dina nodded and together they made their way to the powder room. "How do you think I am doing with the old boy?" Dina asked, patting a curl into place. "Do you need me to tell you? Henri's fallen for you like a ton of bricks." "You mean he's flattered by the thought that a girl of my age can fancy him." "Don't you?" Alix asked dryly. "Have a heart, darling! He's old enough to be my father. He's good-looking, though. I've never been out with a man of his age before." "Are you thinking of trying it now?" "I'm being diplomatic, darling. Surely you knew he was going to be livid that I chose Paul's clothes instead of his? What else can I do except pretend I'm bowled over by him as a man if not as a designer? It's the best way of keeping the peace between the two of them."

Suddenly everything fell into place and Alix breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived however, shattered by Dina's next words. "Whose feelings are you worried aboutPaul's or Henri's?" "Both of them," she lied, thinking onlyand surprisinglyof Paul. "Then quit worrying about the son," Dina said bluntly. "He and I understand one another. He knows exactly why I'm being so dewy-eyed over his papa." "As long as papa doesn't know." "Leave him to me." Dina went to the door. "I'm an actress, remember? And a good one." Alix wished she, too, were capable of putting on an act and, because she knew she wasn't, was reluctant to sit at the table watching Dina's performance. Both father and son rose at their approach and she found something unseemly in the way the older man held out Dina's chair and fawned over her. "Let's dance," she said abruptly to Paul. "Dance?" He looked so startled that her irritation turned upon him instead of his father. "I do dance, you know. And it will give you the opportunity of taking the lead." "A rare opportunity with you, Miss Smith." Eyes flashing, she preceded him to the floor. "I'd better apologize again," he said quietly. "And also tell you that you've done an excellent job at Duval's." "You've done most of the work," she replied. "The clothes you designed for Dina were marvelous." "So was your press coverage of it." Faint humor tinged his voice. "We sound like a mutual admiration society." "That's better than self-admiration!" He laughed. "I'm guilty of many faults but narcissism isn't one of them!" The music changed tempo and he pulled her slightly closer. It was the nearest she had been to him, and feeling his light but firm touch on her shoulder and the warmth of his body pressed against hers, she was conscious of the strength that emanated from him. Yet

strength was the wrong word. It was more a suggestion of control. She stole a glance at his narrow face so, near her own and saw how beautifully shaped his mouth was and how silky the dark brown hair. Suddenly she wished Henri and Dina were miles away "Shall we sit down?" Paul's question brought her abruptly back to reality and she nodded, infinitely glad he had not been able to read her mind and not sure she was reading it correctly herself. They returned to the table and found it empty, not even Dina's purse beside her plate. "Monsieur Duval wished me to tell you he has taken Miss Lloyd to a discotheque," their waiter said, coming forward. "He tried to attract your attention but you were on the other side of the floor." "I feel rather guilty about this," Alix said to Paul as the waiter tactfully withdrew. "If you hadn't been dancing with me" "It would still have happened." His look was direct but masklike. "Would you like to stay on or would you prefer to go?" Although Alix wanted to stay, she knew that he didn't, and she silently rose and picked up her cloak. Henri had taken the car and when they reached the sidewalk Paul suggested they walk for a little while. Together they strolled along Park Lane and only as they neared Marble Arch did she speak. "If I'm not mistaken, after tonight you're going to be in great demand as a theatrical designer." "That's exactly what I don't want to be! Everything in the theater is larger than life and it isn't my style. It's more my father's." "But you were the one who designed Dina's dresses." She hesitated, then said boldly, "Your style is so different from your father's, I'm surprised you don't show a separate Collection." "It isn't economically possible to have two." "It isn't economic to have one if it doesn't sell! And the women who like your clothes aren't the women who like your father's." "Then they'd better not come to Duval." "But you're part of Duval, too," she protested.

Paul stopped walking and stared at her. "I am my father's son and I work for him. Everything I know he taught me; every opportunity I had, he gave me." "I'm sure you would have made your own opportunities if you'd had to," she retorted. "Anyway, you're a designer in your own right now, and to pretend otherwise is being untrue to yourself." "I'm not sufficiently good to start up on my own." Alix was uncertain if he meant what he said or was constrained by loyalty. She longed to press him further but knew that even if he gave another answer it might still not be the truth. What a complex man he was. Seemingly so gentle yet, when one least expected it, displaying a fierce intensity. Still waters ran deep, and in Paul they were very still indeed. "I think we've walked far enough," he said suddenly and signaled for a taxi. Silently they climbed in and he stared through the window at the dark streets. "Please don't be annoyed with me, Mr. Duval," she said. "I'm not trying to come between you and your father. But I honestly think your clothes are so different from his, and so perfect in their own right that" "Do you really? I wasn't sure you meant it." "Of course I did. That's why I asked Dina to see them. I knew she'd love them as much as I did." There was another silence, though now it held a different quality. "You'd better not let my father hear you say that," he said slowly. "I hadn't meant to say it to you, either," she confessed. "But you did." "Yes " "May I ask why?" She was not sure herself but did not like to admit it, and was searching for an answer when he spoke again. "Never mind. It's said and it's best forgotten." "And you'll never start up on your own?"

"Never is a word I never use!" Before she could find a suitable reply the taxi drew to a stop outside her apartment building and Paul opened the door and stepped out ahead of her. "Thank you again for all you've done," he said softly. "I'm sorry if I've appeared ungallant at times." "Not ungallant, Mr. Duval, merely truthful." She held out her hand. "Thanks for bringing me home." He touched her fingers lightly. "I think we can cut out the Mr., don't you Alix?" She smiled and walked up the steps. From the safety of distance she turned to look at him. "Good night, Paul, and pleasant designs!"

CHAPTER THREE
Alix's sleep that night was disturbed by unpleasant dreams in which Dina participated. She awoke heavy- eyed and unrefreshed from a particularly confusing one in which Dina, wearing her last-act dress of lavender and blue, was about to leap from the stage into the arms of a smiling Henri Duval. The events of the previous night came flooding into her mind and she hastily sat up and pushed aside the covers. As she washed and dressed she heard the continuous ringing of the telephone but resolutely ignored it. Having one's office in one's home had the advantage of cutting out tedious journeys, but it also destroyed one's privacy. She was having her breakfast at the small kitchen table when she heard her secretary arrive, but again she resolutely refused to call her in. Only after she had drunk a second cup of coffee did she stack the dishes in the sink and go into the office. Miss Wilkinson looked up from her typewriter. "Eight calls from various newspapers and magazines and three from local radio. Most of them anxious to interview Dina and all of them showing interest in Paul Duval." Alix pulled a face. "I'm not sure he'll take kindly to being interviewed." "He can't be that obstinate." "Can't he?" Alix walked through into her own office. "Come in with your pad, Willie. I want to give you some letters before going over to the salon." She was still busy dictating when the door flew open and Dina came in. In a navy linen suit with lemon silk blouse, she looked radiant with health and high spirits.

"Sorry to burst in on you like this, darling, but I'm on my way to a photo session and wanted to explain what happened last night. Henri insisted we go somewhere quieter, but you were on the other side of the floor and we couldn't catch your attention." "It didn't matter to me," Alix said truthfully, "but Paul was rather hurt." "It was his turn, darling. After all, Henri was hurt first. That's why I was nice to him." "So you told me last night," Alix reminded her. "But don't get your fingers burned with Henri. He's an aging Casanova with a penchant for young women." "Like most men!" Dina retorted, perching on the corner of the desk. "But I should imagine that up to now Henri's young women have been his little seamstresses." "That's safer for him." "I thought you were worrying about me." Blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "You're not very consistent, darling." "Let's say I'm worried about both of you." "You've no reason to be. He's a sweet old poppet and far less boring than the young financial wizards who've been pestering me." Dina smoothed her skirt down over her softly curved hips. "Last night he promised to design some clothes for me. His Collection was awful so it'll be interesting to see what he comes up with." "You'll soon be telling me you're going out with him in order to give his talent the spark of youth!" Dina burst out laughing. "What a fabulous idea! May I quote you on that?" "No," Alix said, smiling but firm. "You may not." "But there's a lot of truth in what you've said," came the serious reply. "After all, a painter's often inspired by a model, so why can't a dress designer be inspired in the same way? I adored Paul's clothes the moment I saw them but the ones he actually designed for my play were a hundred times better. It could be exactly the same with Henri." "It could be," Alix said grudgingly. "But don't play father against son; it isn't fair." "Do you think Paul was jealous last night?" A slight smile played around the corners of Dina's mouth. "He's such a reserved man that it's hard to know what he's thinking. It might be fun to find out." She saw Alix's expression. "Oh darling, don't be stuffy! A girl can be interested in two men at the same timeparticularly when they're as fascinating as the Duvals. I never expected to hear you lecturing me like a suburban housewife. Anyone would think you were jealous!"

"I'm jealous of your good name," Alix snapped, surprised at the tone of her own voice. "You pay me to protect it." "My name only," Dina replied. "Not my person." She walked out on a wave of perfume and Alix stared at the closed door thoughtfully. It was early afternoon before she managed to get to the salon. She went immediately to see Henri Duval. As always she was struck by the virility of the man, so much in contrast to the faunlike grace of his son. "Ah, Alix," he greeted her. "I've been wanting to congratulate you. It was a brilliant idea to bring Dina here for her clothes. I'm sure great things will come of it. Paul's already had a call from Bertie Sheridan asking him to do the dresses for his new musical." "I can't see Paul designing clothes for a musical," Alix said with a slight smile. "We'll do them together. Paul will design the more simple ones and I'll take care of the satin and sequins!" He spoke with amusement, and she relaxed, for the first time feeling more at ease with him. "I saw Dina this morning," she said casually. "So did I." He was equally casual. "When I first engaged you I said we needed a younger clientele, and Dina will set the trend. I intend to design all her personal clothes. It will be very good for our business." "She'll certainly make a lovely clotheshorse," Alix said deliberately. "She certainly will." Henri's eyes, a no less vivid blue than Dina's, looked at her blandly, and for the first time Alix realized how similar he and Dina were despite the disparity in their ages. They both had the same determination to get what they wanted, the same belief in their charm, the same confidence in their talent. The door opened behind her and she turned to see Paul. He hesitated when he saw her, then, as if remembering they were now friends, smiled and came forward, extending his hand with the slightly foreign gesture that reminded Alix that though he had been born in England, he was half-French. "Dina had excellent reviews," he said at once, "and a couple of them even mentioned the clothes." Alix smiled. "Your father's just told me about Bertie Sheridan's offer. I'm glad you decided to accept."

Paul frowned. "I don't want to get caught up in the theatrical or film world. I'm not designing for the elite few but for all women." "It's the elite few who set the fashion that all women follow," Henri interrupted. "If you design only for the mass market, you'll end up with uniformity. You will automatically make clothes that are easy to copy and cheap to make. But if you design for the top end of the market you will always be striving for perfection." "Mary Quant designed for the mass market," Alix commented, "and she didn't do too badly!" "She turned women into a mini army," Henri exploded. "Look-alike females with no personalities of their own!" Alix subsided, acknowledging the sense of his comment. When she least expected it, he showed perception. "Let's not talk any more about clothes," Henri said. "I really wanted to tell Alix about our barbecue. We have wonderful gardens at my country home and each year I give a party for my friends. I generally do it in late summer but I thought it would be a good idea to bring it forward and strike while the press iron was hot!" "That's an excellent idea," Alix said. "If you let me have your guest list I'll tick off those that are newsworthy." "Splendid! I thought of holding it the weekend after next. Dina's play is changing theaters and she'll be free for that Friday and Saturday. I give a dinner party on the Friday for a few intimate friends and we have the barbecue on Saturday. You'll come for the weekend, of course." Alix thought of an entire weekend spent watching Dina pivoting between Henri and Paul and wished she could refuse the invitation. But good sense won the day and she nodded. "I'd like to bring Peter North with me. He's my assistant and generally deals with the photographers." "Bring anyone you like," Henri Duval said graciously. "And come down early on Friday. If it's a nice weekend you might as well make the most of it." She glanced at Paul but he was bent over his father's desk, studying the sketches that lay there. Stifling a sigh, she rose and left. It was a bright June afternoon when she and Peter drove into the village of Croxham, a few miles beyond Watford. Croxham Manor lay at the end of a winding lane on the far side of the village, and they drove past a gray stone church, half-hidden by the crouching shapes of ancient yew trees, and turned into a heavily rutted road. After some twenty

yards the hedges on their left gave way to high walls of weathered stone, blotched with lichen and overhung by tangled branches, and soon they came to imposing wrought-iron gates, guarded on both sides by stone lions supporting shields. Peter slipped out to open them and Alix nosed her car into an avenue of trees whose branches interlaced above their heads. The driveway wound its way through a green twilight pierced by an occasional shaft of gold, until a final twist of the wheel brought them out into the sunshine again and they saw the gray stone facade of an eighteenthcentury manor facing them across emerald lawns. "Hardly the setting I envisaged for our couturier," Peter said as he stepped out of the car and surveyed the carved doorway and mullioned windows. "The house belongs to his wife," Alix said. "It's been in her family for generations." A butler opened the door to them and they followed him across a paneled hall into a lowceilinged room with white walls and flowered chintz curtains. Though the day was far from chilly a fire crackled on the hearth, and by the side of it sat a slim woman with a deeply lined face and dark hair streaked with gray. Lounging in an easy chair by the window was Paul Duval, his brown sports coat almost the same color as his hair. "I hope you had a good journey," he said, rising to greet them. "You're just in time for tea. Mother, this is Miss Alix Smith, who's handling father's publicity, and this is her colleague, Mr" "Peter North," Alix finished for him, and the two men shook hands. Alix accepted a cup of tea and a biscuit and settled herself in a wing chair opposite her hostess. As she stared into the golden brown eyes of Amy Duval, their expression stirred a memory in her mind. What was it? Where had she seen that look before? Paul leaned forward to help himself to another biscuit and she suddenly knew. Those eyes held the same suspicious look he had first given her when they had met in his father's office. Thoughtfully she sipped her tea, and as she put down the cup, smiled warmly at her hostess. The corners of Mrs. Duval's thin lips lifted a little in response, though the eyes remained cold, and Alix, recalling the many rumors of Henri's infidelities, guessed that she was being seen as another of them. Resolutely she set about the task of disabusing Mrs. Duval of her suspicions. She described the work she was doing and told how Dina Lloyd's visit to the salon had ended in Paul's designing the costumes for her new play. It was only at the mention of her son's name that Amy Duval came to life. "Paul's taking me to see the play next week," she said. "I can't wait to see his clothes."

"They're wonderful," Alix said warmly. "So is the play." Paul spoke directly behind Alix. "I'm sure you'll like Dina, mother. She's a lovely person." Surprised to hear him enthuse so openly over Dina, Alix glanced around at him, noticing that though his voice was relaxed, his hands were clenched at his sides. "You'll soon be meeting her for yourself," he went on. "Father's driving her down. She had to go to the salon for a late fitting and he wanted to supervise it." "Doesn't she have to be in London for the play?" Mrs. Duval asked without expression. "It's moving to another theater and two performances have been canceled." "I see." Alix saw, too, and wished wholeheartedly that Dina had refused this weekend invitation. Somehow she could not see Mrs. Duval taking kindly to her egotistical, high-spirited friend. She was relieved when Peter stepped over and began to ask Paul questions about his home, and as if anxious to change the subject, Paul spoke at some length on the history of Croxham Manor. "I was born in this house and so was Paul," Mrs. Duval interposed gently. "But Henri doesn't care for it. He finds it gloomy. If he had his way he'd turn it into a French chateau with formal gardens and an ornamental lake!" Alix could not help wondering if Henri had also tried to introduce a little Gallic chic into his wife's wardrobe. If so, he had singularly failed, for Mrs. Duval wore a nondescript skirt and sweater, a string of pearls her only ornament. Hardly the garb one expected from the wife of a world-famous couturier. The conversation passed on to gardening, which was evidently a passion with Mrs. Duval, and though twilight was beginning to fall, she insisted on showing them the grounds. It was when they were returning from this expedition that the Rolls swung up the driveway with Henri at the wheel. Stopping at the entrance, he and Dina got out. "What a fabulous place!" she exclaimed. "I'd no idea you lived in one of the stately homes of England!" Henri glanced quickly at his wife, who was coming toward them, and even Dina's ebullience was stilled by the hostility in the woman's eyes.

"Sorry to be late, my dear." Lightly he touched his lips to the sallow cheek held toward him, then introduced the girl by his side. Amy Duval surveyed Dina from the top of her red gold hair t6 the tips of her elegant shoes. "You must be tired after your journey. I'll have you shown to your room." Dina smiled but said nothing, and Alix, watching the tableau, felt her nerve ends tighten. As she slipped into a black lace dress later that evening, she would have given anything to be in her own home. Although Mrs. Duval's suspicions were now diverted from herself as a possible girl friend of her husband's, it would be almost as uncomfortable to have to watch the woman's misery as she saw Henri paying court to Dina. If only the girl would stop encouraging him! But she knew this was a forlorn hope. Dina could never resist the temptation to practice her charms on any man. She was putting the finishing touches to her makeup when Dina came in to see her, looking breathtakingly beautiful in a sheath of primrose silk, with a billowing overskirt of matching organza. "Do you like my new dress?" she asked. "It's lovely. Paul's?" "Henri's." There was a triumphant gleam in the blue eyes as she saw Alix's astonishment. "I told you I'd make a difference to the way he worked, didn't I?" "I can't believe it! It isn't his style at all." "It's surprising what a little bit of inspiration can do," came the complacent answer. "Henri's simply bursting with new ideas. He says I've given him back his inspiration." "What about the little seamstresses you spoke of earlier?" Alix asked swiftly. "Didn't they give it back to him?" "Not in the same way." Alix longed to laugh at- Dina's comment, but the proof of it was in the dress in front of her. She came closer and looked at it. "Don't talk about the dress to Mrs. Duval. She's jealous of her husband and" "I'll say she is! Did you see the way she looked at me when Henri introduced us? Afraid I'm going to run off with him, I suppose. Anyway, why shouldn't I talk about the dress? I'm paying Henri to design my clothes. They're not presents from him." "I'm merely trying to avoid a scene," Alix said composedly.

"I don't see why." Dina surveyed herself in the mirror. "A nice little scene would enliven a boring country weekend!" On a sigh, Alix led the way out. When Dina was in this particular mood it was useless to argue with her. When they entered the drawing room they found two other guests already there: a Lady Brandon and her daughter, Fleur, who lived at the nearby hamlet of Croxhma Parva. A close friend of Amy Duval, Ivy Brandon was some years older, with a tall, angular figure and hawklike features. Her graying hair still held traces of its original red and beneath their drooping lids her small, light-colored eyes darted hither and thither, missing very little that went on around her. Her daughter had ash-blond hair and appealing gray eyes and could have been exceptionally pretty had her appearance not been spoiled by the deferential, almost subservient manner in which she listened to her mother's every word. Dinner was served in a dining room hung with tapestries of hunting scenes, and the long polished table was illumined by candles in heavy silver candlesticks that cast dancing shadows on the walls. But while the atmosphere was traditionally English, the cuisine was unmistakably French. Amy Duval might not allow her husband's tastes to dictate the way the manor looked, but she obviously ran it to suit his palate. Alix was seated next to Paul and though he glanced appraisingly at her white shoulders framed by the black lace, he made no comment. She longed to ask him whether he liked her dress but was afraid his truthful answer would be in the negative. For the most part he watched Dina and his father, who had eyes only for each other, and whenever the girl laughed at one of Henri's jokes, Paul's hands tightened around his fork. Amy Duval, seated at the head of the table and uncompromisingly unfashionable in black crepe, was a silent hostess who made sure all her guests were well served, but otherwise contributed nothing to the conversation. Not that there was any lack of it, for Lady Brandon held forth in her booming autocratic voice both to Peter and her daughter, and occasionally across the table to Paul. It was unfortunate that Dina's gravest faux pas should take place at a time when Lady Brandon was tucking in to her dessert, thus allowing everyone's attention to focus on the actress who suddenly noticed the unusual ring of carved jade Henri Duval was wearing on his little finger. "Why, darling," she said, holding out her slim hands to him, "I've never noticed that before. May I try it on?" Henri handed it to her and she slipped it on and studied it. "It looks most effective, don't you think? I'm sure I could have it made smaller."

"I haven't given it to you yet," Henri protested. "But you will, won't you, darling? I'm mad about jade." Alix glanced nervously at her hostess and saw that the woman had lost color. She racked her brains for something to say but was forestalled by Paul, who leaned across the table and tapped Dina playfully on the arm. "If you like jade, I'll show you father's collection. He's been amassing it for years." "I'd no idea," Dina drawled. "Is it all jewelry like this?" "Only a small part of it. Most of it is large pieces." "There's the gun," Mrs. Duval intervened tonelessly. "A jade gun?" Dina widened her eyes. "Only the handle is jade," Henri said. "But the whole gun is more like a toy. You could hide it in your bosom and no one would ever know. It's in the desk in my library; I'll show it to you later." "No thanks, I've got a phobia about guns. I once had to use one in a play and the very thought of it almost gave me a breakdown.'' "There's a difference between a prop gun and a real one," Alix said and quickly turned the conversation to stage props in general. Peter followed through with an amusing story of prop jewelry that was once worn to a society ball and stolen by a luckless thief, and everyone laughed and relaxed. At last the dinner came to an end and they adjourned to the drawing room for coffee. Dina kept close to Henri, her hands lingering possessively on his arm as he guided her to a chair. She was still wearing his ring and he made no attempt to reclaim it, but leaned nonchalantly over the back of her chair, his whispered remarks bringing a sparkle to her eyes. They made a striking picture together, the tall, gray-haired man and the laughing red-headed girl in her filmy gown. Alix wondered how much Dina was playacting. Many girls found older men extremely fascinating and Dina could well be one of them. She was wishing there was some way of interrupting the two of them when Paul got up from the settee and strode purposefully across to Dina. "You mustn't let father monopofize you all evening or I'll get jealous." His voice was unusually loud and easily heard by everyone in the room.

Alix was too far away to see the look that passed between them, but she breathed a sigh of relief as Dina stood up and gave Paul her hand. "How naughty I am," she said in a little-girl voice. "I'm at your service, sir. What would you like to do?" "Dance," he said promptly and led her over to a bureau in the far corner, where they were immediately engrossed in choosing records from a stack that lay there. Left alone, Henri lit a small cheroot and settled down in a chair to smoke it. From her high-backed wing chair on the other side of the fireplace, his wife sat watching him, only the twitching of her veined hands, half-hidden in the folds of her dress, a sign that the scene enacted before her had not gone unnoticed. For the rest of the evening Paul remained by Dina's side. It was obvious he had maneuvered her away from his father in order to allay his mother's fears, but Alix also felt he was avenging himself for the way Henri had behaved on the night of the play. However, Dina seemed to approve of the arrangement and, locked in Paul's arms, was oblivious to anyone else. Peter was dancing with Fleur and Lady Brandon watched them with a beady eye. Henri was still smoking and his wife was still watching him, though she looked more relaxed and even permitted herself the occasional smile. Feeling strangely dispirited, Alix decided to go to bed early. At the doorway she paused for a last look around and saw Dina pull Paul's dark head down to hers and whisper something in his ear. He chuckled at what she said and for a second laid his cheek against her. What did it mean, the tiny intimate gesture she had just witnessed? Was Paul in love with Dina? The idea filled her with misgiving. Dina was quite wrong for him. She was a born man-eater who delighted in the power she wielded and loved to twist men around her fingers. She needed a dominating man who would stand no nonsense from her. The reserved and serious- minded young designer would be like wax in her hands. I wish I knew what game Dina was playing, Alix thought as she wended her way to her room. A couple of hours ago she spoke as if Henri was her ideal and now she's looking at Paul in the same way. Maybe she doesn't care for either of them except as two more scalps! This was a far more satisfactory conclusion yet it gave Alix little comfort. Somewhere in the future she sensed tragedy and knew that nothing she did today could avert it.

CHAPTER FOUR

With a contented air Alix sat at her desk and gazed at the newspapers piled high in front of her. They had had marvelous publicity for the barbecue and even the most newshungry client would be satisfied by it. "The pictures are great," she said to Peter, who was happily poring over another bundle of papers. "Take a look at this." He glanced at the center spread she was holding out. It showed a smiling portrait of Henri and another smaller picture of Paul and Dina laughing together as they shared a plate of food. "The old boy kept up a pretty good front," Peter commented. "I don't suppose he enjoyed having his girl friend snatched away by his son." "I don't think she's Henri's girl friend yet." "Don't you?" Peter looked disbelieving and Alix hurriedly bent to the papers again. Suddenly she held out another page. "Here's another couple who seem to have had a good time." Peter stared at a photograph of himself and Fleur Brandon, sitting on a garden seat holding hands. "Dear me," he said carelessly. "A photographer must have been hiding in a flowerpot!" "I didn't think the Honorable Fleur was your type." "I found her very charming." The use of such an adjective struck Alix as disquieting, making something serious out of a situation she had tended to disregard. "You haven't fallen for her, have you?" "Would you object if I have?" "It isn't for me to object. But Jack Beecham might." "The building magnate?" Peter was surprised. "What's he got to do with" "He's engaged to Fleur," Alix cut in. "I thought you knew." "No." It was a clipped sound. "She can't be. Not to a fat slob like that."

"He may be a fat slob," Alix said carefully, "but he's a millionaire and Lady Brandon is relying on him to restore the family fortunes. They say she spent her last penny on grooming Fleur for a rich marriage." "That lets me out then," Peter said and gave a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Is the engagement official or did one of your news hawks tell you?" "Lady Brandon told me. And from the way she said it, I fancy she wanted me to warn you off." "Why isn't Fleur wearing a ring?" he persisted, "and why wasn't Beecham at the party?" "Because I don't think it's official yet." "Then Fleur must be putting up a fight.' No girl with any sense would willingly marry a man like him!" "Maybe not," Alix agreed, "but Lady B. is a tough nut and Fleur will have to give in eventually." "I'll stick around until she does." "Why bother? You're not short of girl friends." "That's true." He frowned and then replaced it by another smile. "Thanks for the warning, Alix. As you say, I've a long list to choose from, and there's no point courting trouble." Whistling tunelessly, he walked out, and Alix settled down to make some telephone calls. She had completed her third one when Miss Wilkinson hurried in, mouthing that Paul Duval was waiting outside to see her. Before Alix could ask her to show him in, he strode into the office, his expression so furious that her smile of welcome froze on her lips. "I see you're admiring your handiwork," he said, glaring at the papers spread over the desk. "I suppose I'd be wasting your time if I asked you whether you've seen this." He tossed a newspaper in front of her, indicating a paragraph of print with a sharp rap of his fingers. Alix read it, her dismay increasing with every line. "It isn't only with his brilliant clothes that a handsome young couturier gets the better of an older one. Glamorous actress Dina Lloydwhose love affairs she delights in telling us aboutswitched allegiance from father to son within a space of hours, despite still wearing a beautiful ring she had playfully filched from pere. So once again youth triumphs over age and father has yet another wound to lick."

"Well?" Paul demanded furiously. "How do you think my mother will feel when she reads this?" "The same as your father feels," Alix said briefly. "Though I doubt if your mother takes this newspaper." "Maybe she doesn't," he snapped, "but there'll be plenty of so-called friends to tell her what she's missed. You might call this kind of thing publicity but I call it filth!" "You don't think I engineered this, do you?" Alix's temper began to rise. "That article was written by Jamie Hunter, but I assure you he didn't get his information from me." "Who else knew what happened at dinner on Friday? The only people there who were not our personal friends were you and your assistant." "What about the staff?" "They'd never talk. They've been with my mother for years and would never do anything to hurt her." "Neither would I. I know you have a poor opinion of publicity but" "Why shouldn't I?" he stormed. "Scandal and lies are the tools of your trade!" "Mr. Duval!" Alix's voice shook with fury. "I'd like to remind you that my business arrangements were made with your father. If you have any complaints to make about me, then make them to him. And in future stay out of my office." "That'll be a pleasure!" Paul's face was an ashen mask. "But before I go, I'll give you a warning. I'll get you out of the salon if it's the last thing I do!" The door slammed behind him and the noise was still reverberating when Peter came in. "I couldn't help hearing what was going on," he said grimly. "You were both shouting like a couple of banshees." "He thinks I planted the story with Jamie." "That just shows he should stick to dress designing. As a judge of character, he's lousy!" She made a disclaiming gesture. "I want to find out who did give it to him." "Forget it," Peter replied. "Columnists are cagey about their sources of information." "I'm still going to try. I know Jamie well and he owes me a few favors." She favored Peter with a narrow look. "It wasn't one of your bright ideas, was it?"

"Certainly not." She went on looking at him but he stared back at her with a bland look, and realizing he was not going to say any more, she reached for the telephone to continue her calls of thanks to all the reporters who had written up the Duval barbecue. Later, as she sipped a midmorning coffee, her suspicion of Peter returned. He had always been an enigma to her, and even after working with him for two years she was still never sure when he was joking and when he was serious. Her mind ranged over all the people who had been present at the dinner party that night. Lady Brandon and Fleur she dismissed immediately, for neither of them was the sort to gossip. That only left Henri, Paul and Mrs. Duval. A sudden picture of Amy Duval's haggard face flitted across her vision and she wondered whether Henri's wife could have revenged herself on him in this waymocking him for losing Dina to Paul. It did not seem likely, for in the process of doing so she was also broadcasting her own position in the world. Frowning, Alix once more picked up the receiver, this time to call Jamie Hunter. He was not in and she left her name with his secretary, knowing even as she gave it, that he was unlikely to disclose his informant. She was uncertain whether or not to call Henri Duval, but instead sent a personal note saying how pleased she was by the press coverage they had received and hoping he felt the same. There was no reply from him and the next day, when she went to the salon, she nerved herself for his comments on Jamie Hunter's column. But Henri said nothing and she was partly relieved and partly irritated by his silence. Had Paul made a mountain out of a molehill or was Henri's vanity so hurt that he could not bear to talk of it? Of Paul she saw little, and on the occasions when they did meet they were punctiliously polite. One afternoon she bumped into him in the corridor outside his room. Wearing the inevitable gray suit he looked the same as she had remembered: diffident and faunlike. Yet seeing his face in close proximity, she noticed a firmness about the mouth and a stubborn set to the chin she had not seen before. Had it always been there or was her anger against him making her more conscious of him? But she had little opportunity to wonder about her reactions to him, for in the following days Peter began to behave strangely. Never one to complain about overtime, he now left on the stroke of six each evening, regardless of the fact that Alix herself often had to complete the task he had left unfinished. He turned up in the mornings when it suited him and was so distrait and short-tempered that she finally asked her secretary what was wrong with him. "He's probably in love," Willie said.

"Peter's been in love before, and it's never struck him like this." "Perhaps it's real love." "Well, the sooner he marries the girl and gets it over with, the better! I'm tired of doing half his work as well as my own. I'll wait a bit and see what happens." However her determination not to lose her temper with him was put to the test more rigorously than she had expected, for that evening she was sitting at her desk trying to work out the wording for a particularly tricky letter when Peter flung into her office without knocking, stopping short when he saw her. "Sorry Alix, I didn't think you'd still be here." Coldly she noted his immaculate dinner jacket. "Where else would I be? I asked you to do this letter three days ago but you didn't." "I'm sorry. It slipped my mind." "It's not the only thing that's slipped your mind lately. I'm surprised you still remember to come into the office." He reddened. "There are other things in life beside work. It wouldn't do you any harm to relax a bit more. You've been working far too hard since Mark went away." "I'd rather you left Mark out of this! He has nothing to do with what we're talking about. Tell me, Peter, aren't you happy working here?" "Of course I'm happy. But work isn't the be-all and end-all of my existence." "What's her name?" Alix asked bluntly. "I assume a new girl friend is causing this change of attitude?" "Her name isn't important," Peter said lightly. "And she isn't the one who's changed my attitude. I've always felt this way. The only thing is that up till now I had no reason for working regular hours. But" "If you're looking for a nine-to-five job, you're in the wrong business," Alix cut in angrily. "You know I don't mean that. All I'm saying is that work for work's sake is not my idea of the way to live. You're the one who should change, Alix, not me." He came closer. "Take that letter you're doing. There's no earthly reason for it to be done tonight. But you've got yourself into such a routine that you've forgotten how to take things easy."

"Maybe I do work too hard," she admitted, "but if my assistant doesn't work hard enough" "Are you firing me?" Peter asked. "Do you want me to?" "No." It was a firm commitment. "I enjoy my job and I enjoy working with you." "Then you'll have to conform to my pace," she said equally firmly. "Otherwise I'll get someone else." There was silence for half a moment. "Right," he said. "Your pace it shall be." He held out his hand for the letter. "Give me that and I'll finish it." She shook her head. "You're obviously going out now. Let's put the new broom into operation tomorrow." "The old broom you mean." He smiled. "I've always worked at your pace until the last few weeks." She half smiled and was still thinking of his comment as he went out and she resumed work on the letter. Thank goodness Peter had acted reasonably. She would have been sorry to have asked him to go. But there was definitely a girl involved in his change of attitude, and she was not convinced she had seen the last of Peter's odd behavior. This time her smile became a rueful chuckle. She was the one who behaved oddly preferring work to pleasurebecause work was more exciting. Was that why she was still heart-free, or would her attitude to work change if she fell in love? What a pity she couldn't think of Mark as her husband. Restlessly she flung down her pen. Peter was right. If she wasn't careful, she would end up a lonely spinster with a big bank balance when what she really wanted was a semidetached with a husband and children. "No, I don't," she said aloud. "A suburban life would bore me to death. I want the best of both worlds: a career and a happy marriage." With a rueful sigh, she picked up her pen and continued working. A couple of days later, going to lunch in a Fleet Street clubit was a useful way of keeping in touch with people she didn't necessarily want to make a point of telephoningshe saw Jamie Hunter sipping a drink at the bar. With a glint in her eye she perched on the stool next to him. "You're just the man I want to see," she said gaily.

"I know," he replied. "But if it's about that barbecue story, you're wasting your time. I never betray a source." "Not even off the record?" "Not even. But I'll give you lunch by way of compensation." "I'll accept." She followed him to a table and they ordered their meal. "By the way," he said casually, "I saw your assistant at the Savoy Grill last night with the lovely Fleur. And the night before they were hitting it up at Roxanne's." He paused. "Jack Beecham's in the States, you know, so when the cat's away" Alix forced herself to shrug, though inside she was seething with anger. So Peter was still seeing Fleur! And taking her to the most expensive places in London. He had to be finding the money somewhere and she was dismayed to think it might be from the gossip monger who was now giving her lunch. When she returned to her apartment, Peter was already at his desk, and sitting down behind her own, she faced him. "I had lunch with Jamie today. He said he saw you and Fleur last night." "That's right." "I thought you weren't going to see her anymore after I told you she was engaged to Jack Beecham." "The engagement isn't official." "For heaven's sake!" Alix exploded. "Fleur's not in your league. You'll never get her to break her engagement. All you'll do is store up trouble for yourself." "You're not very flattering about my manly charms." Peter was obviously not going to be serious. "Don't you think I stand comparison with Beecham?" "You're miles above him in every way except financially." "Well, thanks for something! At least you don't believe Fleur's in love with him." "That's got nothing to do with it." "It has everything to do with it," he said gently. "You see, Fleur happens to be in love with me."

"Does her mother know?" He shook his head. "She's laid up in the country with lumbago. Fleur's spending a few weeks with an aunt in Kensington. That's how I've been able to see her." "Where's it going to get you?" "I don't know yet, mother dear." Alix colored. "I know you think I'm an interfering busybody but" "I think you're a marvelous busybody," he interposed, "but I'm not going to listen to you. Fleur and I love each other and I'm damned if I'll let her mother sell her off to the highest bidder!" "Fleur has a mind of her own," Alix reminded him. "She needn't have gone along with her mother." "She feels responsible for the old girl's welfarefelt it was up to her to retrieve the family fortune." "And now she doesn't?" "Not quite as much." "You're banking on being able to influence her more than her mother?" "Yes," Peter said flatly. "I am." As if to prevent further discussion he turned on his heel and left, but left behind a vague disquiet in Alix that grew more pronounced as the day wore on and she gave it further thought. To take Fleur out the way he was doing cost money, far more than he could afford, according to the rundown of his budget he had light- heartedly given her less than a month ago. Yet money no longer seemed in short supply for him, so he must be getting it from somewhere. From Jamie Hunter perhaps? It was a disquieting assumption but she dared not disregard it. From now on she would watch Peter closely. The next week went by without any undue incidents. The tractor account garnered some interesting articles in various trade magazines, and an important BBC director made noises about doing an in-depth interview with Henri Duval, to coincide with his next collection. Since the night of the barbecue she had seen little of Dina, but she could not pick up a paper without seeing her friend's face smiling at her. The hint of scandal in the Jamie Hunter article had caused a great deal of interest among fellow reporters, and all the news hawks in London were hot on the actress's steps. She was shadowed from the moment

she left the theater until she arrived at her flat in Mayfair, and not an evening went by without her being squired by one or other of the Duval men. With Paul she attended several big social functions and with Henri she was seen dining intimately tete-a-tete. The situation intrigued the columnists and one of the tabloids boldly enjoined her to "Make Up Your Mind, Dina!" Following a plan she had discussed in detail with Duval Senior, Alix had decided to softpedal on further publicity for the salon until August, when the winter designs would be launched. Consequently she went to the salon only for a few hours each week, and on none of these occasions did she catch more than a glimpse of Paul. But inevitably they did meeton a warm June day when she was in Henri's office, talking to him about the date for the BBC interview. Paul came in with a portfolio of sketcheshis suggestions for the new Duval lineand seeing Alix, he put the drawings on the table and walked to the door. Henri rifled through the topmost sketches and then dropped them with an angry exclamation. "We can't use these. They're not suitable at all!" Paul hovered reluctantly in the doorway. "I'd prefer to discuss it later." "We'll discuss it now." Henri banged his fist on the desk. "We can't use any of these designs. They're laughable!" A red stain colored Paul's cheeks. "That word more aptly describes the last Collection you did. " Henri stared at his son, unable to believe he had heard aright. He took a step forward, then with a superhuman effort, held himself in check. "How d-dare you't-talk to me like that!" he spluttered. "Mon Dieu, to think my own flesh and blood" "It's because I'm your flesh and blood that I am talking to you this way. Someone has to tell you the truth and if you won't listen to me, I'll leave you. I can no longer stand by and" Not waiting to hear any more, Alix ran from the room. She was trembling when she reached her car, and she sat behind the wheel for a moment to regain her self- control. Fingers tapped on the window and she looked up and saw Dina. Alix opened the car door. "Going for a fitting?" "I'm lunching with Henri."

"You'd better not go in for a while. He and Paul are in the middle of a row." Dina slid into the front seat. "I suppose they're arguing about the Collection." "What else?" Alix asked dryly. "Apart from you, of course." The china-blue eyes were innocent. "Why should they argue about me?" "Because you're playing one off against the other." "How disapproving you look," Dina mocked. "Whose heart are you concerned with Paul's or Henri's?" "Whose heart are you concerned with?" Alix countered. Dina hesitated. "Henri's," she said slowly. "But that's for your ears alone." "Then why make a fool of Paul?" "Because it isn't safe for me to see Henri every night." "Do you think it ever will be? Amy Duval will never divorce him, and I don't think he wants a divorce himself. If he did, he'd have got one years ago." "He hadn't met me years ago." Alix regarded her friend in amazement, becoming aware, as her focus sharpened, that Dina was wearing unusually heavy makup. But beneath the thick foundation her skin was unnaturally pale and the color outlining her cheeks was obviously false. "Are you sure you're being wise about this?" she asked gently. "Henri's so much older than you. He's had so many affairs." "Save your breath," Dina said, and though her voice was careless, her expression was veiled. "Henri's never felt about any other woman the way he feels about me." "But for how long?" "For as long as I want him." "But" "No, Alix, I refuse to talk about it anymore." Pushing open the car door, Dina ran lightly across the road and into the salon.

It was a thoughtful Alix who let herself into her apartment, to be greeted by a surprisedlooking secretary. "I thought you were going to be with the great man all afternoon?" "He was too busy arguing with his son." "About Dina?" "About clothesthough Dina may well be at the back of it." Alix sighed. "Paul was threatening to leave his father." "It would be the best thing for him if he did." "But he won'tnot when it comes to the crunch. He knows it would upset his mother." There was a sound behind her and she swung around to see Peter. "Hello there. I didn't know you were in." "I've just got back." He marched straight through to the other office and Alix watched him uneasily, wondering how much he had heard of her conversation. She was to wonder this even more forcibly when she opened the Daily Illustrated two days later and saw that Jamie Hunter was informing his readers of an imminent split in the House of Duval because Henri had turned down his son's designs for the forthcoming Winter Collection. Alix dropped the paper as if it were going to bite her and reached for the telephone to call Henri. Almost at once she decided against it. There was no reason to invite an argument. She might as well wait for Henri to do the calling; there was even a faint chance he had not seen the Daily Illustrated. All that morning as she worked on a campaign for a well-known author who had asked her to handle his next book, she mulled over all she had said to Willie when she had returned from the salon. There was no doubt Peter had overheard every word; no doubt that he had immediately relayed it to Jamie, in the same way he had also relayed the story of the jade ring. Never had she felt so despondent. She knew she must confront Peter with her suspicions and she dreaded the very idea of it. If only there was someone to whom she could turn for advice, some male shoulder on which she could lean. With a sigh she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, feeling the unfamiliar prickle of tears behind her lids. Unbidden, a picture of Paul came into her mind and she sat up sharply again. Henri's fury at Jamie Hunter's latest comment would be as nothing compared with his son's. What must Paul think of her now? She longed to call him but knew he would never believe she had had nothing to do with it. She could almost see the contempt on his

narrow face with its thin, sensitive mouth and determined chin; almost see the fury in the sherry-brown eyes with their blue-white lidslids that made him look very vulnerable until they lifted and one saw the intensity of the expression they hid. She sank lower in her chair, her hands pressed against her aching temples, until she became aware of the doorbell ringing. Willie had long since gone to lunch and wearily she went to answer it. On the doorstep stood a tall, rugged man, his skin tanned a deep mahogany, his closecropped fair hair bleached fairer by the sun. "Mark!" she gasped. "I didn't expect When did you get back?" "At dawn. There-was a sudden change of plan that's why I didn't let you know." He took in her strained expression and touched a finger to a cheek still damp with tears. "I thought of stopping off for a week in New York but decided I was missing you too much to enjoy it. From the look of you, I haven't come back a moment too soon." "You certainly haven't," she gulped, and with a cry flung herself into his arms and burst into tears.

CHAPTER FIVE
Alix had met Mark Watson at a dinner party and they had instantly become friends. Within a couple of weeks he had made it clear he wanted far more from her than this and refused to believe her assertion that she did not love him. Time and again she decided to say goodbye to him but he would never accept dismissal, and in recent months, she had wondered whether she was being foolish not to marry him. As Mark's wife she would have no more demanding clients to satisfy; no more hard-faced columnists to please or photographers to entice; no more late-night sessions in the office as she worked at publicity handouts that would, in more instances than she cared to admit, end up in the wastepaper basket of someone else's office; no more, in short, of the rat race that was the world of public relations. Yet despite her increasing dislike of her work, she was honest enough with herself to admit that marriage to Mark would result in boredom. And that meant she did not love him. But where was the love she was looking for and what would happen if she never found it? Though she knew her friends would find it hard to believe, she was too much of a romantic to accept second-best. She wanted to meet a man who would mean so much to her that she would be unable to live without him. And Mark certainly did not come into that category. Yet as she prepared him a light snack and carried it into the living room, she was happier to see him than at any time she could remember. She firmly reminded herself it was

because he had been abroad for several months and had returned when she was at an unexpectedly low ebb. "This is my idea of heaven!" he said, regarding the fluffy omelet on the plate. "A perfect meal and a perfect woman! How about marrying me right away? I can take a month's vacation and I've a load of money to collect in architect's fees." "It sounds highly tempting," she said lightly, "but the answer is still no." "I'll still keep trying." She shrugged but did not answer, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had the power to arouse her. Even a dispassionate observer would have agreed he was handsome, with his tall, broad-shouldered frame and Nordic coloring. "What's been happening to you while I've been away?" Mark interrupted her thought. "I'd like to believe it was pleasure that made you burst into tears when you saw me, but I'm honest enough to know it wasn't!" "I've been overworking." "You love hard work. It's got to be more than that." "It's an account I took on a few weeks ago," she mumbled. "It's suddenly become mixed up with people's emotions." She paused, then slowly told him all that had transpired since her first meeting with Henri Duval. "The friction between Henri and Paul is getting worse and so is Paul's dislike of publicity. But I could cope with both these problems if it weren't for Peter." "What's he done?" "Fallen for Fleur Brandon and spending too much money on her." "So what?" Reluctantly she told him of Jamie Hunter's gossip column and her belief that Peter was supplying him with information. "Have you told Peter you suspect him?" Mark asked. "No." "Then you should. The least you can do is to give him a chance to clear himself. I know Peter as well as you do and I think you're getting steamed up about nothing." He rose and put an arm across her shoulders. "You're tired, Alix. You need some relaxation. How about having dinner with me tonight?"

"I don't know," she sighed. "I've a lot of work to do and" "Forget the work," he interrupted. "I'll call for you at eight." He went to sit down again but she shook her head. "If you want me to go out with you tonight you must let me work now." Grumbling good-naturedly about bossy women, Mark allowed himself to be ushered to the door. "Don't call me when I get back home to say you can't go out with me after all," he warned. "I'll be here tonight, no matter What." He was as good as his word and, with unusual firmness, refused to let Alix discuss her business problems throughout the evening. He did not bring her home until after midnight and, as she prepared for bed, she felt more relaxed than for a long while. It was good to lean on another person rather than to rely on oneself. It was at moments like thesewith pressure of work high and vitality lowthat she missed her parents, who had died three years earlier. Dear Mark, she thought as she slipped between the sheets. It's lovely to have him back. Alix slept late the next morning, not waking until her secretary burst into the bedroom, her sallow face pink with indignation. "It's happened again, Miss Smith. Look!" Alix sat up and pushed back a heavy strand of hair from her forehead. "What are you talking about?" "Jamie Hunter's column. There's another piece in it on Duval's. Only this time it's about one of their clients." "What!" Alix snatched the paper from Miss Wilkinson's hand and scanned the paragraph hastily. "Send Peter to me the moment he arrives," she said grimly. "Meantime get Jamie on the phone." But the columnist was out of town for the day, and muttering angrily, Alix dressed and went into her office. The thought of phoning Mark passed through her mind but she dismissed it; he would try to pacify her and she was in no mood for peace, not when Henri Duval was probably chewing up the carpet. He had surprised her by ignoring the sniping at his own reputation but she thought it unlikely he would countenance any attack upon his clients; after all, it was there that his fortune lay. Deciding to go and see him before he had a chance to call and ask her to do so, she gulped down a cup of coffee and drove to the elegant Mayfair side street off Berkeley Square. Walking down the carpeted corridor to the couturier's room she was conscious of her heart pounding, and she had to strain to hear his "Come in" after she had knocked.

"My dear Alix, I was wondering when you were going to pay me a visit." He waved her to a chair. "I take it you want to talk about publicity for the Collection?" "I actually wanted to talk to youto apologizefor the article in the Illustrated this morning." He glanced at her quizzically. "Amusing, wasn't it?" "I didn't find it so." "But I did. I must congratulate you." Alix stared at him. "Are you being sarcastic, Monsieur Duval? I can assure you I had nothing to do with it." "There's no need to pretend with me, my dear. We are people of the world, you and I, and I admire your business acumen. These gossip writers are always looking for stories, and if you can supply them, then why not? It all brings you goodwill." Alix sprang to her feet, her violet eyes blazing with temper. "The day I need to go muckraking to maintain my goodwill with reporters is the day I quit the publicity business! I can assure you I had nothing whatever to do with that paragraph about Miss Gardiner." Henri's look was still quizzical. "You'll be telling me next that you didn't supply Hunter with news about my son's quarrel with me." "I most definitely didn't," she said, even angrier than before. "But I'm going to find out who did. If it's anyone in my own organization I'll fire 'em." "Pas necessaire." Henri managed to make his occasional lapses into his native tongue sound theatrical. ''You don't think I care what the Illustrated writes about Duval's? It's when papers have nothing to say about us that I worry!" He saw Alix's look of disbelief and went on, "Paul doesn't agree with me, of course. He is furious and wants me to terminate your contract." "Having judged me guilty without a hearing," she snapped. "It's a pity your son doesn't take after you." "A great pity," Henri Duval agreed, "but at least it means I have no competition from my own family." There was something about the way he was looking at her that told Alix his use of the word competition had nothing to do with his work as a designer of clothes. Only his designs on women, she thought ironically.

"Now how about a glass of champagne?" Henri said. "It's ideal for a midmorning pickyou-up!" She nodded and watched his deft movements at the drinks tray. He came across to her with a glass, his broad-shouldered body exuding vitality, his gray- streaked hair making him look sun-kissed rather than old. "One often fails to see what is closest to the eye," he murmured. "I have always considered you to be a striking-looking young woman, but now, when you lost your temper, I realized you were beautiful. Anger suits you, Alix!" His head came nearer and, at such close proximity she saw the fine network of lines around the vivid blue eyes; the tiny, broken red veins on the smooth cheeks; the crinkled skinbarely discernible but nonetheless therearound the sensual mouth and the soft sagging of a neck that not even a tautly held head could completely obliterate. Other women might not find Henri's age a deterrent but Alix was repelled by the desire emanating from him. Passion, when not returned, was an ugly embarrassment. Annoyed to find herself trembling, she put down her glass and made to rise. But Henri was not to be stopped. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close. "You are so different from the stupid women who are always throwing themselves at me. You have an intelligent mind as well as an enticing body." Before Alix realized his intention, he kissed her on the mouth. Astonishment kept her motionless, and taking this for acquiescence, he kissed her again, his lips soft and moist. It was only as their pressure increased that she could not control her disgust and she put her hands on his chest to push him away. Before she could do so, the door opened and Paul came in. Without hurry Henri stepped away from Alix and gave his son a look of amusement. "You should knock before you come in, Paul." "I didn't know you were busy. I'll come back later." "There's no need," Alix intervened. "I was on my way out." Paul's look of contempt needed no words to amplify how he felt and she swiftly said goodbye to Henri and left the salon. Driving back to her office, two emotions warred within her: fury against Henri Duval and chagrin that Paul should have surprised her in such an embarrassing situation. Did he realize his father had kissed her against her will or did he think she was one more addition to his list of conquests? When she walked into her office Peter was waiting for her and she pushed all personal thoughts aside and concentrated on an equally unpleasantthough less personalone.

"You've seen Jamie Hunter's article, I suppose?" "Who didn't?" he smiled. Deliberately she did not smile back, realizing he had no intention of making it easier for her. Still, if that was the way he wanted to play it, so be it. "Was it you?" she demanded. "Have you been the one feeding gossip to Jamie Hunter?'' Peter's long thin face seemed to grow longer. "It's a pleasure to know you have such a high opinion of me. Your belief in my integrity is" "Stop acting!" she burst out. "This isn't easy for either of us. But I have to know the truth. I don't want to think it's youand I've tried to find every reason for thinking it isn'tbut you've been so odd latelyand there's all the money you've been spending" "You think I'd sell you down the river in exchange for a steady cash flow?'' "You might not think you were doing anything so terrible," she said miserably. "Feeding tidbits to a gossip columnist isn't such a" "But you think it's terrible, don't you?" he questioned, cutting through the excuse she was trying to make for him. "You think it's terrible," he repeated, "and you also think it was me. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Alix, but it wasn't." Her relief was instantaneous and it showed on her face. "No doubts?" he asked, looking surprised. "None." "You're very trusting all of a sudden. If you'd asked me before where I got the money" "I tried but Surely you knew what was in my mind?" "It would have been difficult not to have known." He looked more relaxed. "You were pretty obvious about it." "Then why didn't" "Because I hate parading my private affairs. It was a loan," he went on slowly. "From Henri Duval, as a matter of fact." Ignoring Alix's open-mouthed amazement, he continued, "I ran into him one evening when Fleur and I were at the Don Juan. He was there with Dina and they joined us for coffee. When the girls went off to powder their noses he saw me peering into my wallet and offered to lend me as much as I wanted. In fact, he insisted on writing me a check on the spot."

"Oh Peter, you shouldn't have accepted a loan from a client!" "It seemed like a godsend at the time, though I've often wondered what made him do it. He said something about 'letting a young man have his fling' and asked if Lady Brandon knew I was seeing her daughter. He seemed amused when I told him she didn't. Evidently there's no love lost between them.'' "Henri has a curious sense of humor," Alix said. "He probably loaned you the money purely as nuisance value! You must pay him back at once. I'll lend it to you." "That won't be necessary. I had already made up my mind to do so. I've actually taken the plunge and put my home up for sale. I'm going to move somewhere smaller." "But you've spent so much effort doing it up," Alix protested. "More fool me." His smile was tight. "Fleur and I aren't seeing each other anymore." "How come?" "Lady B. turned up unexpectedly at her sister-in-law's house last night. She accused Fleur's aunt of encouraging our affair behind her back and forbade Fleur to see me again." "And like a dutiful daughter she's obeyed." He nodded. "I asked her to marry me but she she turned me down." He paused as if he found it difficult to go on. "She admitted she loved me but I guess she doesn't want to be a poor man's wife. She'll go ahead and marry that fat builder even if it breaks her heart." With an effort he pulled himself together. "From now on, it's work for me. I haven't been pulling my weight here in the past month and" "Only because I generally expect people to overwork," Alix admitted. "That's just what I need right now. Work and plenty of it." It was a considerably more relieved Alix who went out with Mark later that evening. She was determined not to talk about the Duvals or anything else connected with her work, but as she took her seat beside him at the theater, a couple of late arrivals caught her attention. She recognized Fleur at once, unusually pretty in white chiffon, though she did not recognize her escort, a bull- necked man with a coarse red face. He was in his late forties and his ungainly figure bulged in a dinner jacket. As he guided Fleur to her seat, his stubby fingers gripped her elbows and from his proprietorial manner she guessed him to be Jack Beecham. "No wonder Lady Brandon was in such a state," she whispered to Mark. "She must have known Beecham was back from the States."

"He's a tough-looking specimen," Mark said, then shifted his gaze to Fleur. "So that's Peter's beloved? She's not a bad looker." "It's a pity she" hasn't got the brains to go with it." Alix said tartly, but had no time to say more, for the house lights dimmed and the curtains swung back. But when the play was over, the conversation turned inevitably hack to Peter's abortive romance, and Alix admitted that she could not help feeling sorry for him. "That just shows how illogical we women are. When he was going with Fleur I was furious with him but now that it's over I'd do anything to bring them together again!" "You stay out of it," Mark replied. "From what you've told me of Lady Brandon, she's not the sort to brook any interference. She could do you a lot of harm with the Duvals. Let Peter fight his own battles. The main thing is that you don't suspect him for the leakages." "That's true," she conceded, "though I've now got a bigger worry." "Which is?" "To find out who is responsible." "Why bother? You told me yourself Monsieur Duval doesn't mind, and if" "He hasn't minded about the information that's been leaked so far," she cut in, "but once this sort of thing starts you never know where it's going to end. Someone knows the Duvals intimately and is trying to create trouble; and I've an awful feeling in my bones that it's going to end in disaster."

CHAPTER SIX
During the next month Alix had little occasion to see either of the Duval men. Henri made no mention of his attempt to kiss her or of Paul's interruption of the scene, but Alix could not forget it and wished there was a way of telling Paul she had never encouraged his father's advances. Because her services were not required until a couple of weeks before the Collection was shown, she was able to concentrate on some new accounts that had come to her: a matinee to arrange for a charity organization and the launching of a new perfume. Peter had kept his word and had plunged himself into work. His affair with Fleur was a thing of the past and though the girl's name regularly appeared in the newspapers, neither he nor Alix spoke of her.

Life was following a peaceful course when an event occurred that not only shook Duval's to its foundations, but rocketed Alix back into its midst with breathtaking suddenness. It was a morning in late July and she was sipping her coffee and perusing the daily papers. The woman's page of a popular tabloid was full of fashion sketches, and the words "Betty Villiers' Sensation" caught her eye. Recalling that this dress designer had recently surprised the fashion world by announcing that she was showing her clothes two weeks ahead of everyone else, Alix read on, realizing that the opening had taken place the previous afternoon. And what an opening it had been. Her designs had created a furor and the fashion editor was rapturous in praise of it. "Betty Villiers' new line will appeal to the siren in every woman," she wrote. "Inspired by ancient Egyptian art, it uses sculptural folds with dramatic effect. I prophesy that this winter we'll all become devotees of the Sphinx." Alix examined the sketches. There was no doubt they were excellent, as were the little details: the heavy gilt collars on many of the dresses; the predominant colors of terracotta, white and gold and vivid blue. At once her thoughts raced to Paul and Henri. What did they think of their rival's maneuver? As she pictured the scene in the salon, the telephone rang, and lifting it, she heard Paul's voice. "Can you come over at once?" he asked. "Is it about Betty Villiers?" "Yes." He hung up without another word and as quickly as she could, Alix repaired to Mayfair. She went straight to Henri's office and found him and his son poring over a portfolio of drawings, while Madame Lelong hovered nearby, her plump face mottled with agitation. "Thank you for coming so promptly." Henri was unusually gracious as he beckoned her toward the desk. "Our new Collection," he said and pointed. Alix looked at the sketches and tensed. "I see you recognize the theme," he continued. "Naturally. It's Betty Villiers' Sphinx Line." "Sphinx Line!" Henri spat out the words contemptuously. "It wasn't called that when Paul and I designed it months ago!" Alix stared at him incredulously and Paul took up the conversation.

"The designs are identical. Here, look at these." He leafed through a bundle of sketches, picking out many the same as those featured in the newspapers. Alix looked at them and then at the two men watching her. "You think yours were stolen?" "Unless you expect us to believe that extrasensory perception has now achieved a one hundred percent success rate," Paul said icily. Alix moistened her lips. She could not believe they suspected her yet she had to make sure. But before she could voice her feelings, Henri spoke. "My son and I have guarded these sketches as if they were gold bricksas indeed they are to us! Only a few of our most trusted people have been allowed to work on their making. Even you, my dear Alix, have been kept out of the way." "Which saves me the necessity of protesting my innocence," she said dryly. "But what happens now? Do you sue Villiers?" "There's no copyright in ideas," Paul said savagely. "Then what else can you do?" "Find out who stole our sketches and get them to confess that Betty Villiers bought them, knowing them to be stolen." "She'll never admit that," Henri said impatiently. "She can always say she bought the drawings in good faith." "You mean there's nothing you can do?" Alix asked. "Nothing." The two men spoke simultaneously and for the first time she felt them to be linked by a common bond. What a tragedy that it had taken a disaster to get them ranged together. "What's going to happen to your own Collection?" she said, looking from Henri to Paul. "We'll have to scrap it," the older man replied, and sat down heavily at his desk. "The designs never left this office except at the weekends, when Paul and I worked on them at home. All my staffboth here and at Crox- hamhave been with me for years. They're like my family. They'd never harm us." "Well, someone has," Paul grated, his usually soft voice hard with bitterness, "and we've got to decide whether we cancel our Winter Show or try to design a half dozen new outfits."

"Half a dozen?" his father echoed. "I'd rather show nothing than make ourselves look so stupid!" There was silence in the room and the four people continued to stare at the drawings on the table. A memory stirred in Alix's mind and she could not check her exclamation. "What is it?" Henri asked. "Have you thought of something?" "I was just wondering" She paused, then said coldly, "When I was here some months ago your son showed you some sketches. You didn't like them at the time but" Henri looked at his son and Paul nodded. "They're in my bureau," he said quickly. "I'll fetch them." A few moments later the ill-starred Sphinx designs had been bundled away and the desk was littered with the sketches Henri had vociferously rejected a few months earlier. As Henri examined them, Paul wandered around the room, his head lowered, and crossly Alix wished he did not always have such a diffident air when he was forced to come to grips with his father. "We might do something with these," Henri grunted at last. "They're extremely plain, though." "That's the beauty of them," Paul stated. "I want the tension and the contrast to come from the use of different fabrics." As he spoke his thin face lightened with enthusiasm. "Take this, for instance. "He held up a sketch of a close-fitting dress topped by a voluminous coat. "The dress is velvet and fits like a second skin but the coat is satin and moves like a river. Do you see what I mean?" "No," Henri admitted. "This talk about tension is beyond me. You should have been an architect, not a dress designer!" "A dress designer is an architect," Paul retorted. "Only we express ourselves in fabric instead of bricks and mortar." "Let's get down to practical details." Irritably Henri picked up a pencil and flexed his muscles. "Though the practical side of the business has never appealed to you.'' Paul flushed at the sneer and Alix saw the effort it cost him to say nothing. "What are we going to call the new line?" she asked quickly. "I'll leave that to my son."

"I don't know," Paul muttered. "Call it what you like." Afraid that unless she could smooth things over, there would be no Collection at all, Alix racked her brains. Suddenly she snapped her fingers. "What about the Phoenix Line? The new Collection rising from the ashes of the old! You know this is going to make a fabulous story." Henri grunted. "We must be careful what we say. We can't accuse Betty Villiers directly. All we can say is that our designs were stolen and leave people to draw their own conclusions." He turned to Madame Lelong. "We must tell our workroom. See that the entire staff is assembled in the salon in ten minutes. And you, Paul get through to Garance in France and tell Pierre Dubois what's happened. Say it's imperative he lets us have a complete range of his newest materials. The ones he's hiding for next season! Our Collection may have to be small but it's got to be out of this world!" Paul and the vendeuse left the room and Alix looked at Henri admiringly. "I'm glad you're not going to let this defeat you," she said. "I do not recognize the word defeat." He held out an open cigarette case but she shook her head, though she gave a murmur of admiration as she noticed the case itself. "How lovely. Is it French?" "It's French workmanship," he replied. "It was made in the Seychelles Islands where I was born. They have the finest tortoiseshell in the world." "I always thought you were born in France." "It is what I let most people believe. But I was born in the Seychelles and lived there until I was eighteen." The door opened and Madame Lelong panted in. "The staff are waiting for you, Monsieur Duval." Like an actor accepting his cue, Henri straightened his shoulders, pulled his gleaming white cuffs forward and strode out. The staff of Duval made a strange group in the salon: the vendeuses in their uniforms of black crepe and pearls, the seamstresses and apprentices in gray overalls and the models in white wrappersall but one girl who was still wearing the geranium evening dress she had been showing when Madame Lelong's summons had reached her. A hush fell over the assembly as Henri told them of the blow that had befallen them, and the girls muttered as he explained that everything they had toiled so hard to produce must

be scrapped and a complete new Collection prepared. It would have to be small, but even to achieve this it would be necessary for everyone to work long and late. Hardly had he finished speaking when everyone declared their readiness to do whatever was necessary, and Henri thanked them warmly. "I have always looked upon you as my family," he said with his engaging smile, "and I knew you would not let me down." The staff filed out but Madame Lelong still hovered. "I don't like bothering you at a time like this, Monsieur Duval, but Anna's ill. Her husband telephoned this morning to say she's in the hospital with appendicitis." "What?" Henri gave a roar of anger. "How can we show our clothes without our leading model? Half of Paul's designs were done with her in mind." Madame Lelong's face quivered with misery, though it roused no sympathy from her employer who, if anything, became more incensed. "Don't stand there looking at me like a soaking sponge! Find me someone else." "I h-have already asked s-some models to come here," the vendeuse stammered. "They are waiting outside for you to see them." "I'll see them now. But let them change into something of ours first. It's the way they look in Duval clothes that counts." Madame Lelong scurried out and Henri sighed heavily. As he did so, Dina came in, a delicate figurine in rose pink. "I had to see you," she exclaimed. "I was talking to Paul and he told me about the disaster. If only there was something I could do " "Do not worry, cherie. Everything is under control." He drew Dina's hand to his lips, then led her to a gilt chair. "Sit next to me while I choose another model." He nodded to Madame Lelong who was hovering by the door, and the smile on his lips became transfixed as a tall, statuesque girl with silver white hair glided into the room. Unlike most models she was extremely curvaceous, yet was so perfectly proportioned she gave the impression of being slimmer than she was. Her silver white hair looked natural and Alix decided the girl was Scandinavian, which could also account for the pale skin and light gray eyes. There was something about her Alix disliked. It had nothing to do with the way she displayed one of Henri's embroidered creations, for she was, without question, superb at her job, managing to invest the somewhat vulgar dress with an insolent grace.

Three more girls followed her but it was obvious Henri had already made up his mind. As the last girl disappeared he looked at Madame Lelong. "What was the name of the first one?" "Sophie. I thought myself she was a little too big." "I liked her." "She'd never be able to model a suit," Dina said. Henri gave an irritable shrug. "I'm tired of all these stereotyped, emaciated creatures. Sophie is different from anyone we have used before." "Really?" Dina said, and wise to the ways of women, Henri immediately caught up her hand and drew it to his lips. "My lovely Dina, you do not look pretty when your claws are showing. Now come, let me give you a drink in my office." He looked at Alix. "Will you join us?" "I don't have time. I want to get back to my office. But I'll be here again later." It was midafternoon when Alix returned to the salon to find Paul and Henri busily working on toilesfine, white muslin replicas of each design. As each dress or suit was completed it was carefully removed from the model and carried upstairs to the workroom, where it would then be transposed into the actual material. The sun had already set when Sophie came in to take her place on the stand, ready for the two men to start draping a new toile on her. Paul repinned the side seams of the skirt, and at a whispered suggestion from his father, chopped off a couple of inches from the hem of the short, flyaway jacket. Then he stepped back and narrowed his eyes. "It's still wrong!" he said. "Sophie's too fat for this style. I'd rather make it for Louise." "You'd rather make everything for Louise!" Henri exclaimed. "That's your biggest mistake. You imagine all women are beanpoles." Afraid that unless she intervened she would be witness to another scene, Alix entered the fray. "Most designers work with an ideal woman in mind," she said smoothly. "If you create for the average woman, you'll end up with a wholesale collection!" "Don't knock wholesale!" Henri's good humor was restored. "They make more money than we do." He glanced at his son. "All right, Paul. You do your toiles on your ideal woman and I'll do my toiles on mine."

Paul gave Alix a strange look and handed the scissors to his father. "Sophie's your ideal at the moment," he said dryly, "so you'd better take over." Henri took the scissors and Alix resumed her seat as Paul left the room to fetch Louise. It was interesting to watch Henri at work, for only then did he become oblivious of the world, no longer regarding himself as the pivot of it. For ten minutes he was absorbed in total and silent concentration, and only when Sophie gave an exclamation of pain did he come back to the present. "Sacricoeur! What is it?" "You drew blood." The girl moved a beautifully rounded shoulder on which a long, red weal had sprung. "My dear, I'm so sorry." He pressed his lips to the mark, and though he drew back quickly, it was not before Alix glimpsed a look of triumph on Sophie's face. Was Dina on the way out, she wondered involuntarily, and her first feeling of elation was followed by a sense of depression that defied analysis. It could only be better for Dina's career if her affair with Henri ended, for sooner or later they would overstep the mark and land up in Jamie Hunter's column. Yet if Henri gave up Dina before the actress was tired of him, who knew what she would do? Throw herself into work or find herself another man? The latter course seemed more obvious, as did the man to whom she would turn: Paul Duval. Without question it was the best way of infuriating Henri, who would see her choice as a pointed reference to his own more mature years. But would Paul allow himself to be used as a sop to Dina's pride? Or was he so fond of the girl that he would not mind being second best? The thought of Paul with Dina was so unexpectedly painful that she closed her eyes, only opening them again as Sophie began to ease her way out of the toile, careful not to disturb any of the strategic pins. Clad only in silk panties and a black brassiere, she made a breathtakingly lovely picture as she tilted back her head and looked at the man in front of her. Alix was conscious of an expectancy trembling between the two of them, and not wishing to be a party to it, she went quickly to the door. "There's no need for me to stay here any longer. If you could tell your son that I" "Tell me yourself," Paul cut in, coming into the room with a length of brocade over his arm. "I'm going to work out some copy on the name Phoenix," she replied. "There's nothing more for me to do here, and it's late."

He looked at his watch. "It's nearly eight. I never realized. I should think my father and I will be working through the" "I intend to stop for a meal," Henri said behind them. "One cannot work on an empty stomach, Paul. You should stop for an hour, too." "That's not a bad idea. What about us all going round the corner to Antoine's?" "You take Alix," Henri said smoothly, "and I'll put Sophie into a taxi and have a snack on my own." "Very well," Paul said in a flat voice. "Come on, Alix." Without waiting for her to say yes, he caught her elbow in an unexpectedly firm grip and led her out. Looking at his stern expression as they walked along the road, she would have given anything to know his thoughts. Was he, like her, aware of Henri's interest in Sophie or did he regard it as a passing attraction that would not affect his affair with Dina? It was not until they were seated in the discreetly lit French restaurant that he appeared to relax. "What a day it's been! It's at times like this that I admire my father." Alix wondered whether Paul realized how much he had given away in that sentence. What were the times in his life when he had not had any admiration? When he had despised and hated him? She stopped abruptly. Why had she used the word hated? Surely it was too strong to apply to a father and son? "Alix!" Paul spoke her name and with a start she realized he had been talking to her. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I was daydreaming." "It wasn't important. I just wanted to know how you feel about lobster?" "Much happier than having them feel about me!" He chuckled and fine lines crinkled around his eyes. "Will Newburg suit you?" "It sounds deliciousthough very fattening." "You can afford it. You're too thin if anything." "I thought you liked thin women," she teased. "For my clothesnot necessarily for my life!"

Conscious of a feeling of warmth engendered by his words, she laughed and was glad to be dining alone with him. The hour passed quickly, and relaxing over coffee, she regretted they would soon have to return to the salon. "I wonder if you're glad the original designs were stolen," she said with a daring made possible by two glasses of wine. "If they hadn't been, you'd never have been given the opportunity of using your own sketches." He rubbed the side of his face in a gesture of tiredness and took several moments before he replied. "You don't understand me, Alix. You see my work in a much more personal way than I do." "But your work is personal," she protested. "It's like a painter saying he doesn't care whether his pictures are ever put on view!" "Lots of painters don't care!" "Then they can't have any ambition," she said vehemently. "And I refuse to believe you're not ambitious." "Why do you see lack of ambition as a vice? Some of the nicest people have no ambition." "Talent invariably brings ambition," she said crisply. "It's in the nature of a human being to want to use all his assets. A writer wants people to read his books and a musician wants them to listen to his music." "And I should want women to wear the clothes I design?" "Don't you?" He half smiled. "What a difficult woman you are to argue with!" He twirled a half-empty glass of wine between his fingers. It cast a glow of scarlet over them and she shivered, inexplicably reminded of blood. "What stops you from starting on your own?" she asked, repeating a question she had asked him on the first night of Dina's play. "Or are you going to tell me you like having to fight your father the whole time?" "I dislike it." The words were spoken flatly, their very lack of expression making them all the more poignant. "When I first began to work with my father I felt he would teach me a lot. But I soon realized that far from encouraging my talent he was doing everything to hinder it. Yet I stayed because I knew it would upset my mother if I left."

"And you've remained with him all these years for the same reason? It doesn't make sense! You're not a child." "I'm my mother's child. Her happiness means a great deal to me." "It must if you're willing to sacrifice your whole future!" "Hardly that," he said dryly. "I'm part of Duval's." "You should be Duval's. You should have your own salonor at the very least your own Collection." "We're back to ambition." His tone was rueful. "And I've already told you I'm not an ambitious person. My mother's happiness is more important to me. That's why I stay with my father. Being with him every dayworking closely togetherI can keep him from going completely off the rails." There was an uncomfortable silence, broken this time by Alix. "Has he always been such a womanizer?" "He's become worse as he's gotten older." "Why doesn't your mother leave him?" "I asked her that once, and she said she'd rather have him from time to time than never have him at all." "How much of that is due to love," Alix asked, "and how much to pride?" "In a woman's mind, love and pride are often confused. But as long as my father comes home on weekends and still keeps up the pretense of marriage, she's satisfied. And I'm satisfied for her. That's why I've stayed with him." "It hasn't been easy for you, though," Alix said, and looking into his face, saw the answer written in the sensitive mouth, in the sherry-colored eyes over which the lids closed enigmatically. "Have you never been afraid that one day your father would love another woman sufficiently to ask for his freedom?" "No. His affairs never last. And they have never worried me, either. Silly girls with shallow little hearts. It's only with Dina that I" He stopped speaking and his expression became impossible to read. Feeling as if a door had closed on her, Alix gathered up her bag. Paul paid the bill and they walked out into the cool night air. One thing stood out clearly from their conversation tonight: Paul loved Dina. It had been apparent in his admission that, until

now, he had never worried about the silly hearts of the silly girls with whom his father had had affairs. But with Dina it was different. She turned and glanced at him. His figure was illumined by a streetlight and he looked desperately sad. Yet she was sad, toofor him and for herself. But.it was her own sadness that unnerved her, for she knew no reason she should feel like that about a man she barely knew.

CHAPTER SEVEN
The showing of the Duval Collection took place as planned, and the newspapers, briefed by Alix, whipped up interest to fever heat. Everyone knew that the original clothes had had to be scrapped because the designs had been stolen and copied; and though this would undoubtedly win them a sympathetic press, the old hands at the salon knew that the people who really mattered the buyers who flocked to London from all over the worldwould need much more than sympathy to make them place their orders. The show was due to commence at eleven in the morning, but when Alix reached the salon at nine, it was already bustling with activity. Florists were still arranging baskets of flowers in the alcoves on the stairs, girls were spraying scent in the entrance hall and apprentices scurried between the floors, the dresses over their arms hidden by white sheets. No one, but no one, must dare glimpse the Line before the opening! In the salon itself, gilt chairs were drawn up in rows, and a battery of floodlights vied with the glittering chandeliers to illumine the catwalk down which the models would walk. Alix rushed here, there and everywhere. Used though she was to theatrical first nights, she found the atmosphere here far more exciting. In a play one only felt that the tension existed among the cast and the author and producer, with the technicians and stage hands regarding it as yet another workaday event. But in the salon, everyone from Henri and Paul down to the lowliest midinette were anxiously awaiting the outcome of all the backbreaking hours of work they had put in. In the dressing room confusion reigned. In a space habitually reserved for three girls and a dresser, eight models and three dressers now struggled together, with further pandemonium coming from the fitters, the hairdresser and a feverish young man armed with jewelry he was endeavoring to unload upon several models. Seamstresses kept coming and going, brandishing clothes and the accessories that went with them: hats, shoes and bags. The models, in scanty bras and panties, were putting the final touches to their makeup, the fatigue of the past few days forgotten in the excitement that lay ahead. In a far corner Sophie was studiously painting her face, applying wine-red lipstick to her full mouth and outlining her eyes with thick black pencil. Alix watched her for a full moment, marveling at her calm amid such confusion, then made her way to the salon,

which was now completely full. Henri and Paul were nowhere to be seen, though Madame Lelong came hurrying toward her. "There's no room for any more people," she whispered. "We must start at once. The models will get nervous if they wait too long." "Where are the Duvals?" "In Monsieur Duval's office. I have promised to let them know how it goes." "Why don't they watch for themselves?" "Monsieur Henri is too superstitious." Alix wondered if Paul was the same or remained with his father out of loyalty. But she knew the loyalty he felt was to his mother Drat the man. Why should she care what his motivations were? "You'd better start," she said aloud to Madame Lelong, and as the woman disappeared into the salon, made her own way to the changing room. Pandemonium still reigned and she retreated, taking up a stand on the main landing, which would afford her a view of the salon. Once started, the Collection was shown with a swing, with one dress following another with lightning rapidity. Music played discreetly and was often drowned by a burst of cheering or clapping when a garment aroused particular appreciation. To Alix's ears this appeared to happen frequently and she prayed that it indicated the success of the show. If it didn't, she'd have nothing to publicize. An hour after it began, the climax of the show came With the wedding gown, and like an ice queen, Sophie slowly walked the ramp. Everyone craned forward to see her: the entire audience; the little seamstresses in their white aprons, looking like doves as they leaned over the banisters; the black-dressed vendeuses and all the many other people whose work and effort made Duval's what it was. Alix silently applauded Henri's genius in choosing Sophie as his leading model. He had discarded the use of conventional white for her, and had made the gown of a silver material the exact shade and glitter of her hair. The dress had no ornamentation and relied for effect on the simplicity of its cut, which showed to full advantage the glorious body beneath it. What man would ever turn down a bride like this? As Sophie indolently wended her way through the salon she was greeted by a prolonged burst of applause, and it did not need Madame Lelong's aside to Alix for her to know that this collection was going to be one of Henri Duval's greatest triumphs. He had taken Paul's masterly cut and allied it to his own brand of showmanship, and the two men,

working together to save a dangerous situation, had amalgamated the best of both their abilities. The father's love of bright materials and lavish embroidery was tempered by the son's preference for subtle shades and no ornamentation. The next half hour was one of the most hectic Alix could remember. Henri strutted around like a peacock, proudly pointing out the subtleties of the new line and extolling the very lack of beading he had so hotly disputed with his son weeks before. Bulbs flashed as photographers vied with each other to get shots of the most outstanding clothes, while buyers clamored for their orders to be taken as soon as possible, all eager to get the garments of their choice back to their workrooms where they could be unpicked, copied line for line and then subtly altered so as to enable them to be massproduced. It was in the middle of this frenzy that Alix discovered that Paul was nowhere to be seen. She moved farther into the salon, wondering if he had slipped past without her noticing. But he was not there and she ran downstairs and along the narrow corridor that led out to the walled garden. The French window at the end was open but the garden was deserted and she went back along the corridor and knocked at his door. She obeyed his quiet command to come in and found him seated at his desk, pale and heavy eyed. "Aren't you going to come and meet the press?" she asked. "Everyone wants to see you." "I can't face them. I'm sure my father can cope much better on his own." "As you wish. I didn't come down to force you upstairs: merely to see how you were." He relaxed visibly and she noticed a fine sheen of perspiration above his upper lip. What a beautifully shaped mouth he has, she thought involuntarily and with an effort drew her eyes away from it. "It's been a great strain for you, hasn't it?" she stated. "No more of a strain for me than my fatherand I'm younger than he is. I should be able to take it more easily." "I don't think it's a question of age so much as temperament. You're more sensitive than he is and" "Too damned sensitive!" he burst out and rested his head in his hands. Realizing that the success of the show had caused him to lose momentary control of himself, she went to the window and stared out into the garden.

"I feel better now." His voice was directly behind her, his breath warm on her ear. "Forgive my behavior but it's it's been quite a strain. The main theme of the show was mine and if it had been a failure, I'd have got the blame for it." "You should now be getting most of the success," she said, swinging around to look at him. "Every dress you designed received applause. Several of your father's were well received, too, but it was your designs that made the Collection outstanding." "Thank you for trying to boost my ego." "It's true. I'm not being flattering." "You never have beento me." He gripped her arms and pulled her closer. It was only the second time he had touched her since they had met, and she was conscious of the strong pressure of his fingers; surprisingly strong from such slim hands. "I owe you a great deal," he said haltingly. "I'd never I'd never have stuck up for my own designs if it hadn't been for you." "But I never said anything," she protested. "You didn't have to speak. It was the way you looked at me. What you felt was palpably obvious on your face. Anger, pity, contempt." "Never contempt," she said quickly and longed to add that she had felt many more emotions than those he had subscribed to her. But since they were emotions she had not yet begun to understand, she remained silent, hoping he would say something more that would help her to understand herself. What was there about this man that tugged at her? It couldn't be love. He was not her type physically nor was he mentally rugged enough. "Alix," he whispered and leaned forward. Their eyes met and they were so close she could see pale golden flecks in the sherrybrown depths. He lifted his hand and touched her raven-black hair, following the curving wave that lay close against her cheek. "Alix," he repeated. "Will you let me design a dress for you?" The words were so different from what she had hoped, that she was speechless. "My father's having a fancy-dress ball at Croxham," he went on, "and I know exactly what you should wear."

All at once she understood his offer. Had he been a painter he would have offered her a portrait but because he was a couturier, he was offering her the one thing he could give that was truly a part of himself. Pleasure warmed her and she smiled. "I'd love you to design my costume. What color will it be?" "You'll have to wait till the day. Come over to the desk and I'll take your measurements." Alix stood perfectly still as Paul busied himself with a tape measure. She, who prided herself on her sophistication, was exasperated to feel the blood mounting in her cheeks at the light, firm touch of his hands upon her body. She glanced at him covertly but he was absorbed in his task, his brows faintly contracted. "I think that'll do," he said, and jotted down the final measurements. "II'd better be getting upstairs," she said breathlessly. "But I'll be looking forward to seeing what you dream up for me." He did not answer and she hurried from the room. The publicity that Duval's received satisfied even Alix, and for the next ten days she was kept busy with it. Naturally enough, Henri also expected coverage of his fancy-dress party, and she placed it in Peter's hands, preferring to concentrate her own activity upon the Collection. She was so occupied she had no time for any private life, and one evening Mark, calling to take her to a movie and finding her still at her desk, protested loudly about it. "I've never known you to get so swamped by a client. The Duvals haven't bought your body as well as soul, have they?" "You know very well that publicity comes in fits and starts," she explained, "and this is one of my busiest times." "You should charge them a fortune for what you're giving them." Wearily she threw down her pencil and stretched her arms above her head. There was a great deal of truth in what Mark said; she was putting more into her work for the Duvals than she did for any of her other clients. "I won't be working over the weekend," she promised. "Peter and I are going down to Henri's party."

"Some relaxation that'll be for you! You'll be rushing around getting a lot of newsworthy stuff out of it, if I know you." "That's what I'm going for," she retorted, and then laughed as she realized that her words had condemned her. "Don't try to stop me working, Mark. You won't succeed." "Sometimes I don't think I'll ever succeed in anything with you. Why don't you stop completely, Alix, and let me take care of you?" With his eyes searching hers, she could not pretend to misunderstand what he was saying. "It's no good, Mark. I can't marry you. I've told you before I don't love you." "Because you didn't love me last month, doesn't mean you can't love me now." She attempted a smile but for some reason it wasn't successful and tears filled her eyes. "Alix, what's wrong? I didn't mean to upset you. It's" "It isn't anything you said, Mark. I don't know why I'm crying." The tears fell faster and she took the handkerchief he offered. "I guess you're right about my overworking. I am tired." "Can't you get out of this party?" "No." "Well, how about my coming with you? I'm sure the Duvals wouldn't mind." "I'll be too busy to talk to you," she said quickly. "It'll be a waste of your time." It was only later that night as she lay in bed that she wondered why she had refused Mark's offer, for she could certainly have found time for him had she wanted to do so. Yet her refusal had been instinctive and she was afraid to probe below the surface of her mind to find out from where it stemmed, knowing that once she uncovered the truth she would have taken a step forward from which she would never be able to retreat. As she drove out of London with Peter the following Saturday afternoon she thought of the dress Paul had made for her and nervously hoped it would fit. He had kept his word and refused to let her see it, which meant she had not had a fitting for it. Still, with two couturiers in the house, a little alteration here and there should be possible! She glanced at Peter, her pleasurable thoughts dimmed by the sight of his gloomy face. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "Still pining for Fleur?"

"I'm learning to live with that." "What else then?" He was so long replying that she knew she would have to give him a shove. "Keeping it to yourself won't help. At least if you tell me what's eating you, I may be able to help you." "Sharks," he said jerkily. "What?" "Loan sharks," he explained, and went on to say that in an effort to quickly repay the money he had borrowed from Henri, he had started to gamble and had only ended up owing more. "I thought you were selling your apartment to raise the money needed?" she cried in exasperation. "I couldn't get the price I wanted." "So you tried gambling? Oh Peter, what an idiot you are! Why didn't you come and tell me?" "Pride," he said. "But I'm telling you now." She knew he was asking for help and though she wanted to give it, she also wanted to make sure he did not see an easement of his finances as a reason for resuming his pursuit of Fleur. "If there's any problem in your helping me," he said abruptly, "then forget it." "The big problem is Fleur. She'll be at the manor this weekend and and I want you to steer clear of her." "Rebuff her advances and make none of my own?" "Fleur won't make any advances to younot with her mother there." "Then there's no problem," he replied flatly. "Only the one you're making for yourself. Fall in love with someone else.'' "Just like that? Come off it, Alix. Can you fall in love to order?"

She thought of Mark and knew the answer. "At least try to forget her," she said. "I am. But I'm not very successful." The rest of the journey was completed in silence though Alix still continued to think about Peter's problems. But as they neared the manor her thoughts turned to Dina, who had also been invited here for the weekend. The invitation had not come from Henri who was now completely immersed with Sophieand she wondered if it had stemmed from Paul and why Dina had accepted it. Did she hope to win back Henri's affections or was it merely a desire to embarrass him? Long shadows were slanting across the emerald lawns of Croxham Manor as they drew to a stop outside the massive oak door. The stonework of the old house glowed golden in the late sunlight and a thrush caroled his evening song as they stepped out onto the paved courtyard and walked up the steps. At their ring the door was opened by a maid who, motioning Peter to leave the cases where they were, asked if they wished to go to their rooms right away or would prefer to have a drink in the drawing room. "A drink for me," Peter grinned. "How about you, Alix?" "I could do with a drink," she agreed. "I'm feeling chilly." Together they went into the main living room, surprised to find it empty. But a log fire burned in the grate and a trolley beside it was laden with a wide assortment of drinks. "The Duvals certainly know how to treat their guests," Peter said, squinting appreciatively. "They've even provided some salt-rimmed glasses for anyone fancying a margarita!" "That's what I do call hospitality," she smiled. "And it happens to be one of my favorites." She accepted the generous measure he poured and sipped it. "I imagine everyone's upstairs changing." "That's where I'll go as soon as I've downed this. Wait till you see my costume. I'm rather proud of it." Alix walked over to the fire and warmed her hands. It was surprising how cold these old houses were. It was as if the sunlight never penetrated the thick stone walls. Outside, the sun was slowly sinking in the west and the dark branches of the trees cast a black tracery against the purple sky. As the light faded the room took on a different atmosphere and the fire came into its own, casting shadows over the walls and making the furniture loom larger and darker.

She drained her drink and turned to the door, stopping as it slowly began to open. Noiselessly it moved across the carpet, disclosing a tall, male figure shrouded in black. The light behind illuminated him and one arm rose to push away the monkish cowl that framed his head and shoulders. As it fell back a skull gleamed white and Alix screamed. "Good evening, friends," the figure said in a hollow whisper. "Death bids you welcome to the feast!"

CHAPTER EIGHT
In the months to come, Alix was to remember Henri Duval's strange choice of costume. For it was Henri who advanced into the room and removed his mask. Had he worn it as a premonition, she was to wonder later, or had the choice been an idle one, born out of his desire to create a shock effect? If shock was his intention, then he had succeeded completely, for as he postured in front of her, Alix sank shaking onto the settee. "I never knew you had such a macabre sense of humor. You nearly gave me a heart attack!" "And I never dreamed you would be scared so easily. The indomitable Alix actually screamed!" "If you'd come one step nearer, I'd have fainted!" Highly pleased with himself, Henri rubbed his hands together. "Do you not think it a brilliant idea of mine to come as Death?" "Original," she said dryly, "but I'm not sure its humor will be appreciated." "At least it's out of the ordinary," he said blandly, "and that is what I wanted. I always think" He paused as a voluptuous young woman came through the door. With an exclamation she could not suppress, Alix recognized Sophie. She had been dismayed at the knowledge that Dina was going to be here for the weekend but had never envisaged Henri's newest inamorata being here, too! Poor Dina, she thought, and then almost at once, Poor Madame Duval! As if guessing her thoughts, Sophie undulated over to her. She was dressed as a Castillian bride, with frilled skirts and her hair glowing silver through a lace mantilla.

"What do you think of my costume?" she asked in her husky, insolent voice. "Henri designed it forme." "It's lovely." Sophie glanced over her shoulder, and as if the movement was a magnet, Henri came over and put his arm around her. The wide sweep of his black cloak hid their two figures and Alix was certain that behind its voluminous folds, they were pressed close together, body to body. She stood up. "I'd better go and change or I'll be late." "You must wait and have a drink with me first," said a clear, cool voice, and Alix swung around as Dina came into the room with Paul. The actress had not changed, either, and was wearing a plain black dress that emphasized the pallor of her elfin face. "Why aren't you in your costume?" Henri said with forced bonhomie. "You're missing all the fun." "So it would appear," Dina said dryly and fixed Sophie with an icy stare. "A seam's come unstitched in my dress and one of the maids is fixing it for me." "Henri made the one I'm wearing," Sophie said loudly. There was a tense silence and then Dina swung to her. "Enjoy the limelight while you can," she drawled. "It won't last long!" "Behave yourself, Dina," Henri warned. "You and Sophie are both my guests and I won't have any scenes in my house." Dina rounded on him, tears of anger glistening in her eyes. "Then you damn well shouldn't have asked her here." "I didn't ask you," Henri retorted, his normal charm forgotten as fury purpled his face. "My God!" Dina stared at him defiantly. "That's gratitude for you. If it hadn't been for me, you'd still be an old has-been!" "Dina!" Alix exploded, but had no chance to say more, for the girl swung on her heel and raced from the room. A short silence followed her departure, broken at last by Henri speaking to his son.

"You shouldn't have asked her here." "And you shouldn't have asked Sophie!" Before Henri could reply three people came into the room: Fleur and a Mr. and Mrs. Allan-Jones, neighbors of the Brandons at Croxham Parva. They were dressed as a lady and gentleman of the Gainsborough period, while Fleur looked delightful as a mermaid, her long fair hair hanging straight down her back and intertwined with artificial seaweed. "I made it myself," she said proudly. "But mother has refused to dress up. She says it's the privilege of age to wear whatever you like!" "Very sensible," said a quiet voice as Amy Duval joined the group, her black lace dinner dress striking a note of incongruity amid the fantastic figures surrounding her. "I hope your mother is coming to dinner?" Fleur nodded. "She'll be along later. She wanted to watch some television serial and said she'll drive over when it's finished." Alix stood a little apart from the group, pondering on the ugly scene she had just witnessed and hoping Amy Duval had not heard it. If only Dina had refused Paul's invitationor if he had had the sense not to issue it! Unless Dina had insisted on coming? Somehow this seemed more feasible. The girl was like a child who refused to accept that she was no longer the center of attraction. Yet somehow Alix felt there was more to Dina's outburst than mere exhibitionism; she had looked almost desperate. "Why so worried?" a voice said softly, and Alix raised her eyes to see Paul beside her. "I was thinking about Dina," she said bluntly. "Don't. This is something she has to work out herself. I'll help her all I can but" His voice trailed away and when he spoke again, there was a teasing note in it. "I'm hurt to see you haven't been up to your room yet." She looked at him, puzzled, then gave an exclamation. "The dress! I'd forgotten all about it. Oh Paul, I'm so sorry." "Never mind. I understand why." His smile was faint but warm. "Go now. I'm anxious to see what you look like in it." Heart beating fast, Alix slipped away to her bedroom. It was the one she had been given the last time she had stayed here, and she felt a sense of belonging as she entered the chintzy atmosphere. But it was the dress on the bed that commanded her attention: a billowing mass of color, shading from emerald to aquamarine, from vibrant red to palest pink, its skirt caught here and there by clusters of diamante that sparkled like stars.

A note was pinned to the bodice and she picked it up and read it. "Every facet of a diamond reveals a new color, so here's a multicolored dress for a diamond-bright girl." A diamond-bright girl. So that was how Paul envisaged her. It was flattering yet she could find it in her heart to wish he had chosen to compare her with something else. Brilliant and beautiful though she knew a diamond to be, it was also the hardest jewel known to man. But her misgiving seemed churlish when she put on the dress and saw how beautiful she looked in it. Surely no one could have designed such an exquisite thing in a mocking or critical spirit. Slipping on the silver shoes she had brought with her, she felt an unusual expectancy take hold of her, and she buoyantly ran down the stairs again. She must thank Paul at once for this beautiful dress. She could not wait to see the admiration in his eyes when he saw her in it. The drawing room was full of people but a quick glance showed her Paul was not among them, and she backed into the hall and stood irresolute. On the opposite side a corridor led off into various rooms, one of which was a small sitting room where she and Paul had taken tea with Amy Duval on their first visit here. Directly in front of her she saw Paul. He wore a Harlequin costume that fitted his body like a second skin, its gay colors at total variance with the anguish that lay upon his face as he looked down at the girl in his arms and stroked the red gold hair. Dina's hair. "Don't cry, my dear," he was murmuring. "He isn't worth it. You know he isn't." The scene blurred before Alix's eyes and she felt a spasm of pain. Silently she drew back and closed the door, but not before she heard Paul speak again. "I could kill him for what he's done to you! He doesn't know the meaning of love or loyalty. All he's ever thought of is himself." In a daze Alix moved toward the stairs, her only thought to reach the privacy of her bedroom and give herself a chance to come to terms with the emotions that overpowered her. "You're in a hurry, my dear!" Alix turned and saw Mrs. Duval. The woman had slipped a beige coverall over her dress and was wearing gardening gloves; a chip basket hung from one arm and in her right hand she carried a pair of secateurs. For a bemused moment Alix thought the woman to wear fancy dress after all; then she remeber the passion for gardening and forced herself to smile.

"Going out to pick some flowers, Mrs. Duval?" "Yes. I forgot that we needed some for the card room." "Isn't it too dark to see?" Alix said, glancing out into the grounds. "Not for me. I know the garden so well I can find my way in it blindfolded." Slipping out through the door, she closed it behind her. With a heavy heart Alix returned to her bedroom. Numbly she stood by the window, overwhelmed by a discovery that threatened to destroy her calma discovery she had not made until she had seen Dina in Paul Duval's arms. She loved him! Loved him in a way she had never thought possible. It was a momentous acknowledgment, the more so since it was unexpected. Indeed it was this that staggered her. How could she have been so blind not to have guessed where her concern for him was leading her? Now she knew why she had championed his ability as a designer, why she had wanted him to establish his own name and no longer be hampered by his father's restricting influence. Yet he regarded her only as Duval's publicist! Even the dress she was wearing had been given to her out of gratitudea shaming word when the one she longed for was love! But Paul loved Dina, had done so from the moment she had lightly come into the salon at Alix's own behest. Oh for hindsight, Alix thought bitterly, and rested her flushed face against the coolness of the windowpane. But no amount of regret could change the past and, because of it, she must look to the future, bleak though she knew it would be. With an effort she forced back her tears; if she cried anymore her face would be too swollen for her to go down to dinner. She glanced at her wristwatch, but she had come back into the bedroom without turning on the light, and it was too dark for her to see. A distant clock chimed half-past the hour but she was not sure rf it was half-past seven or eight. How quiet the house was. Not a footfall could be heard nor a voice; only the faint call of a cricket. It was as though the carnival guests had been spirited away, and she had the feeling that if she crept downstairs she would find the rooms below dark and abandoned; the house a moldering ruin left open to the elements. She shivered. She was becoming morbid and it was time to dispel the shadows. She groped toward the lights to switch them on but before she could reach it there came a sharp knock at the door. "Who is it?" she called sharply. "The maid," said a soft voice. "I'm sorry to disturb you but I would like to borrow your key."

Alix switched on the light and opened the door. A girl in blue uniform stood in the corridor. "What key?" she asked. "The key to your bedroom, miss. I went to Miss Lloyd's room to turn down the bed but the door was locked. Your key fits it and" "Why should she lock it?" Alix interrupted. The maid shook her head and Alix's heart began to pound, each beat a beat of fear. "I'll come with you," she said and extracted the key from the lock. Walking ahead of the maid, Alix reached Dina's bedroom first and, inserting the key, flung open the door. The sight that met their eyes made her recoil with shock. Then with a cry she ran forward. Dina was lying on the bed, her head hanging over the edge, her eyes closed. One arm swung limply to the floor and a few inches from her fingers lay a small glass bottle surrounded by scattered white tablets. Alix bent close. Dina was still breathing though her face was ashen and her hands icy. She stooped to pick up the bottle and glanced at the label. They were sleeping pills but fairly weak ones. And judging from the number on the floor, Dina couldn't have taken many. Alix turned to the maid. "Find Mr. Paul Duval and bring him here at once. But don't let anyone else know what's happened. Do you understand?" The maid nodded and ran out, and while she waited, Alix dragged Dina back onto the bed and slapped her face and hands in an attempt to bring her around. But the girl remained unconscious, seeming to grow paler with every passing moment. At last there were steps in the corridor and Paul came into the room. His skin was yellow against the white Harlequin frill around his neck, and his eyes were dark with fear. "I was afraid of something like this," he said. "We'd better get a doctor." "Can he be trusted not to talk about it?" "He can be trusted to bring her around. Or would you rather have a corpse on our hands?" "I don't think she'll die," Alix reassured him, holding up the pill bottle. "From the date on this, she only collected it this morningand it couldn't hold more than twenty-five. There are fifteen left, so she's only taken ten." "That sounds massive to me." Paul put his hand on Dina's forehead. "I wish I could remember my first aid. We'd better walk her around until the doctor gets here. You go and phone him while I do that. The number's two-four-two."

"Where shall I phone from? I don't want anyone to overhear." "Go to my bedroom. It's the third door past here." Frantically Alix obeyed him, praying the doctor would be in. Luck was with Dina, for the doctor himself answered the call and promised to be at the manor within five minutes. There was an advantage in living in a village, Alix thought as she ran down to the hall to wait for him. In a big city one might have had to wait for help until it was too late. The doctor arrived almost to the minute and Alix took him straight upstairs. She stood outside the door, hearing odd sounds behind it and trying not to visualize what was happening. Some fifteen minutes later Paul emerged and ushered her in, murmuring that the danger was over. Dina lay back on her pillows, obviously recovered though still shaken. She half raised a hand in a weak greeting and Alix squeezed it gently and set it back on the cover. "Go to sleep, Dina. You'll feel better when you wake up." The lids came down over eyes that were startlingly blue against the chalky white skin, and Alix went and stood by the open window while Paul escorted the doctor downstairs. She was still standing there, reluctant to leave Dina, when Paul came back. He looked ravaged with shock and, remembering that only a short while ago he had held Dina close and comforted her, she could understand how he must feel. "No one must know about this," he said suddenly. "I'll tell mother that Dina has a headache and can't come down to dinner." "I think your father should know the truth." "It's too late." "What do you mean?" Paul shifted his gaze from the figure on the bed and focused on Alix. "It's too late because it's all over between them," he said harshly. "He would not care. Nobody lasts with my fatheryou know that." "I'm afraid I do," "Alix said and turned back to the window. At that moment a terrible scream rent the silence of the night; an anguished cry that came from the garden below. Somewhere out in the darkness a woman was screaming, screaming, screaming.

CHAPTER NINE

Alix pushed the window open and peered down below into the garden. The dark shrubs and trees merged with the murky sky and she could not see anything. Again a scream rent the air, tearing aside the veil of the night with a thousand splintering sounds. "Who can it be?" Alix cried in alarm. Paul did not answer and she tugged at his sleeve. As if in a dream he stepped back from the window and looked across at Dina, who was now sleeping. "Stay with her until we come back," he ordered the maid and hurried out. Ignoring the main staircase, he turned along the end of the corridor and ran down a narrow flight of stairs that led to a stone-flagged corridor. At the end a door gave access to the garden, and drawing back the bolts, he stepped out into the night. Alix remained close behind him, but though they sped across the damp grass they were not the first on the scene, for lights were already flashing to and fro in the shrubbery. "What's happened?" Paul called. "Who's there?" "We're in the rose garden," a man's voice called back. Breathing heavily, Paul raced down a path to a rustic arch entwined with roses. Passing beneath it, Alix came onto a small, circular lawn enclosed on every side with pergolas. In the center stood a sundial and gathered around it was a group of people. A man in eighteenth- century costume, whom she recognized as Mr. Allan-Jones, was bending over a dark shape on the ground, while a short distance away Peter stood with his arms around Fleur, who was huddled against him. As Alix watched, Mr. Allan-Jones straightened, and the beam from his flashlight fell directly upon the figure at his feet. With a gasp of horror she clutched at Paul's arm. Henri Duval lay spread-eagled on the ground, his black cloak trailing around him, his arms outflung. The hideous skull mask still covered his face, the papier mache gleaming white. But it was not at the mask itself that she stared, but at the eye sockets; through one of them a sticky substance was oozing to form a crimson, spreading stain. "He's dead," Allan-Jones said quietly as Paul bent to examine the body. "Shot through the head with this fancy little weapon here." With his foot he indicated a small, jadedecorated pistol. "Dead!" Paul slowly got to his feet. "How did you find him?" "Mr. North and Fleur discovered the, er"

"That's right," Peter said unsteadily. "We were strolling in the garden and we we stumbled over him in the dark. I had a flashlight in my pocket and when we saw his face" So that was the explanation of the terrible screams they had heard. Alix stared at the tiny pistol lying half- hidden on the grass. Could this pretty little toy really be lethal? "How is it we didn't hear the shot?" she asked. "It must be fitted with a silencer," Peter replied. "Though why he came out here to kill himself" "I don't think he did kill himself," Mr. Allan-Jones said. "He was right-handed and only a left-handed man could shoot himself in the left temple like that! Besides, look where the gun is. No, I'm afraid it's murder!" Murder! At the ominous word a hush fell over everyone. Alix felt herself trembling and Fleur whimpered. It was at this moment that Amy Duval came through the rose arch and stood looking at them. "Don't come nearer, mother." Paul stepped forward to intercept her. "Father's had an accident." He put his arm around her shoulders and tried to steer her away from the sundial, but she twisted free and advanced slowly and calmly to where her husband lay. She showed no emotion as she looked down at the terrible bloodstained mask, but stood there for a moment without speaking. "Is he dead?" she asked in a toneless voice. "Yes," Paul replied. "Now let me take you back inside." "No," she said sharply. "I'm all right. But your fathercarry him into the house. I don't want him lying on the cold ground." "We can't touch him," Paul said gently. "Nothing must be touched until the police arrive. Did anybody telephone?" He glanced inquiringly at the others. "There wasn't time," Allan-Jones replied. "We came straight out when we heard the screams." "Then I'll go and call them," Paul said. "Someone had better stay here, though. Perhaps you and Mr. North would oblige? The ladies had better come back into the house with me."

Slipping a hand through his mother's arm, he drew her firmly away, leaving Alix and Fleur to follow. Alix was surprised at the change that had come over Paul since the discovery of the murder. In Dina's bedroom he had seemed wary and apathetic but now he was in command of the situation, a note of authority in his voice. Silently they adjourned to the drawing room to await the arrival of the police, and Paul saw that everyone was served with drinks. Sophie was sobbing wildly in a corner and Alix noticed that from time to time Madame Duval glanced contemptuously in the girl's direction. Reflectively Alix studied her hostess. Only her pallor betrayed the shock she had suffered. But had the discovery of Henri's body been a shock? She remembered that the woman had been on her way out into the garden an hour earlier, wearing an old coat with capacious pockets that could easily have concealed a small gun. True, she had acted quite openly, but then that would have been the best way to avert suspicion from herself. Had Amy Duval suddenly made up her mind to put an end to her husband's infidelities once and for all? She certainly showed no . sign of grief for his death, though it was possible she was still too stunned to feel anything. Nobody was in the mood for talking, and with a sense of relief Alix heard the sound of a car. She looked through the window and saw headlights emerge from the black mass of the pine trees. But as the lights drew nearer she realized it was not a police car but a private one. It swung to a stop before the entrance and Lady Brandon stepped out. A moment later she entered the drawing room, tall and angular in a midnight blue evening dress, jewels flashing at her withered throat, her pale-colored eyes darting curiously over the assembly. "I thought you'd be dining by now," she said in a surprised tone. "You really shouldn't have waited for meit's almost nine." "There'll be no dinner tonight," Paul said bleakly. "There's been an accident. Father's been shot!" "Shot? Is he badly hurt?" "I'm afraid so. He's dead. Murdered." Lady Brandon looked incredulous. "Murdered? By whom?" she asked faintly. "We've no idea. Fleur and Peter found him in the rose garden. The police will be here any moment."

"How dreadful. My poor Amy!" Lady Brandon hurried over to Madame Duval. "Let me take you to your room. You must lie down at once. You may think you feel all right, but that's only delayed shock." To Alix's surprise Amy Duval did not demur and meekly allowed herself to be led out of the room, with Ivy Brandon's arm firmly around her. Shortly afterward, another car emerged from the long driveway and Paul hurried out, returning with a robust- looking man in his late forties, with penetrating blue eyes in a craggy face. Paul introduced him as Detective Inspector Truscott, and he was accompanied by his assistant, Sergeant Coombes, and three constables. Truscott asked to be taken to the body but was careful to leave a constable in the room, thus precluding any of the guests from discussing the murder. It was not until ten minutes had gone by and the inspector had still not returned that Alix remembered Dina, and unobtrusively left the drawing room and went upstairs. As she entered the bedroom, Dina stretched out her arms. "What's going on?" she said weakly. "There's been an accident." Alix sat on the side of the bed. "What kind of accident?'' "To Henri. He was shot." "Shot!" Dina sat up sharply. "You mean he's dead? That's what you're trying to say, isn't it? He's dead?" Realizing the pointlessness of lying, Alix nodded. "I'm afraid he is. He was murdered." At this last word the remaining color ebbed from Dina's face, leaving her milk white. She lay back on her pillow and stared at Alix, her eyes burning bright. "He had it coming to him," she said slowly. "I'm surprised someone didn't do it years ago." The blue eyes closed and she lay perfectly still. Alix watched her uneasily and after a little while stood up. "Try to get some sleep," she adjured. "I'll be back later." "Sleep!" Dina opened her eyes and began to laugh mirthlessly. Afraid of hysteria, Alix went to slap her, but as her hand lifted, the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun and Dina's expression became blank once more.

Motioning the maid to remain in the room, Alix hurried back downstairs, hoping to return to the drawing room unnoticed. But as she reached the bottom step Inspector Truscott came into the hall, his cold eyes fixed upon her. "We've been looking for you," he said. "We're taking the names of all the guests and where they've been for the past hour." "I was upstairs all that time," Alix replied. "You've been down before. I saw you a little while ago." "I, er, yes. I came down when I heard the screams. But I went back again to see Dina Lloyd. The actress. She's in her room with a headache." "I see." The inspector escorted her into the drawing room and turned to the rest of the company. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I won't be troubling you any further at the moment. I'll be in the sitting room across the passage and if any of you wish to speak to me privately, please tell the constable. Later, I will ask each of you to sign a statement." As he turned to go, Mr. Allen-Jones spoke. "Since the evening's ended so tragically, my wife and I would prefer to go home. We feel sure the family would rather be left alone in their sorrow. We live quite close and if you wanted us" "I'm afraid there are further inquiries to be made." The inspector's face was grave. "Until these are completed, no one must leave the house. I'm sorry to inconvenience you but this is a murder inquiry." His parting words cast a chill over everyone and for a while there was silence. The guests avoided each other's eyes and conversation was further inhibited by the presence of the policeman at the door. It was not until the arrival of coffee and sandwichesordered by Paulthat the atmosphere began to lighten, and soon little groups formed. But no reference was made to the subject uppermost in every mind until Ivy Brandon came back into the room. "Your mother's sleeping," she said to Paul. "It's the best way of getting over a shock like this." "Poor mother," he said. "I'm afraid she hasn't realized what's happened." "I can hardly realize it myself," Lady Brandon boomed. "To think that while this terrible thing was happening I was at home watching television! If I had been here" "Don't distress yourself," Paul interrupted. "It wasn't your fault."

Lady Brandon sighed. "Poor Henri!" She sank into a chair and closed her eyes. Alix studied her thoughtfully. At least there was one person who cared about Henri's passing! It was more than could be said for the rest of the company. She glanced around. On her left, Fleur was sharing a settee with Peter, and judging from the smile on her face, had quite recovered from the shock of discovering a corpse. Sophie showed no sign of her recent grief, either, and was chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Allan-Jones, seemingly exhilarated at finding herself in the middle of a murder case. No, there was little doubt Henri Duval's death was largely unlamented by those nearest and presumably dearestto him. Even Dina, who had so passionately loved him, had received the news with unexpected calm. Dina___ Alix's mind went back over the events of the evening. She recalled her friend's jealousy of Sophie and her outburst of fury against Henri and became more and more uneasy. True, Dina had taken an overdose of sleeping pills but only sufficient to drug herself, not to kill her! Suppose she had murdered Henri in a jealous rageslipping down the back staircase that led to the gardenand then returned and taken the pills to avert suspicion from herself? Alix's reverie was interrupted by a summons from Inspector Truscott, and she went into the room he had assigned himself. He smiled at her and motioned her to a chair. "Now, Miss Smith, can you tell me what you did this evening? Take your time and tell me everything that occurred, no matter how trivial it seems to you." Carefully Alix described her movements since her arrival at Croxham with Peter, mentioning the drinks they had had in the drawing room but omitting to repeat the angry scene between Dina and Henri. The inspector did not speak until she came to the end of her story. "I take it you were not present when Monsieur Duval announced his intention of going to the library to make an important telephone call?'' Alix shook her head. "I must have gone to my room." "Have you any idea what the call was about?" "No." "A pity. I was hoping that as his publicity agent Still, it seems unlikely the call was ever made." "How do you know?"

"One of the guests went to the library immediately afterward, but the French windows were open and there was no sign of him. Mr. Paul Duval also went to speak to his father a few minutes later and found the room empty." "How strange. Do you think the call could have been a coverup?" "For what?" "Maybe he'd arranged to meet someone in the garden and didn't want anyone to know. He probably thought no one would follow him into the library if they believed he was making an important call." "That's pretty good deduction, Miss Smith. It looks that way to me, too." The inspector's glance was keen. "Do you know whom he might have been meeting?" "I'm afraid not." "Pity. But tell me what you did when you had changed into your fancy-dress costume." She hesitated, unwilling to tell the inspector the scene she had overheard between Paul and Dina in the sitting room. Instead she described her meeting with Amy Duval in the hall, concluding with her return to her bedroom. "How long did you stay up there?" "Quite a while. I'd had a busy day and I relaxed for a bit." "Hm. I see. And then?" Alix looked at the man with a show of frankness. She knew it was impossible to conceal the fact that Dina had drugged herself, for she would have to explain the presence of Paul in Dina's bedroom at the time the murder was discoveredapart from which the maid was likely to talk. So she described exactly what had occurred from the time the maid knocked on her door for the key, to the moment when she and Paul heard Fleur screaming in the garden. She did her best to dispel any suspicion that Dina had attempted suicide, but she could not have sounded as convincing as she had hoped, for Truscott suddenly barked, "Was there any reason Miss Lloyd should have wanted to take her life?" "None whatever. She told us she had taken the tablets because she wanted a decent sleep." The inspector stared at her and Alix returned his gaze steadily, knowing momentary astonishment at her own glibness. Why am I lying like this, she wondered. Is it to save Dina or to save Paul? "

Unbidden, the scene she had omitted from her story rose in her mind with startling clarity. It had been in this room, on this settee, that she had seen the two of them togetherPaul in his Harlequin costume holding Dina in his arms and imploring her not to cry. Paul threatening to kill his father Simultaneously she remembered something else he had said only a few moments before the discovery of Henri's body. "It's too late." What had he meant by that? Could Paul have murdered his father? Men did terrible things for love and even the gentlest person could be goaded into acting out of character. She shivered. How could she love a man and at the same time suspect him of murder? And what if her suspicions grew? Would she still wish to save him from paying the penalty for his crime? She was relieved when the inspector signaled her to go, and as she walked out Mr. AllanJones took her place. At half-past eleven Truscott had finished taking his statements and the weary guests were permitted to leave. Alix dreaded the thought of going to her room, for she knew there would be no sleep for her that night, and on an impulse she stepped into the garden. The night air was cool and she wandered along one of the paths, wishing it was as easy to retrace one's steps in time! A sound behind her froze her into immobility. It came again: a measured footfall that made her scalp prickle with fear. How could she have been so stupid to come into the garden alone! She made to run and the steps behind her quickened. "Don't go," a soft voice called. "I want to talk to you." Quivering with relief she turned and saw Paul. "I thought you had gone to bed," she said. "I want some fresh airlike you." He threw back his shoulders in an unmistakable gesture of relief, like a man casting off a heavy load. "What a day it's been! Even now I can hardly believe it's true." "You'll realize it tomorrow. Your whole life will be different." "I know." He peered at her through the darkness. "One door closes and another opens, and out of tragedy will come my fulfilment. You always wanted me to start on my own, didn't you? And now there's no need." He came closer, the tip of his shoe touching the hem of her skirt, the chiffon bedraggled and damp. "You're still wearing the diamond dress," he whispered. "I was looking forward to seeing you in it but I never got the chance to look at you properly." "It was lovely," she said wistfully. "And now it's ruined with dew." "Never mind. I'll make you another to wear on a happier occasion."

"It won't be the same," she sighed. "Don't say that," he whispered thickly. "Please don't say that." Before she knew what was happening he pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips upon hers. They were gentle and soft, as was his breath upon her skin, but as she made no response they grew harder, demanding an answering passion she was afraid to give. In her high- heeled shoes she was as tall as he was, but she did not have the same strength, for his hands were surprisingly firm on her, his fingers gripping her like tentacles of steel. She tried to push him away but he refused to move, displaying a determination that surprised her yet again. "Stay with me," he muttered and pressed himself closer to her, shuddering convulsively at the touch of her body. Feeling the urgent pressure of his limbs, her own desire for him betrayed her and rose spontaneously to meet his own. At once his lips parted, taking hers with them, and the softness of his tongue sought to explore the warm caverns of her mouth. But this was in intimacy she could not support: his touch was too strange, his intimacy too new; but above all this the face of Henri Duval, turning what could have been the beginning of a love scene into a horror from which she recoiled. "No, Paul! Don't touch me. How can you!" The words were torn from her and he recoiled as though she had struck him. They stared at each other in the darkness, then he stepped to one side and allowed her to pass him. Nor did he make any attempt to follow as she lifted her skirts and sped across the lawn to the safety of the house.

CHAPTER TEN
Alix stirred uneasily in her bed, blinking against the morning light that streamed in through the window. Cautiously she opened her eyes and stared at pale blue walls bearing a delicate spring design. She wondered where she was and the faint disquiet engendered by waking up in unfamiliar surroundings gave way to even more unpleasant feelings as she remembered the events of the previous night. A glance at her watch showed it was already past nine, and she pushed aside the blankets and padded over to the window. The sky was overcast and trees and flower beds were veiled in a fine mist of rain. As she gazed in the direction of the rose garden a uniformed policeman emerged from the shrubbery and made his way over the sodden lawns toward the house. So it was true after all! The fantastic events crowding her mind were not the aftermath of some nightmare but solid, sober fact. Henri Duval was dead and no one knew whose hand had struck him down. The murderer was probably in the house now, perhaps quite

close to her. In the prosaic light of day the situation had lost a good deal of its terror and she knew she could face the remaining hours of her visit with more equanimity than she had felt last night. As soon as she was dressed she went across the corridor to see if Dina was awake. Silently she opened the door and found the room still in darkness, with only a chink of light coming through the closed curtains. The actress was asleep and breathing normally, her cheek pillowed on her hand, her face flushed like a child's. Closing the door again, Alix went downstairs. There was no sign of anyone and she wandered into the dining room. It was deserted, the table cleared of the dinner that no one had eaten the night before. She was still standing there irresolute when a maid came in, carrying some silver candelabra that she set upon the sideboard, and informed her that breakfast was being served in the conservatory. Although she had little appetite, the coffee was welcome, and Alix went in search of it. She was sipping her second cup when Peter came to join her. "We seem to be the only people awake this morning," she smiled. "Don't you believe it. Our friends in blue have been wandering around since dawn. They're questioning Paul right now." Peter's long face seemed longer than ever and there were heavy shadows underneath his eyes. "This is a rum business, isn't it? Strikes me it was a bad day for both of us when the Duvals came into our lives. I wish I'd never met Henri nor borrowed his infernal money." "Don't worry about it. I daresay he was equally generous to others. Anyway, you paid him back." She paused as she saw his expression. "Or didn't you?" "He wouldn't take it. When I went to insist he got quite shirty. I think he enjoyed having me in his debt." Peter rubbed a hand over his hair, the tremor of his fingers visible. "At the moment I'm Truscott's number one suspect!" "Because of the money,? I don't believe it." Peter shrugged. "I suppose you heard Henri went to the library to make a phone call?" "Yes." "Well I followed him there. I wanted to have a go at him about his refusing to take back the money" "They can't suspect you of murder because of that!" "They probably wouldn't have suspected me at all if I hadn't lied. You see, Truscott asked if I'd been into the room, and like an idiot I said no. It wasn't true, of courseI did go in

but Henri wasn't there. Instead of coming straight out I nosed around a bit, and they've found my fingerprints on the drawer of his desk." Alix gaped at her assistant, who nodded sheepishly; "I suddenly remembered the gun that Henri had told Dina about the first time we came here. He'd said he kept it in his desk and I wanted to have a look at it. I swear it was nothing more than curiosity." "And was it there?" "No. The drawer was empty." "Serves you right for being so nosy. Still, I'm sure the police don't really suspect you. No murderer would be stupid enough to leave his prints on the drawer where the gun was normally kept!" "A murderer is caught because he makes a fatal mistake," he said gloomily. "Then let's hope this murderer does," she replied grimly. There was a discreet cough at the door and a constable told Alix that Inspector Truscott wished to speak to her. Distinctly uneasy, she entered the sitting room, her fears fulfilled when she saw the stern expression on the detective's face. "Good morning, Miss Smith. There are a few more questions I'd like to ask you. I don't think you were quite frank with me when I spoke to you yesterday. I have reason to believe you are shielding someone and I would like to remind you that this is a murder inquiry." "I can assure you I'm not shielding anyone," Alix said, and hoped he could not hear the pounding of her heart. "Then perhaps you just have a bad memory. I asked you to describe every single thing you did from the moment you arrived here yesterday, yet you failed to tell me one important incident." His eyes bored into hers. "Why didn't you tell me that when you came downstairs after changing, you looked into the sitting room and saw Paul Duval and Miss Lloyd?" Alix moistened her lips. "I must have I expect it went out of my mind. You see, I didn't go into the room once I saw them there. I went away." "Because you thought you were interrupting a tete-a-tete? Really, Miss Smith, you won't do yourself any good by lying! Surely you realize that in a case like this anything may turn out to be important?''

"I'm sorry. But I I'd quite forgotten it." "Well," came the sarcastic answer, "perhaps you may be able to remember what they were talking about?" "I'm not in the habit of listening to people's private conversations," Alix answered sharply. "Then I take it you did not hear Mr. Paul Duval say 'I could kill him for what he's done to you'?" Alix felt herself changing color but she stood her ground. "I didn't hear anything," she repeated. "Curious," the inspector said. "Another guest has described the words quite distinctly, though he was much farther away from the speaker than you were." Alix remained obstinately silent, and the inspector continued, "Do you know Miss Lloyd well?" "Yes. I've done a good deal of work for her in connection with her career." "Has she ever confided in you about her personal affairs?" "From time to time," Alix hedged, unwilling to be caught again in an outright lie. "Then can you tell me what her relationship is with Paul Duval?" "As far as I know, they're friends. He admires her as an actress and she thinks him a brilliant designer. He did the clothes for her new play." "So I've been told." The inspector was impassive. "But they are just friends?" "Yes." "And what was Miss Lloyd's relationship with the murdered man?" "I suggest you ask Miss Lloyd." "I will. But at the moment I'm interested in your opinion." "Hearsay evidence, inspector?" Alix mocked. "A woman's intuition, Miss Smith."

She forced a smile to her lips. "Miss Lloyd saw a fair amount of both the Duvals. As I said, they were designing her clothes, and it was also part of my campaign for Henri Duval to be seen with a young star." "So there was nothing more to it than a business arrangement?" Alix tried to let a lift of her shoulders speak for her, but the inspector was having none of it. "I happen to have other information, Miss Smith." His noncommittal manner changed and he banged his fist on the table. "Is it true that Dina Lloyd was in love with Henri Duval and that the son knew it? And is it also true that Duval Senior was paying attention to another woman as well? Do you insist Miss Lloyd took those sleeping pills to give herself a long sleep and not a permanent one? You know, Miss Smith, you should credit the police with more intelligence. We're not the fools you think!" "I've never thought so." "Then why the prevarication and lies?" "I am not under oath," she said angrily, "nor have you arrested me." "You may be a loyal fool, Miss Smith, but you're not a suspect." He grunted and waved at the door. "You are free to go." Shaken, she went out. So much for her efforts to protect Paul! The inspector had already formed a pretty accurate picture of the relationship between Henri and Dina, and it was obvious his suspicions were now centering on the murdered man's son. He had not mentioned Peter once___ She wondered who had seen her peep into the sitting room and overheard Paul's threatening words. The morning dragged endlessly and she debated whether or not to ask Truscott if she could return to London. But she did not fancy encountering those penetrating eyes again and so dismissed the idea, deciding to go to the library instead and borrow a book. She pushed open the door, stopping with surprise as she saw Peter writing at a table in the corner. "Catching up on some work," he explained. "Anything to pass the time." She wandered over to a bookshelf and began to scan the titles, aware of his watching her. She was tempted to tell him he had nothing to fear from the police but decided against it; to do so would mean involving Paul and Dina. With a book in her hand she walked over to a chair but before she reached it, the door opened and Paul himself strode in, his expression furious.

"Did you have to talk to the inspector about me?" he demanded. "You surely don't think I was really going to kill my father?" Alix's eyes sparkled with anger at the injustice of the first part of his accusation. A murderer she may well fear him to be, but giving him away to the police was another matter entirely. "You're always ready to believe the worst of me, aren't you? You don't give me a chance to explain. As it happens I never said a word to the inspector about it. And I wasn't spying on you and Dina, either, if that's what you think. I came down to show you my dress and when I saw you together, I went away." Some of the anger left Paul's face. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "But Truscott mentioned you, and I naturally assumed you were the one who'd told him." "Well, she didn't." Peter stood up abruptly. "If you must know, it was me!" "You!" "Yes. I was in a spot myself and The police found my fingerprints on Henri's desk and" "And you thought you'd direct their suspicions to another quarter?" Paul's anger exploded again. "I didn't do it to harm you," Peter protested. "But one of the maids saw me hovering behind Alix when she opened the sitting-room door, and once Truscott started asking questions, he soon got it out of me." Hurriedly Peter collected his writing materials together and left the room. Paul remained where he was and Alix, unable to bear the look on his face, sat down and pretended to read. Dimly she was aware of Paul moving closer to her but she did not raise her head. "Alix," he said, his voice shaking. "Alix, look at me." Reluctantly she did so, seeing how pale he was and how dark the shadows beneath his eyes. "Will you forgive me?" he asked. "It isn't that I'm always ready to believe the worst of youthough heaven knows you've every justification for thinking soit's just that thinking you believed me capable ofof" He leaned closer, his eyes anguished. "In the garden last night, why did you push me away?"

Alix lowered her head. There were two answers she could give and both would be disastrous. She could as easily tell him she- suspected him of being a murderer as she could tell him she knew he was in love with Dina! "I was tired," she lied, "and it didn't seem the time or the place." "You looked so beautiful in your diamond dress," he said, "and unexpectedly vulnerable. I hadn't planned to kiss you but" "A passing fancy," she intervened lightly, determined not to let him know how deeply his words had hurt her. "Don't worry about it, Paul. I won't sue for breach of conduct! You were overwrought and like most men in similar situations you needed physical contact." "Physical contact!" A spasm contorted his face. "How awful that sounds." "Call it what you will," she shrugged. "How about love?" "Love?" With a great effort she kept her voice casual, determined not to let him see how he unnerved her. Was he trying to tell her he didn't love Dina? "I didn't know we were talking about love," she said. It was Paul's turn to be silent and, as she watched, she saw his mouth grow hard and his eyes become veiled. "I wasn't," he said in a cool voice. Alix blinked her eyes to hide the sudden uprush of tears. "Where's Dina?" she asked loudly. "In the sitting room. The inspector asked to see her. I hope she'll be careful what she says." "Careful?" "About the sleeping pills. I told the inspector she took them to get a good-night's rest." "So did I." Alix laughed mirthlessly. "But I'm afraid it didn't go down well. He knows the truth." She rose. "I think I'll see if he'll let me go back to London." "I'm sure he will. There's nothing you can do here. It's been an awful business. I'm sorry you were mixed up in it." Wearily he rubbed his hand across his eyes. "When shall I be seeing you?" "That depends. I take it you'll be carrying on at the salon?"

"I suppose so. Alix II feel everything's gone wrong between us. You do believe in me, don't you?" Not sure what he meant, she was wary how she replied. All she knew was that she must restrain her desire to throw her arms around him and kiss away the lines of strain on his face. How horrified he would be if she did, when all he wanted from her was sympathy. But something prevented her from giving him the reassurance his question demanded. Perhaps it was her jealousy of Dina. Whatever it was, it froze the words of compassion that rose to her lips and she stood before him like a statue. Giving her a long measured look, he retreated from her and went to sit at his father's desk, keeping his head averted as she opened the door and then closed it behind her. Alix returned to London without seeing Paul again and for the next few days did her best to forget the Duval tragedy. It was a vain hope for the newspapers were full of it, and the Sunday ones carried articles by several people who had known the great designer in his heyday. Inevitably there were lurid accounts of his many love affairs and mention was made of Dina, though care was taken not to be libelous. No arrest had yet been made, and at the inquest the coroner returned a verdict of "murder by a person or persons unknown." As expected, the papers also exploited this to the full, and Alix, realizing the futility of trying to stop them, decided to create so much public interest in Duval's as a fashion house that Paul as a man would be spared. In consequence there were several features about him, too, showing his slow emergence as a designer in his own right until now, as the new spirit of Duval's, he would emerge as the new leader of world couture. It was nearly three weeks after Henri's death before she saw Paul alone, though even then it only came about because he asked her to come and see him. She had not been to the salon for ten days and was at once aware of a difference. Gone were the heavy brocade drapes from the windows, their place taken by diaphanous white curtains that filtered the light and veiled the sumptuous interior from the view of passersby. Polished parquet gleamed where once heavy carpet had lain, and concealed lighting had replaced the glittering chandeliers that had illuminated the staircase. The same cool young redhead was sitting at the reception desk, however, and she informed Alix that Paul Duval was expecting her. Outside the door of the room that had once been Henri Duval's, she hesitated, then knocked and stepped inside. Here, too, things had been changed. The ornate French furniture had been replaced by the functional Swedish kind Paul preferred, while the floor was covered with an off-white carpet that threw into relief a long settee upholstered in dark green velvet.

He hasn't wasted much time in altering things, she thought, and instantly suppressed a feeling of revulsion. Why shouldn't he make changes? The king was dead. Long live the king! Paul rose but did not come toward her, contenting himself with leaning against the side of the desk. The last time she had seen him alone had been at Croxham Manor, when he had been overcome with the knowledge that he was suspected of murder. She remembered the way he had frozen into detachment when they had talked about love, and she vowed she would never give him the opportunity to do so again. "It's a long time since I've seen you alone," he said quietly. "I have the impression you are avoiding me." "I've been very busy on your behalf," she hedged. "French Vogue called me this morning and" "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," he cut in. "Our publicity. I once said some very hard things to you and I" His lids came down over his eyes. "What I wish to say is thatthat no matter what's happened in the past, I want you to go on working for us. It's important for us to have someone like you. Even more so now than it was before." Alix was barely conscious of what he was saying, all her attention given to taking in every detail of his appearance and not succumbing to it. In the past month she had gone over all the events that had taken place on the evening of the murder and no matter which way she looked at it, suspicion focused on Paul. Seeing his sherry-colored eyes watching her, she longed to tell him what was troubling her. But she dared not. How furious he would be to know she suspected him. She glanced at his hands, with their long sensitive fingers and manicured nails. Difficult to believe they could hold a gun a,nd kill a man. It was impossible! He could not be a murderer. She clenched her bag on her lap. What if he were shielding Dina? This thought, though not as bad as believing him a murderer, was almost as distressing, for it meant he loved the girl so much that he could disregard the fact that she had killed his own father! "You agree with me so far?" Paul asked, and Alix, who had not heard a word, nodded and went on staring at him, though this time she concentrated on what he was saying. "I have redecorated the salon completely. It has to fit in with our new image. I also want to put in a boutique on the ground floor and turn the top floor over to a wholesale showroom." "Wholesale!"

"Yes. All the big names in couture have gone into it and there's no reason why we shouldn't. The bulk of our profits will be made there." "I thought you weren't interested in money?" "I won't design clothes solely for money," he corrected. "But that doesn't mean I can't design for the cheaper market. In fact, Duval Wholesale will shame everyone else's!" "Well, there's nothing like a new broom for sweeping clean," she murmured, looking around the room. "But do you think you're wise to do it so soon? Some people might consider it tactless." "I've good reason to know what gossip can do," came the bitter answer. "But we have to make changes sooner or later and there's no point wasting time. I thought you, of all people, would understand." "I do understand. But I'm not sure it's wise." "Would you rather I behaved like a hypocrite? You know I didn't like my father's taste, either in decor or clothes, and I don't see why I should pretend I did just because he's dead." "Murdered!" Alix said. "That makes a great deal of difference." The little color he had drained from his face. "What you really mean is that until his murderer is found, the finger points at me!" It was useless to deny this, yet she had to be careful how she agreed with him. It would be disastrous to her desire to go on working for him if she gave away her own suspicions of him. She opened her mouth to speak but was forestalled by the telephone ringing. He picked it up and she was close enough to hear Dina's lilting voice at the other end. ^ "Of course I don't mind," Paul said softly into the mouthpiece. "I've a mass of work to do anyway, and I can break the back of it tonight Yes, tomorrow after the show Till then." He put down the receiver and stared at it pensively, giving Alix a chance to control the turbulent feelings that the conversation had aroused in her. Why should she be surprised that Paul had so willingly stepped into his father's place in Dina's life? It was natural that Dina, heartbroken at losing the man she loved, should turn for comfort to his son. But would that need for comfort last or was Paul prepared to accept second best? "Where was I?" he murmured, as if the telephone call had broken the trend of their discussion.

"Talking about the wholesale market," she replied. "Ah yes. What I was going to say was that I won't have time to supervise all the alterations I want, and I wondered if you know an architect who can help? We'll have to have some structural alterations in order to build a boutique downstairs." At once Alix's mind flew to Mark. "A friend of mine might be able to help. I'll ring him now and see if he'll do it." With Paul watching, she dialed Mark's number and, with the memory of Dina's call still in her mind, was unusually warm in her conversation. "He can come and see you this afternoon," she queried at Paul and, as he nodded, arranged this with Mark before replacing the receiver. "Is he a special friend of yours?" Paul asked unexpectedly. "We're good friends." The well-curved eyebrows rose. "Is that a euphemism for being lovers?" She colored but refused to show embarrassment in any other way. "You are buying part of my working life, Paul, not my private life." "I'm sorry. Let's say I don't want to lose a good publicist now I've decided to have one." "You wouldn't have to lose me," she mocked. "Even if I married Mark, I'd still go on working." He turned to his desk and the sight of his slimly built figure with its haughty turn of head, inflamed her to anger. "What about you?" she demanded. "Isn't marriage on your mind, too? Or wouldn't you want a wife with a career of her own?" Slowly he sat down, bringing his face back into her line of vision. It was as rigid as a mask and gave away nothing of his feelings. "At the moment, Alix, your questions are academic. I am sure you understand why." She nodded and rose. As long as suspicion rested on him he was not free to marry. Besides, bearing in mind the woman he wanted, haste would be indecent. The thought of Paul with Dina was unbearable and she walked quickly to the door. Why do I want him? she asked herself bitterly and wrenched at the handle. "Let me know how you get on with Mark," she said and slammed the door behind her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
To Alix's surprise, Paul and Mark liked one another and soon became firm friends. They took to playing squash together twice a week, and from Mark she learned that Paul, for all his faunlike appearance, was a formidable player with boundless energy. "He's a deceptive chap," Mark explained to her one evening. "Quiet spoken and gentle yet made of steel. He's too good for your friend Dina." "What a biased thing to say," she protested, then could not stop herself asking, "Has Paul said anything to you about her?" "Only that she's beautiful and a good actress. He can be quite forthcoming about his work and his business plans but he's close as a clam when it comes to his private life." "He's still a murder suspect," Alix said, leaning forward to pick up the coffeepot. Mark had taken her out to dinner but they had returned early to the apartment because she had complained of a headache. A couple of pills had helped to settle it into a slight ache at her temples, though the mention of Paul's name was threatening to turn the ache into a throb. "You can't honestly suspect him," Mark said. "Of course not," she lied. "But until the murder's solved, Paul won't feel free to marry." Mark pressed his lips. "You think he's that serious about Dina?" "Don't you?" she countered, longing for him to say no. But to her disappointment he nodded, then nodded again. "Thinking about it," he said, "I can see you're right. He's far more relaxed with her than he is with anyone else." Mark set down his cup. "We've talked enough about Paul. Now let's talk about us." "Not again." "Again and again," he smiled. "I still want to marry you and I'm still hoping to wear you down." "You wouldn't be happy with a worn-out wife!" "I'd make sure you had lots of time in bed to recover!" She laughed but refused to let him go on hoping. "It's no use, Mark. I don't love you and you'd be better off seeing someone else."

"I don't want to see anyone else. You've spoiled me for other women. You're so intelligent and alive you make everyone else seem like plum pudding! I said as much to Paul the other day and he knew exactly what I meant." "I'm sure he did," Alix said dryly. "He sees me as a hard and glittering diamond." "Diamonds are a girl's best friend," Mark responded and pulled her across the settee and into his arms. "But I'd be much more to you than a friend, if you'd let me. Alix" His lips came down hard on hers, his desire for her overcoming his usual care not to hurt her. She tried to respond but could not feel any emotion, and after a moment of suffering his exploring touch and moist mouth, she pushed away from him and jumped up. "I know," he said ruefully, "It's late and you're tired." "You've got a good memory," she said, going with him to the door. "If only you'd remember I only want to be friends!" "I'll try," he said without conviction and tweaked a heavy strand of her hair before striding down the corridor to the elevator. Early in October the boutique was opened. It was an instant success, as was Paul's venture into the wholesale market, and the staff were kept working full-time on simplified adaptations of the new Phoenix line. Difficult to believe Henri had been alive when the Phoenix Line had first seen the light of day! To Alix's surprise, Paul was not pleased with the way things were going, and it was not until she saw him alone againand their meetings together were as infrequent as she could make themthat she learned the reason for his disquiet: many of their most valued clients were leaving. "It's my father's death, of course," he explained. "It's nearly three months since it happened, and no arrest has been made." She knew he was right. Until the murderer was discovered there was an aura of suspicion around Paul's name that was bound to affect some of his clients. You wouldn't consider going completely into the wholesale market?'' she asked. "No. Anyway, the wholesale trade is helped by my success as a couturier." "Then we'll have to find you more rich customers," she said forcefully. "New ones who'll come here because of your namenot your father's." He looked as if he wanted to protest, then swallowed his words and nodded.

"No gimmicks," he warned. "You're not a gimmicky personality," she said crossly and stalked out. In the weeks that followed she did her best to organize a further spate of publicity. Luckily the women fashion writers were charmed by Paul's faunlike looks, to say nothing of his talent, and she found no difficulty in arranging a series of interviews for him, both in the press and on television. She concentrated also on foreign papers, and within a couple of weeks there was a noticeable upsurge in his business with many clients coming from the Middle East. The spending power of these women was fantastic and sales in one week, according to Madame Lelong, were as much as in a whole good season. To show his appreciation Paul sent Alix a gold necklace. But the touch of it around her neck made her feel as if his hands were upon her, and she could not bring herself to wear it. "It's time we concentrated on our other clients," Peter reminded her one morning. "You've thought of nothing but Duval's for weeks now." "You haven't done badly without me," she replied. "You've worked unusually hard on your own." "It was the least I could do for you," he said gruffly. "I didn't pull my weight for so long I'm amazed you didn't fire me!" "So am I," she grinned and almost asked him whether he had finally got over Fleur. Then she decided that discretion was far better than total frankness. If Peter wanted to talk to her about his private life, he knew he could always do so. In any event it was a few days later when he came into her office and tossed a copy of a midday paper on her desk. He said nothing but a glance at his face made her. scan the front page, which carried a large story of Jack Beecham's forthcoming marriage to Fleur. She put the paper down. "It's the best thing that can happen. You'd never have made Fleur happy; all she cares about is money." "That isn't true!" he said wearily. "She's marrying him to save her mother from ruin." Alix made a face. "That sounds like a line from a Congreve play. I know Lady Brandon is a snob but she lives in a small village and I don't see how she" "She gambles," he interrupted. "If she doesn't pay off some of her debts pretty soon, she'll lose her house and everything that goes with it."

"I see." Alix didall too clearly. She looked at Peter. "There's nothing you can do about it. If Fleur's made up her mind" "It's not her mind," Peter said bitterly. "It's her mother's! There must be something wrong somewhere when a scheming old woman can ruin the lives of two people." "Three," Alix interrupted. "You don't think Beecham's going to be happy with a wife who doesn't love him?" Peter shook his head and walked out and Alix resumed work. But she was reminded of her conversation with him when she went to see Paul later in the week and found Lady Brandon with him. The woman was studying a sketch and put it down as Alix came into the salon. "I'm deciding on a dress for my daughter's wedding," she boomed. "I read the announcement in the papers," Alix said. "I hope she'll be very happy." "I'm sure she will." Ivy Brandon's lined face was pink with excitement and her whole demeanor exuded satisfaction. She picked up a sample of velvet from the table and held it out to Paul. "This is an excellent color, dear boy, but I'm not sure about the material. Do you have it in a lighter weight?" "I'm afraid not. But I'll call the manufacturer and see if we can get it. I'll let you know tomorrow." "I'm going back home tonight. My future son-in-law is driving me down." Her eyes gleamed with triumph. "He's bought Fleur a sable coatit's a surprise for her. That's why I came up today. He wanted to see if I liked it." "Then I'll call you at home in the morning. If I can get the velvet in a lighter weight I'll send you a sample for approval." "I'd prefer to get it settled now. Do you have anything similar?" "I'll go to the stockroom and see." As soon as he had gone Ivy Brandon turned to Alix. "I'm glad I have the chance to speak with you. I intended calling you up today. It's about that young man you employ. He's pestering Fleur again and you must tell him to stop it." "I I don't see how I can," Alix stammered, taken aback by the demand. "I have no say over Peter's private life."

"Well, you should have," Lady Brandon said fiercely. "That penniless young fool will ruin her happiness. How dare he keep running after her when she's already engaged! You've got to stop it." "Your daughter's the only one who can do that." "My daughter's a fool!" "Because she doesn't love Jack Beecham. If" Before Alix could say more, Paul returned with several lengths of material and Lady Brandon bent forward to examine them, a set smile on her face. Alix went in search of Madame Lelong, unwilling to wait for Paul to be free. She was anxious to return to her office and talk to Peter, but it was an hour before the vendeuse could get her the information she required: sketches of their best-selling wholesale designs and biographies of some of the more important members of the staff. Although she had told Lady Brandon she had no intention of interfering in Peter's life, she had to admit the woman had justification for annoyance. He ought to leave Fleur to make her own decision and not force her into doing something she might regret afterward. But by the time she returned home, Peter's desk was empty and only her secretary was there. "Where's Peter?" she asked. "He had a call from Fleur and dashed out. " "If he phones in, tell him I want to see him." "I doubt if it'll be today. He told me Lady Brandon was staying in London overnight and asked me to look up the trains to Croxham Parva." Alix gave an exclamation of dismay. If Lady Brandon and Jack Beecham caught Peter and Fleur together there would be an extremely ugly scene. Hurriedly she telephoned to the Wrotham House in Croxham Parva, only to find the number out of order. Distractedly she paced the floor. What a time for a telephone to stop working. "There's no help for it," she muttered aloud. "I'll have to drive down there." "Since when have you been his wet nurse?" Willie asked tartly. "Since now," Alix replied. "I don't fancy having another row with Lady Brandon, and she'll blow her top if she sees Peter." "So what? She's nothing to you."

"She's a friend of Paul's family." "If you're doing it for him" Alix shrugged but knew her secretary had gotten the point. "Keep trying that Croxham Parva number," she said. "It'll take me an hour to get there." Heavy traffic lengthened the time of her journey and it was nearly five when she reached the village of Croxham. She drove past the high stone walls of the manor and, seeing the dark avenue of pines that led to the house, could not suppress a shiver. A little farther along the signpost read Croxham Parva 4 miles, and she drove on between fields of ripening wheat, with hawthorn hedges on each side. Another signpost told her she had two more miles to go, and she automatically glanced at the dashboard. Her gas tank was almost empty and she drove slowly, keeping her eyes open for a garage. A mile along the road she came upon a tiny gas station, hardly more than a rustic cottage with a couple of pumps attached. She pulled up in front of them and tooted for the owner. He turned out to be a stout, talkative man, and Alix asked him if he knew the whereabouts of the Brandons' house at Croxham Parva. "You mean Lady Brandon's place?" he inquired. "They're customers of mine. The house is about a mile from here. You visiting them?" Alix nodded and the man gave a broad smile. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind delivering something for me. I've been waiting for Her Ladyship to come and collect it but she hasn't been here since the night of the murder." He disappeared into the cottage and returned with a cigarette holder made of polished tortoiseshell set in gold. "She left it here the last time she called," he went on garrulously. "Had a flat tire and wanted it done right away; said she was late for a dinner party. She came into the cottage to wait and as soon as she saw my television she changed her mind and asked if she could watch some serial or other. My missus was quite amused by it. I mean both of 'em so different yet both liking the same program." "I rarely watch serials myself," Alix smiled. "I can't always be sure of seeing each episode and I'd get furious if I missed one." "That's why I don't watch," the man agreed. "But it was the last episode when Lady Brandon was here. I suppose that's why she was so keen to see it. The night of the murder it was," he added. "Quite an event for the villageParsons Street ending after a year and that French designer getting done in." Alix nodded and, putting the cigarette holder in her bag, drove away. So Lady Brandon had watched the serial in the garage man's cottage on the night of the murder. Yet she had

distinctly said she had watched it in her own home. It was an odd thing to lie about and Alix was surprised by it. Still, murder brought fear and fear made one do silly things. She had probably been afraid of being questioned if she had said she'd watched it somewhere else. Also she would hate having her name connected with a scandal in case it affected her plans for Fleur. Croxham Parva came in sight and Alix drove along the village street until she came to a dignified Queen Anne house, its neat white portico supported by a pair of columns. She stopped before the gate, walked up the path and knocked on the door. Almost at once it was opened by Fleur. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you getting out of the car," she said with a smile. "Were you passing through?" "I came specifically to see Peter." Alix heard the grimness in her voice but could not lighten it. "Your telephone is out of order and I had to see him." "You mean you drove down especially?" The question came from the man himself, who appeared at the threshold of the sitting room. "What's wrong, Alix?" "Nothing yet. But there will be if you don't get out of here. Lady Brandon's coming back this afternoon with Jack Beecham. Apparently they want to surprise Fleur." "They'd certainly do that," Peter said grimly and glanced at the girl, who had visibly paled. "Well, Fleur?" he said. "What do 1 dogo or stay?" "Go. Ifif Jack finds you here there'll be an awful row." "I don't mind if you don't." "I can't. You know why." Fleur was becoming distraught. "You've got to go. Please go." Peter continued to stare at her. There was a bitter look on his face that made Alix sure that her arrival had interrupted a quarrel between them. Peter raised his hand in a gesture of finality. "Come on, Alix, we mustn't jeopardize Fleur's future any longer." Fleur's eyes filled with tears as she watched Peter walk toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he looked at her. "I won't bother you anymore. I love you but I'm not going to grovel at your feet again. I can't offer you a millionaire's paradisebut if you had the courage to marry me" "I don't want any money for myself," Fleur said on a sob. "You know why I'm marrying Jack."

"Because you're gutless! You're old enough to live your own life but you don't have the courage to untie yourself from your mother's apron." He stormed down the path and Fleur looked at Alix. "I suppose you think I'm weak and stupid," she whispered on a sob. "I think you're muddled by loyalty," Alix said gently. "Is loyalty wrong? Mother's done so much for me. I was only six when daddy died and left us without a bean. Mother sacrificed everything to give me the life I would have had if things had been normal." "What's normal? An expensive boarding school and Duval clothes? Your mother's living in the past and so are you." "That's what Peter says. But I've got to marry Jack. We owe so much money so many debts You don't understand." "No, I don't. What chance do you have of being happy? Think of it from Beecham's point of view. When your mother dies, you can't seriously tell me you'll go on living with a man you don't love. And then what will happen? You'll end up in the divorce court and by that time Peter might be happily married to someone else." "Don't!" Fleur put her hands to her ears. "I can't bear you to say that!" Before Alix knew what was happening, Fleur ran down the path and threw herself at Peter, who was standing by the car. "Don't go," she cried. "I can't live without you!" Tactfully Alix walked into the sitting room and remained there. Had she been wise to interfere? She had come down with the express purpose of taking Peter back to London and instead had pushed him and Fleur together. She was still mentally kicking herself when the couple came back into the room. "Fleur doesn't want us to be here when her mother and Beecham arrive," he said. "She doesn't want her mother to know she's going to marry me." Seeing the look of surprise on Alix's face, Fleur said quickly, "Mother has a dreadful temper and there's no point having a scene. I'd rather not tell her anything until I can go straight to Peter." "I agree with that," Peter said. "Once we're married her mother will have to accept the situation. I'll be going to Canada to promote our combine-harvester machine, and if Fleur and I get married before we leave, we'll be out of Lady Brandon's way until she's had a chanc,e to cool down."

"It seems a cowardly thing to do," Alix said slowly, "though I can't blame you. But you're not off to Canada for another fortnight. What will you do meanwhile?" "Play it cool. Fleur and I will keep in touch by telephone. We daren't run the risk of meeting." "It's going to be hard on Jack Beecham to be jilted at the altar." "He'll hate me no matter when I jilt him," Fleur said huskily. "Honestly, this is the only way we can do it. I don't mind defying mother but I I can't do it openly.'' Realizing she had already said more than enough, Alix looked at Peter. "We'd better be going. We don't want to be here when Lady Brandon arrives." She went out to the car, leaving the lovers alone, and soon Peter came striding down the path and climbed in beside her. "I'll never forget all you've done," he said as they left Croxham Parva behind. "If there's anything I can ever do for you, you've only to ask." "Thank you," she said quietly and wished it were possible for him to help her prove Paul's innocence. If that were possible, her life would be worth living, even though she would not be living it with him. Paul, she whispered silently. My only love

CHAPTER TWELVE
Though Alix was kept fully occupied with work for the next few days, there was an unidentified disquiet in her mind that refused to be dispelled. At the end of the week she could not beat it any longer, and ignoring the calls to be made and the letters to be dictated, she left her apartment and went for a brisk walk in the park. Perhaps the fresh air would help her to think things out. But think what things out? Something she had done in the past few days had upset her and she was determined to find out what. Could it be to do with Dina? She shook her head; she had not seen the girl for several days. Was it anything to do with Fleur and Peter then? Again she shook her head; that episode was coming to a satisfactory end, and in another week they would be married and away from Lady Brandon's wrath. Lady Brandon. Alix paused in her walking and, seeing a deserted park bench, sat down and lifted her head to the rays of October sun that filtered feebly through a blanket of cloud. How angry the woman would be when she discovered Fleur's elopement. Alix thought of the tall bony figure, the lined skin and autocratic features. She frowned and reached into her bag for a handkerchief; it wasn't there. With a mutter of annoyance

she searched among the odds and ends, smiling as she saw the conglomeration of articles: a key of unknown origin, a powder compact, a diary, three proof photographs of a starlet she had been asked to handle and a piece of silver-wrapped chocolate. What a field day a psychiatrist would have here! Suddenly she stiffened and picked up a tortoiseshell cigarette holder inlaid with gold. Where had that come from? It certainly wasn't hers. Her brow cleared. Of course! The garage man at Croxham Parva had asked her to give it to Lady Brandon, and like a fool she had forgotten all about it. It was impossible to send it to the woman without explaining how she had come by it. Yet to do so would be admitting she had been in the district and would implicate her in Peter's and Fleur's elopement. It was far wiser to forget she had the holder. Lady Brandon had not had it since the night Henri was murdered and had probably written it off as lost. With startling clarity the disquiet that had been in Alix's mind dissolved and reformed into a horrified thought. Into several horrified thoughts. How could she have been so blind? Carefully she began to enumerate everything that had occurred since she had started to work for Duval's. Apart from Henri's death there were the numerous leakages to the press: stories that only someone close to the family could have known about. She had suspected Peter because he was the only outsiderapart from herselfwho had been sufficiently close to the Duvals to know what was going on. But there was Lady Brandon and Fleur, too. Fleur she instantly dismissed as being too gentle and sweet to be a gossip, let alone one who sold her information. That only left Lady Brandon. If she was so desperately short of money that she was prepared to barter the happiness of her daughter, what more natural than that she should sell her friends' private lives to the newspapers? Once Alix started to think along these lines, other incidents fell into placemost important of all the matter of the stolen sketches. Henri had been positive no one in the salon had taken them, but he and Paul had been working on them at the manor during the weekend. Ivy Brandon was a regular visitor there and would have had ample opportunity to photograph the drawings secretly. Determined to find out if some of her beliefs were true, Alix left the park and hailed a cruising taxi. She directed it to Fleet Street and the office of the Daily Illustrated. Jamie Hunter would have to tell her where he had obtained his information. She was not going to leave his office until he did. "Hi, beautiful," he greeted her as she stepped into his office. "To what do I owe the honor?" "I want some information from you. It's extremely important that you tell me who fed you the gossip about the Duvals."

"No can do, honey. I've already told you I can't divulge my sources. If people thought I did that, my contacts would dry up immediately." "I know all that," she said impatiently, "but I've still got to know the answer. There could be a big story in this for you, Jamie." She lowered her voice. "Confidentially, it might help us to find who murdered Henri Duval." "Holy Moses!" Jamie Hunter's eyes grew round with astonishment. "It was a woman, wasn't it?" Alix persisted. "Yes." "Lady Brandon?" Momentarily the man hesitated, then nodded. "How long has she been on your payroll?" "A couple of years." "Did she ever offer you any sketches of designs?" "She talked about it but I told her it wasn't my line of country." Alix nodded; the last piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place. There was no doubt Lady Brandon had used her friendship with the Duvals to glean as much information as she could from them, apart from learning a lot more from her daughter who had, innocently or otherwise, heard a great deal from Peter. She considered the possibility that Henri Duval had discovered Lady Brandon's guilt. Though he might not have minded her selling gossip about him, he would have been furious to have discovered she had sold his designs. Certainly furious enough to have threatened her with exposure. The scandal would have ruined Fleur's chance of marrying Jack Beecham, but would that have been sufficient motive for murder? Alix wanted to think so but couldn't. Ivy Brandon must have had an additional reason. Had she discovered something in Henri's past and been blackmailing him? No, that didn't make sense, either, for blackmailers rarely killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. Yet there must be something "Tell me, Jamie, would it be possible for me to have a look at the files in your newspaper library?" "Sure."

He led the way to the long rectangular room at the top of the building where, before leaving her, he introduced her to the middle-aged woman in charge. Within a short time Alix found what she was looking for: a thin file on the Brandon family. It included cuttings on the marriage of the last Lord Brandon to Ivy Brooke, which had surprised everyone by being an unusually quiet event and held in a small church outside London. The bride had been given away by a relative though her father was reported as being a major in the British Army. There were a few more sparse items: the birth of a daughter; the sale of Brandon Park and its contents to an Arab, and the death, ten years ago, of Lord Brandon, leaving the title to be inherited by some unknown young man in New Zealand, who had declined it. The last cutting was the longest and featured Fleur's engagement to Jack Beecham, an item Alix hardly bothered to read. What she was looking for was something farther back in the past than that: much farther. After making a few notes, Alix returned home and called a friend at the War Office. A couple of hours later she received the information she wanted. Major Brooke and his wife were now dead, but he had been stationed on the Seychelle Islands from 1930 to 1939. The Seychelles The land of sunshine and spices where Henri Duval was born and which he had left as a young man never to return! It was a strange coincidence and Alix wondered whether it held the key to the mystery. She toyed with the idea of talking it over with Paul but decided against it. She did not want to raise his hopes with false encouragement. Even as she thought this, she felt a lightening of her mood. Her growing suspicions of Ivy Brandon had eradicated her suspicions of Paul. There was no logical reason why it should, yet it had! If only she could prove him innocent. For a day or two nothing suggested itself to her, and her final decision to go to Croxham Manor and see Amy Duval was born out of desperation. Henri's widow might know something of her husband's early life that would provide her with the key she was seeking. The woman might even know something more about Ivy Brandon. So it was that an afternoon in late autumn found Alix strolling around the gardens of the manor as the setting sun slanted through the boughs of ancient trees and dappled the emerald lawns with muted gold. "I'm glad you came to see me," Amy Duval said as she snipped off a large bronze chrysanthemum and added it to the pile in the basket over her arm. "Since Henri's death, people seem to be avoiding me." "Have you ever thought of moving to London?" "Never. I'm a country woman and I wouldn't be happy without my garden. Besides, this is Paul's home, and when he marries he will want to bring up his children here."

Alix felt a pang of yearning at the thought of Paul and Dina living in this beautiful place. She looked at the house, glad that Henri's death had not left its mark. Yet why should it, when in life he had not even managed to impinge his personality on it. "Paul's often spoken of you," the older woman continued. "He and I are very close. Too close perhaps. If we hadn't been, he might have made a life for himself much earlier. It was because of me that he stayed with Henri, even though they quarreled most of the time." Alix did not know what to say and remained silent. "I don't blame Henri, though," Amy Duval said unexpectedly. "He didn't have the temperament to accept anyone else's talenteven his own son's." "That's frequently the case," Alix replied. "With Henri it was intensified through jealousynot only of Paul's ability but of his youth." Mrs. Duval touched a chrysanthemum with her hand, then shook her head as if deciding not to cut it. "Did your husband ever talk to you about his own early life?" Alix asked, using the word youth as a lead in to this question. "I mean about the years before he came to England." "Not very much. He was born in the Seychelles, you know. His father had a spice plantation there and Henri's brother Georges took it over after my father-in- law died." "I didn't know there was a brother." "There still is. He came to England a few years ago and stayed with us for a while. He had just sold the plantation and was on his way to France. He wanted to spend his last years in the old country. He lives outside Nice." "Do you have his address?" "Of course." Mrs. Duval looked up at the sky. "It's getting dark now, so we might as well go indoors and I'll get it for you." They returned to the house and the woman went straight to a Queen Anne desk and took" a red book from a drawer. She opened it, wrote something on a sheet of paper and handed it to Alix. "Here it is, my dear. Georges Duval's address. Can you tell my why you want it? You've been rather mysterious and I wonder if it has anything to do with Paul?" "I'm not sure," Alix said slowly. "Would you mind if I didn't tell you for the moment? I promise to do so as soon as I can."

The woman shrugged, then half smiled. "Do you see much of my son?" "Only when business makes it necessary." Alix hesitated, but before she could say more, a maid wheeled in a tea trolley. After this Mrs. Duval changed the conversation and no further mention was made of her husband or son. Alix was back in London by six o'clock. She was dining with Mark and, on an impulse, told him of her visit to Amy Duval and the reasons for it. To her disappointment he did not seem to regard her suspicions of Lady Brandon as gravely as she did. "The only mystery you've cleared up is who leaked those items to Jamie Hunter's column. But that doesn't make the old girl guilty of murder! In fact," he said with a slight smile, "I can see why Henri Duval might have wanted to kill her, but I can't for the life of me see why she'd want to kill him!" "I still think there's something in it," Alix said stubbornly. "I'm going to see Georges Duval." "What for? He never lived in England and he wouldn't know Lady B. from a hole in the wall." "Her parents were stationed on the Seychelles. Doesn't that strike you as a coincidence?" "A coincidence, yes, but nothing more. Honestly, darling, you're becoming obsessed by all this." He looked down at his plate and then, as if he found the food unappetizing, pushed it away. "I suppose this explains your behavior over the past few weeks. All this business has been on your mind, hasn't it?" "I've thought of nothing else," she admitted. "I believed Paul was the murderer and" "Paul! Why should he" "Because of Dina. He's in love with her and he was furious at the way Henri was treating her." "So he bumped off his old man?" Mark was deliberately being facetious, as if he saw this as the only way to bring logic into Alix's reasoning. "I can't see Paul Duval doing that, no matter how much he loved a woman. From what I know of him, he's the type to retreat into a corner and chew his nails down to the bonenot reach for a gun." Mark eyed her narrowly. "That's why you've been so moody lately, isn't it? You suspected Paul and hated yourself for it?"

She nodded. Mark was getting dangerously close to her real feelings for Paul but she could see no way of warding him off. Perhaps it was better for him to realize how she felt. She looked up to speak and at the same time he started to talk. Their words mingled and they both stopped. Mark grinned. "Ladies first. Go on." "I wanted to talk about us. I don't think we should go on seeing each other." He thought for a moment. "Because of Paul?" She half nodded, then said quickly, "He has no idea. You must never tell him." There was a short silence. "I think I've known for a long time," Mark continued. "From the moment I saw you together in his office." He saw the fear in her eyes and shook his head. "Don't worry. It was only apparent to me. When you love someone, you become sensitive to their feelings." "Oh Mark, I'm sorry. I wish" "Don't waste time wishing!" He caught her hand tightly in his. At that precise moment the man they had been discussing stopped at their table. Only then did he see their clasped hands and make an attempt to walk on. But Mark was already loosening his hold of Alix's hand and smiling up at him. "Paul! I didn't know you came here." "It used to be a haunt of mine." Mark glanced behind Paul. "Are you alone?" "Yes." "Then join us." There was a momentary hesitation before Paul sat down. His proximity made Alix lose what little appetite she had and she toyed with the food on her plate. Mark seemed perfectly at ease though, and she marveled at his ability to be so warmly disposed toward a man he must obviously regard as his rival. Surreptitiously she glanced at Paul. He was sipping some wine and toying with a Sole Bonne Femme as if he had no appetite, either. He was thinner than when she had last seen him, and there were blue shadows on his lids. But his features were composed and

only the fine- cut mouthmore tightly held than she had rememberedspoke of the mental strain he was undergoing. But then she wasn't the only person who regarded him with suspicion and Paul, being the man he was, must be aware of it. "You should relax a bit more, Paul." Mark had taken the dying conversation into his own hands and Alix looked at him gratefully. But it was a gratitude that died fast as he continued, "Why don't you and Dina join us for the weekend?" "The weekend?" Paul's voice was cool. "That's right. I'm taking Alix to Nice for a few days." Paul carefully set down his fork. "Wouldn't you prefer to be alone?" "We'd tell you when we did," Mark grinned. "What about it?" Paul shook his head. "Dina's busy at the theater. She only has Sunday free." Sherrybrown eyes rested on Alix for an instant. "I'm sure you'll both have more fun on your own!" "Maybe you're right," Mark said in the same agreeable way, and pushed back his chair. "Would you excuse me a moment? I promised to drop some drawings in to a client and I forgot all about it. I'd better ring him and apologize." He walked away from the table and Alix made a pretense of eating. She was furious with Mark and could hardly wait until she was alone with him to find out what game he was playing. But for the moment she was with Paul and had to pretend indifference to his cold- eyed look. Unexpectedly his attitude began to annoy her. What right did he have to judge her? She was a free agent and if she wanted to go away with a man for the weekend it was no concern of his! "You're looking tired," Paul said unexpectedly. "That's why I'm going away for the weekend," she said flatly. "It's a pity you and Dina can't join us." "I wouldn't go with you even if Dina were free. It's always better to be on your own with someone you love." The words were like a knife in Alix's heart and she marveled that nothing of what she felt showed in her face. Not caring what she said, she spoke at random. "I'm surprised you haven't married yet, Paul. I can't see any reason for your waiting." "Can't you?" he said harshly, then leaned forward, his thin face white with rage. "How cruel you are, Alix. How can I ask anyone to marry me when I'm suspected of murder?"

She stared at him aghast. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." "Then why say what you did? You aren't stupid. You know damn well I'm at the top of Truscott's list." "Yes," she said miserably and wished she were a million miles away. Mark came back to find them both silent. He glanced at Alix and raised an eyebrow, but she shook her head imperceptibly and he sat down and began to chat about nothing in particular. Almost at once Paul stood up. "I must be getting to the theater to collect Dina." He smiled briefly at Alix, touched Mark on the shoulder and walked over to get his bill. He did not turn to look at them and Alix watched his slim figure and his well-shaped head with its soft brown hair. Only as he vanished from her sight did she turn to Mark, her voice low and angry. "I suppose you had a reason for wanting Paul to think you're coming to Nice with me? Do you want him to believe we're lovers?" "Sure I did. There's nothing like jealousy for making a man realize what he's missing." "Nothing I do would make Paul jealous," she flared. "You'd have done better to tell him you were going off with Dina!" Mark favored her with a long stare. "Okay, then. So it didn't work the way I had hoped. But at least it's shown you he doesn't give a single damn about you!" "I knew that before," she said huskily and pushed away her plate. "Do you mind if we go? I have a headache." It was only as he left her outside the door of her apartment that Mark told her he had meant what he had said about going to Nice with her. "Not for a weekend of love," he assured her with the faintest of smiles, "but because I could do with a break and I don't fancy letting you go off alone." She wanted to tell him she preferred to be alone but, remembering Paul, decided to accept Mark's offer. "I'll tell Willie to get the tickets," she said. "Is early Friday afternoon all right for you?" "Any time." He caught her hand. "Don't bank too much on this meeting with Georges Duval. It's probably a wild-goose chase."

Alix told herself this repeatedly for the rest of the week but could not quite still the hope that bubbled inside her. It was only when she thought of what Paul would do if she cleared his name that her sense of anticipation dimmed. He would be free to marry Dina. The incongruity of this almost made her laugh. Why should she help the man she loved marry someone else? Because she was a fool, she admitted to herself. Because she wanted him to be happy regardless of the fact that he wouldn't be happy with her. It was a bleak acknowledgment yet it made her better able to face her own future, no matter how empty it would be.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Alix telephoned Georges Duval from London. There was no point going to Nice if, by some mischance, the Frenchman wasn't there or would not see her. But he seemed delighted by the prospect of a visit from someone who had known his brother and suggested she come and see him as soon as she had checked in at her hotel. Alix was only too happy to comply and late afternoon Friday found her and Mark walking up a narrow path to a modest, white-washed house with a wooden porch and shutters painted a powdery blue. An elderly man was seated on a wicker chair, a faded panama hat tilted over his eyes. He made no movement at their approach and Alix paused a few steps away from him and listened to his even breathing. "Bonjour, Monsieur Duval," she said quietly. The man in the chair sat up sharply and pushed the panama onto the back of his head, uncovering a tanned face with a straggling gray mustache. There were laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and the eyes themselves were the same deep blue as those of his late brother. "Mademoiselle Smith!" He rose to his feet with surprising alertness and bent low over Alix's hand. "Please forgive me for this unseemly welcome. But I am an old man and cannot do without the siesta in the afternoon!" He looked from her to Mark, and after she had introduced them he led them into the soft twilight of the house to a small salon stiffly furnished in Empire style. Alix sat on a mahogany and gold chair and looked with interest at the glass-fronted cabinets with their array of knick-knacks and the tall, enameled vase filled with silver grass that stood in the corner. The scent of faded rose petals mingled with the dusty smell of upholstery. An elderly housekeeper brought jasmine tea and a plate of macaroons, and as they sipped, Alix wondered how best to broach the subject of her visit. In the end it was Georges Duval who did it for her.

"I understand from the newspapers that you worked for my brother, Henri. He always chose women who were clever as well as beautiful." His eyes twinkled for a second and then grew sad. "His death was a great shock to me. It is only two years since I visited him in England and he was so strong and handsome, so full of life! It is difficult to believe I shall never see him again." "His death was a terrible shock," Alix said. "Death one can understand," the old man said. "But murder is more difficult to comprehend. I still cannot believe anyone would wish to harm him. He had such charm." "He also had a strong character. Such men make enemies." "Yet the police do not know who they were. If they did, they would have made an arrest." Alix drew a deep breath. "They suspect your nephew." "Paul?" The blue eyes held disbelief. "That cannot be. No, no, never." "He and and his father often quarreled. They were very different personalities and" "What family doesn't quarrel?" Georges Duval said. "But Paul is no murderer. I would stake my life on that!" Guiltily Alix remembered her own doubts about him and wondered whether Paul would see her present action as sufficient compensation for her earlier suspicion. But what if this old man could not help her? What if he succeeded in clearing Lady Brandon instead of implicating her? Would her doubts about Paul return? Alix clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Nothing would make her believe Paul guilty again. Indeed, if her love for him had not been so new and painful at the time of Henri's death, she would have been able to judge him with her brain instead of her heart. And brain alone would have told her Paul could not hurt any living thing. She leaned forward. "I am hoping you may be able to help your nephew, Monsieur Duval. I have a theory about your brother's early life. You were together in the Seychelles until your father died, weren't you?" "Yes. Until Henri decided to try his luck in Paris. He wanted me to go with him but I lacked the spirit of adventure. Also," he added simply, "I did not have the talent." Alix allowed the silence to last for a few seconds before she breached it. "Do you do you remember some incident from those days, something an ill-disposed person could have used against him?"

"A discreditable secret, you mean?" The blue eyes twinkled shrewdly. "No, mademoiselle, I regret I must disappoint you. There was nothing like that in Henri's life. Some amorous escapades perhaps, but nothing worse." "Does the name John Brooke mean anything to you?" The old man started slightly. "John Brooke?" "Major Brooke. He was in the British Army. Attached to the island garrison between 1930 and 1939." "Yes. I remember him. It isn't a name I'm likely to forget." Alix tried to quiet her rising excitement. "Do you remember his daughter, Ivy?" "It was the daughter of whom I was primarily thinking," the dry answer came. "Tell me about her," Alix said huskily. "Please, monsieur, it's terribly important that I know everything about her." "Everything Can one ever know everything about another human being? It is impossible, in all conscience, to know everything about oneself." The bald head lowered and there was silence. "She was a striking young girl," he said at last. "Not beautiful, you understand, but with the kind of personality that brings many admirers. She had flaming red hair, a ready wit and" Georges Duval paused for breath. "A dear friend of minePierre Guitryfell in love with her. He was handsome in the dark, southern way, and though Ivy knew her parents would not consider him suitable she, too, fell in love. It was the first time any man had meant anything to her and I think she"A sigh filled in the silence that discretion had decreed. "They decided to marry secretly and it was I who lent Pierre the money to buy the ring and the license." "They actually married?" Mark interposed. Georges Duval nodded. "I have often wondered what made Ivy do it. She was so ambitious and social minded. Perhaps it amused her to defy her father. She was a crazy, headstrong girl." "It must have been a shock for the major," Alix said. "He never knew. They were married in secret and Ivy never left her father's home. Pierre used to visit her at nightshe called him her Romeo. She pacified her husband by promising that as soon as he had sufficient money to support her properly she would tell her father the truth. She forced Pierre to keep silent by frightening him with stories of the major's fierce temper, by making him believe she would be locked up and beaten if their marriage was discovered."

"But her father was bound to find out," Alix exclaimed. "In the ordinary course of events, yes. But Ivy knew something Pierre didn't. That her father was being transferred to England and that she would be going with him." "You mean she intended to desert her husband?" "Exactement. She had already tired of himfound him too simple and easy to manage and had no intention of being a poor planter's wife for the rest of her days. Mademoiselle Ivy was an ambitious young lady and valued the importance of money." "Divorce wasn't easy in those days," Mark interpolated, as if anxious to further the story. "Who knows what was in her mind?" the old Frenchman answered. "At all events she told Pierre she had to leave the island with her father but would come back within six months. Pierre believed her. He gave up all his simple pleasures and worked like a slave to earn enough to claim her as his wife. The six months became a year and the year became two, but Ivy still did not return. In the end he was forced to realize she never would! From then on he was a changed man. He cared for nothing but work and became a recluse." There was silence in the room. Georges Duval sat with bowed head, musing on a past he had suddenly brought close. "When did Monsieur Guitry divorce her?" Alix asked. "He never did." The old man straightened. "He used to say, 'She is my wife as long as she is on this earth.' He washow do you put itobsessed by it. In any case, it no longer matters. Pierre has been dead for fifteen years and Ivy achieved her ambition and became the wife of an English lord." Alix sat up with a jerk. "So you know she married Lord Brandon!" "Certainement. Henri told me." Alix frowned, thinking quickly. "Did your brother know her very well when she lived in the Seychelles?" "Not too well. He was in Paris for most of that time. He was already there when she married Pierre." "So he didn't know of it?" "Not until I told him when I came to London two years ago."

Again Alix frowned, her mind busy on another aspect of the story she had just learned. "You said Pierre Guitry died fifteen years ago. Are you sure you didn't mean twentyfive?" "Come, mademoiselle, I may be old but my memory has not failed me yet. I was in the Seychelles when he died and I attended his funeral. It will be sixteen years next April." "But Ivy Brandon married Lord Brandon twenty- four years ago!" Alix stated. "Then without doubt the marriage was bigamous!" Alix thought instantly of Fleur and her mother's frantic efforts to arrange a rich marriage for her. Jack Beecham was undoubtedly attracted by the girl's aristocratic background and if he knew Lady Brandon had no right to the title What a weapon Ivy's secret would be to someone who wanted to harm her. To Henri Duval, for example, if he had discovered she was selling gossip about him. Alix turned suddenly to her host. "You've been very patient with me, monsieur. I shall not trespass on your kindness any longer. But I have one last question to ask." She drew a deep breath. "Do you think Ivy Brandon is capable of murder?" Georges Duval betrayed no surprise at the question. "The human soul is a mystery, mademoiselle, but one thing I do know. The woman who wantonly destroyed Pierre's happiness was worsefar worsethan any murderer." It was a silent couple who left the villa and returned to their hotel, and even as they dined in a small restaurant overlooking the sea later that evening, they found it difficult to make light conversation; somehow the painful story they had learned that day had put an end to meaningless chatter. Alix was still afraid to believe she had come to the end of her quest. Yet surely this was the case? After all, she had proof positive that Lady Brandon had an excellent reason for murdering Henri. Obviously he had discovered she had been selling information about himself and his salon to the press and had no doubt threatened to expose her. Mark agreed with this theory. "She must have realized that if he did, it would put paid to her daughter's marriage." "So she shot him. Maybe she hoped the police would think it was one of Henri's girl friendsthere were enough to choose from!" Alix stared down at her food. "She must have got him to meet her in the rose garden. She knew they wouldn't be within earshot of anyone, so she could find out exactly what he intended to do. When she learned he had made up his mind to expose her, she killed him." "First making sure she had the alibi of watching that serial on television."

"Yes. If she hadn't gone to such lengths to let everyone know she had watched it in her own home, I doubt if I'd have suspected her. But the moment the garage man told me she had watched it in his cottage" "Do you think she intended to look at it there, or was that an accident?" "I'm sure it was an accident. She must have left her house soon after Fleur. She got to the rose garden, shot Henri and was then driving home hell-bent for leather to watch the serialor as much of it as she could manage in the timewhen she had a puncture. She was pretty desperate by then because she could see her alibi disappearing, and it was a stroke of luck when she found she could watch it at the garage. She stayed there until the end of the show and then returned to the manor. When she arrived, Henri's death had already been discovered and the first thing she said when she came into the drawing room was that she'd been watching a television serial at home." "Watching a tv program in someone else's house doesn't make her guilty of murder," Mark said slowly. "What about Georges Duval's story? Doesn't that give her a good reason for killing Henri?" "Possibly. But you haven't any actual proof." "You're being purposely defeatist. As soon as I get home I'm going to tell Inspector Truscott the whole story." "Will you tell Paul?" "Of course. I didn't tell him before, in case it raised his hopes, but now" "He'll realize you didn't come to Nice for a weekend with your lover!" Mark said swiftly. "Doesn't that make you feel better?" "Paul's opinion of me doesn't matter." "Rot. You know damn well his opinion matters more than anyone else's." He drummed his fingers on the table, and the proprietor, realizing they would eat no more that evening, cleared away the plates and set cups and a percolator before them. It was not until they were sipping their coffee and cognac that Mark spoke again. "When I got back from South America you told me I shouldn't waste my time seeing you, and I told you I'd go on seeing you as long as I felt there was any hope. Well, I've changed my mind."

"Oh Mark, I'm sorry. If only" "Don't apologize, Alix. You can't help loving Paul any more than I can help loving you. But it's foolish for me to go on seeing you while you're in this state. I've been offered an assignment in Canada and I've accepted it. I'll be away about a year." "As long as that?" Looking at the rugged face in front of her, she felt a sense of loss. "When are you going?" "Wednesday." "So soon? I'll miss you, Mark. You're the best friend I have." "You can always hop on a plane and join me!" He caught hold of her hand. "I'm hoping you'll be able to put Paul out of your mind once he gets married. But as long as he's free, you'll go on hoping." "I won't be hoping much longer," she said with an attempt at lightness. "Once his innocence has been proved, he'll marry Dina; he as good as told me so." Alix and Mark returned to London late on Sunday night, and their final goodbye was a casual one, for no more words were necessary between them. As she watched him go down the hall she knew a moment of such loneliness that she almost called him back, but with an effort she held her tongue and closed the front door. As always when she was alone, her thoughts centered on Paul. If only she could call him now and tell him all she had learned from his uncle. But this was not something that could be discussed over the telephone. She would see him tomorrow and tell him to his face. Then together they would go to see Truscott. Once Paul's name was cleared a new life would open for him, bringing with it not only the blossoming of his career but also marriage. The early-morning breeze was keen as Alix parked her car and entered the salon of Duval's. Only as she crossed the foyer did her confidence fail. What if she were wrong about Lady Brandon and was merely raising Paul's hopes falsely? But she dared not think that way! If she did, how could she convince not only Paul but also the inspector? The red-headed receptionist smiled at her. "If you've come to see Mr. Duval, you're in for a wait. He's supervising a fitting for Miss Lloyd, and that always takes time." Dina, always Dina! Alix suppressed a pang of jealousy.

"Will you tell him I'm here anyway and that it's extremely important I see him as soon as possible? I'll be in my office." She mounted the staircase and entered the small room Henri Duval had set aside for her. It was empty, although a large pile of letters on her desk was waiting to be sorted. Idly she glanced at them and then, unable to concentrate, put them down. The fitting rooms were on the other side of the corridor and, unable to restrain her impatience, she crossed the hall toward them. "Mr. Duval?" she called softly. A curtain was pushed back and Dina stood there in a vivid sun dress. "He's gone to the workroom for a moment. Come on in and talk to me. Long time no see." "I've been busy," Alix said quickly. "And anyway I didn't think it advisable for you to have any more publicity for the time being. It seemed best to give your name a rest." "I wasn't talking about seeing you in a business capacity, darling. We used to be friends, remember." Dina turned to look at herself in the mirror and spoke to Alix's reflection. "You changed toward me when I started seeing Henri." "Did I?" "Don't pretend, darling. You got onto your high horse and you've been riding it ever since." "It had nothing to do with your seeing Henri Duval. I just didn't think you were playing fair in seeing Paul as well." "Why should a woman play fair? Men don't." The smile had gone from Dina's face, leaving it looking peaky and older. "Anyway it's all over now. As cold and dead as Henri is." "Don't!" Alix said quickly, and stepped out of the cubicle. "I really must find Paul. I'll" "He'll be back in a moment. Wait here for him." Reluctantly Alix came back into the cubicle, watching as Dina postured in front of the mirror. "Like it?" she said, pointing to her dress. "Isn't it early to be choosing summer clothes?" "It'll be summer in Australia when I get there. I'm going on a three months' tour. I finally accepted the offer this weekend."

"I'd no idea you were leaving the play." Alix was astonished. "I wanted to get away." For an instant Dina had a strained look again, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had come. "I'm touring with the Shakespeare Playersquite a new venture for me." "I can't imagine you in Shakespeare," Alix said slowly. "But I think you're wise to extend your range." "So do I. I never thought of myself as a dramatic actress, but when Henri died" Dina moved closer to the mirror and smoothed her hair. "In those first awful weeks I gave the best performance of my life. Paul helped, of course, but even so" She stepped back from the mirror. "Henri wasn't a wicked man, you know. He just hated the thought of growing old. If he had lived I'm sure my feelings for him wouldn't have lasted, but he died at a time when he when he still meant everything in my life." Tears glittered in the large eyes. "Paul was the only one who realized how much Henri meant to me. Even you never guessed." "I just thought of it as an affair to pass the time," Alix admitted. Dina gave a tremulous laugh. "My honest friend!" Alix sighed. "I was never good at pretending. If it's for publicity I can lie my head 6ff, but where" She stopped abruptly. "But where you love you cannot lie?" Dina concluded. There was a tense silence and Alix let out her breath slowly. Only a few night ago Mark had stumbled on her secret, and it was more than she could bear that Dina should do the same. "I'd have disliked playing off a father and son no matter who had been involved," she said firmly. "I have no personal feelings toward Paul." To emphasize what she said, she knew she must say more, and she blindly stumbled on. "How does he feel about your going to Australia? You should try to get him to join you there for Christmas. It's an excellent market for his ready-to-wear." "Don't play matchmaker," Dina replied. "Paul's delighted I'm going away. He was the one who persuaded me to accept the offer." Alix was angry for not having realized this herself. Naturally Paul would encourage Dina to go away on a tour! While suspicion of murder hung over his head he could never marry her. She looked at her friend's slender figure and wondered if Dina knew why Paul had acted this way. But it was his prerogative to explain and had nothing to do with herself.

"What's keeping him so long?" she asked jerkily. "I've got to talk to him." "Why?" Ignoring the question, Alix ran from the cubicle. She was at the foot of the stairs when Paul appeared at the top, and after a momentary hesitation, he came down to join her. "Good morning," he said coolly. "Did you have a nice weekend?" "It was lovely." She saw his eyes flicker over her and blushed. "I must talk to you, Paul. It's terribly important." "I'm busy. Can it wait until lunchtime?" "I'd like to tell you as soon as possible." "Wait for me in my office," he said and strode toward Dina's cubicle. Alix was restlessly wandering around his room when he joined her. His manner was composed although he was breathing fast, and when he sat at his desk he looked at a point beyond her shoulder. "Well," he asked, "what is it?" She clenched her hands. Now that he was here, waiting for her to speak, she did not know how to begin. "It's about your father's death." Paul said nothing, although his mouth tightened. "Do you remember all those items in Jamie Hunter's column?" she went on. "Well, I know where he got them from." As quickly as she could and ignoring his occasional exclamations, she told him of her drive to Croxham Parva and her meeting with the garage proprietor. She told him, too, of the afternoon she had spent with his mother and the facts she had learned there, which had sent her to Nice to speak to Georges Duval. Even when she finally came to the end, Paul remained at his desk as though stunned. "I had no idea she was married before," he said at last, his voice so low it was barely audible. "My father never spoke of it to me." He took out a handkerchief and dabbed his brow. "So that's why you went to Nice?" "Yes. Mark came to keep me companynot because he had designs on me."

"But he does love you?" She nodded, more anxious to talk of Paul's future than her own. "We must go and see Inspector Truscott. I don't know what he'll do but he can't go on suspecting you after this." "I hope not." Paul reached for the telephone. "I'll call him and tell him to expect us."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the austere-looking room at New Scotland Yard, with Inspector Truscott sitting impassively in front of her, Alix wondered if, after all, she had made a complete fool of herself. Could her anxiety to clear Paul have made her see things that did not exist? Have caused her to point the finger of guilt where guilt did not rest? But when she saw the inspector's face as she came to the end of her story, she knew she had done the right thing in coming there. "It's an excellent piece of deduction," he said slowly. "All we need now is the proof." "Proof?" Amazement made her voice rise. "What about the evidence of the garage owner?" "Even if he confirmed your statement that Lady Brandon watched the serial in his cottage, the all- important point is whether she was driving away from the manor at the time or toward it. The man was indoors when she arrived on the scene, and I doubt whether he'd swear an oath which way her car was pointing when he came out to service it. In any case, how do we know she hadn't decided to go to the manor earlier and not bother to watch the program? Then when she had a flat tire she could have changed her mind and gone in to look at the show after all." He studied the tips of his fingers. "But whether she did or she didn't, it still doesn't prove her guilty." "Surely the fact that she's a bigamist" "That doesn't make her a murderer," the inspector cut in. "If Lady Brandon had a dozen illegal husbands it wouldn't have any relevance in this case! Not unless we can prove she murdered Henri Duval in order to avoid exposure. Are you sure he never said anything to you about it?" These last words were addressed to Paul. "No," the younger man said. "He never even hinted that he suspected her of stealing the sketches. And if he could keep that a secret from me" "He didn't want you to know in case you blurted it out to her," Alix said. "Doesn't that show he had some plan of his own?" Alix swung around upon the policeman. "Can't you do something?"

"We can. Many things." The inspector remained unruffled. "But we want to make sure it's the right thing. I appreciate your anxiety, Miss Smith, but if I arrest Lady Brandon on insufficient evidence, a clever lawyer will easily get her off, and then Mr. Duval will be in a worse position than ever. All I can do is to bring her in for questioning. With any luck I may trap her into some admission." "I doubt that," Paul said. "She'll bluff to the very end." "I agree with Paul," Alix added, thinking of Fleur. "The only chance we have is to trap her. I've an idea that might work if you would help me." "I'll do all I can," Truscott said and listened carefully as Alix explained her plan. "It's a long shot," he said finally. "It's our only shot." "It could be dangerous," Paul intervened. "I won't let you do it. I'll get in touch with her myself and" "You can't. It won't work, coming from you. I'm the only one who can do it." "Miss Smith's right," the inspector agreed. "And if she's willing to do it, we should let her." He picked up the telephone. "You might as well make the call from here." With a shaking voice Alix put through a call to Crox- ham Parva. As she waited, she glanced at the desk diary in front of her. The twentieth. It was today that Peter and Fleur were flying to Canada! She racked her brains to remember if Fleur was leaving her mother a note telling her what she was going to do or if she was not going to write until they were safely on the other side of the Atlantic. Breathlessly she waited as the phone rang. Once twice three times Then a deep voice reverberated down the line. "Good morning, Lady Brandon." Alix marveled at the firmness of her own voice now that the moment of truth had arrived. "It's Alix Smith here. I rang to tell you I've got something that belongs to youa cigarette holder. You left it at Wilson's Garage last time you were there." "Did I?" The woman seemed quite unruffled. "May I ask how you came to have it?" "Mr. Wilson gave it to me when I stopped there for gas a couple of weeks ago." "I see. Well, if you'd be so kind as to mail it to me" "I'm afraid I can't do that," Alix said firmly. "It may be more important than you think."

"Indeed? And what exactly does that mean?" Alix swallowed. "Don't you remember what happened the night you left it at the garage?" "How can I remember what happened months ago?" "Then perhaps I'd better refresh your memory. It was the night Henri Duval was murdered. The night you said you were watching television in your own home." There was silence on the other end of the line, and when Ivy Brandon spoke again her voice had a strained sound. "So that's it. Well, don't beat about the bush. What do you want from me?" "A little chat." Alix made her voice sound unctuous. "I suggest we meet at my place this evening. I can see you about seven." "That might not be convenient. My daughter is coming back here with her fiance and" "Tonight at seven," Alix said flatly, knowing the woman was lying. "You'll find my address in the telephone book." "Very well, then," Lady Brandon snapped. "Seven it shall be." Alix's heart was thudding as she put down the receiver and looked from Paul to the inspector. "It worked. She's coming to see me tonight." "I wish you hadn't done it," Paul said. "I don't like you taking such a risk on my behalf." "It'll make a good story afterward," Alix said coolly and saw him flush. "Always thinking of business," he mocked. "No wonder you're so successful." With an effort she held her tongue. It was far better for him to think this of her than to know she would willingly walk through fire in order to clear his name. A little before seven she was pacing the floor of her living room, stretched to breaking point. She had dressed with particular care and wore a deep rose dress that emphasized her black hair and gave her an exotic air she normally strove to avoid. The apartment was quiet and anyone entering it would immediately feel it to be empty, apart from herself. For the purpose she was planning, it was essential for Ivy Brandon to feel Alix was vulnerable.

Nervously she glanced at the clock, straining her ears for the sound of a car drawing up in the street outside. Supposing the woman changed her mind and did not come? She might have decided to call Alix's bluff, secure in the knowledge that nothing could be proved against her. Certainly it would be the wisest thing for her to do. In that case she would have played her trump card in vain and Paul's future would remain clouded by suspicion. The doorbell rang shrilly, making her gasp. For a second she was motionless, then steeling herself for the ordeal ahead, she walked down the passage and opened the door. Lady Brandon stood outside, a commanding figure in a black coat and hat that almost hid her face. Her eyes were sharp as she nodded at Alix and followed her into the living room. "Do take a chair," Alix said sweetly. "Would you care for a drink?" "I am not here on a social visit." The woman was brusque and remained standing just inside the doorway. She loosened her coat but did not remove her black suede gloves. "Let's get down to business. May I see the holder you told me you have?" Silently Alix went to the mantelpiece and picked up the holder. Lady Brandon held out her hand for it but Alix gave a slight laugh. "Not yet, Lady Brandon. This little trinket has its price, as I'm sure you gathered when I spoke to you earlier." "I thought as much. You're nothing but a cheap blackmailer." "Not cheap, I fear." There was a snort of contempt. "No, not cheap. Judging by your surroundings, you're doing very nicely out of it. But I'm afraid you've misjudged the situation with me, Miss Smith. As far as I'm concerned you can keep the cigarette holder and do your worst." Alix's heart missed a beat and then began to pound. Had she made a dreadful mistake after all and assumed Lady Brandon to be a murderer because she had wanted to believe it? As Inspector Truscott had said, she could have been driving to the manornot away from itand decided on the spur of the moment to take advantage of her flat tire in order to look at the television serial. No she thought feverishly, it wasn't like that. If it were, the woman wouldn't have come up to London post haste. Only fear has made her do that. "A good try, Lady Brandon." Alix was delighted with the tone of voice she managed. "But you can't fool me. If I give this holder to the police and tell them where you left it, they'll start asking you questions. I'll tell them your alibi was a fake and that you could easily have been in the rose garden at the time of the murder."

Lady Brandon's sallow face grew red and patchy though she tossed her head contemptuously. "Go to the police with your story! I can defend myself against anything you might say. But let me warn you: the law is ruthless with people who resort to blackmail." Alix swallowed hard. Lady Brandon was either a brilliant liar or else really innocent. And if she was innocent, then who was guilty? Not Paul. Alix was convinced of that now. She would make one more effort to shake the woman's story, then she would give up and apologize. "Well," Lady Brandon said, "will you give me the holder or do you intend to keep it?" Without answering Alix walked over to the standard lamp and held it up to the light. "It's genuine tortoiseshell. It comes from the Seychelles, doesn't it?" The hooded eyes blinked. "I don't know. I bought it at Asprey's years ago." "I'm sure it's from the Seychelles. It's the same workmanship as a cigarette case Henri Duval showed me. Are you sure you didn't get it from there?" "Maybe I did, now you mention it. I think Henri might have given it to me one Chrsitmas." "Or you could have bought it while you were living there, Madame Guitry." The silence was so intense it seemed to have depth. "What did you say?" Lady Brandon asked in a whisper. "I called you by your real name. You are Madame Guitry, are you not? You married Pierre thirty years ago and the marriage was never dissolved!" "You devil!" The angular face contorted with fury. "You've been playing with me all this time. Who told you about thisHenri?" Alix shook her head. "Georges Duval. It was he who told Henri." "So that's how Henri knew," came the muttered words, and faint though they were, Alix quivered with triumph. "Are you going to kill Georges, too? Or do you think your secret is safe with him?" "You are talking like a mad woman," Lady Brandon said.

"You are the one who is mad." Alix flung discretion to the wind. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain for Paulfor Paul and Dina. But forget Dina. It was Paul whose happiness mattered. "You killed Henri," she said tensely, "because he discovered you'd sold copies of his sketches to a rival and threatened to expose you and ruin Fleur's hopes of marriage." "What if I did? Do you think I'd allow him to hold a threat like that over my head?" Ivy Brandon came closer and Alix saw a film of sweat on the bony forehead. But still the woman did not take off her coat nor remove her gloves. "He was nearly off his head with rage. I thought he was going to kill me. But that wasn't Henri's way. He told me he had decided to write to Jack Beecham instead and tell him Fleur was illegitimate! My daughter a bastard! Do you think I was going to allow him to do that? I knew then what I had to do." The thin mouth twisted. "It wasn't difficult. All I had to do was play on his vanity. I wrote him a note on scented paper asking him to meet me in the rose garden, and the fool thought it came from some woman who was pining for him! Hackneyed, wasn't it? But then Henri was always hackneyed where his love life was concerned. Anyway, the note worked and he did exactly as I'd planned." The mouth twisted in triumph, disclosing pointed yellow teeth, and Alix felt faint and sick. She closed her eyes momentarily and when she opened them again she was staring into the gleaming barrel of a small gun. "You'll never get away with it a second time," she gasped. "I'll take my chance on that. It's either you or me, Miss Smith, and you've left me no choice." Desperately Alix strained to hear any sound from outside the room, but all was quiet and she began to panic. "You were anxious to save your name because of Fleur," she said desperately, playing for time. "That's why you killed Henri. But Fleur doesn't need your help anymore. She'll never be Jack Beecham's wife now." "Yes, she will." "She won't. At this moment she's halfway across the Atlantic with Peter!" The face in front of Alix seemed to age visibly, each line dissolving into another and another. "No! You're making it up. It's a trap. Fleur's in London with my sister-in-law. She came up to have a fitting for her wedding dress!" "Fleur is halfway over the Atlantic," Alix repeated. "If you don't believe me, ring up your sister-in-law and find out. Fleur told me this morning what she was planning to do. She's

going to marry Peter. If you had accepted that fact in the beginning, you might have saved yourself from becoming a murderer!" Ivy Brandon seemed to be choking. With her free hand she loosened the collar of her coat. Her tongue rubbed over her lips and a dribble of saliva bubbled at the corners of her mouth. "It's your fault," she grated. "Your fault. Fleur met that man because of you." The gun came nearer. "For years I had to scrimp on every penny. I pawned jewelry, gambled, sold tattle to dirty little gossip columnists, did everything I could to give Fleur the right background." Her voice droned on, higher now, more confused.' "Then you came along with that stupid young man. He turned Fleur's head but it was you who made him do it." The gun rose higher, its barrel catching the light, as black and malevolent as the glittering eyes. "No!" Alix screamed. A shot rang out and a vase on the mantelpiece shattered. Alix swayed and hands-reached out to grip her. "No!" she screamed again and sagged forward in a faint. When she opened her eyes she was lying on the settee. The smell of brandy was in her nostrils and Paul was bending over her. "Lady Brandon?" she gasped. "Where?" "Gone," he said huskily. "Truscott's taken her away. You're perfectly safe. If I'd know she'd drawn a gun on you" Alix shuddered. "Why didn't Truscott come in earlier?" "He wanted to get as full a confession as possible. That's why we waited. We'd no idea she had a gun. You should have given us some indication." "I didn't think of it," Alix admitted. "I knew you were listening and I took it for granted you could tell. It was stupid of me." She stood up unsteadily and peered at herself in the mirror. "What a sight I look! I've lost all my color." "Thank God you didn't lose your life." Paul was directly behind her. "If anything had happened to you I'd never have forgiven myself." Their eyes met in the glass and she was so conscious of his nearness that it required all her willpower not to lean back and rest on his shoulder. But such intimacy was not for her and she moved away.

"What will happen to her?" "Truscott doubts if she'll be able to stand trial. Her heart" Alix shuddered. "I'll never forget her face. It was so full of hate." She drew a deep breath. "It'll be the best solution if she dies. It would be dreadful for Fleur otherwise." "To hell with Fleur! You're the one I'm concerned with." "There's no need. I'm perfectly all right. At least I will be once I'm away from it all." "Does that include me?" Alix eyed him. He looked deceptively slim in a dark gray suit, the skilful cut giving no indication of the whipcord muscles they covered. She knew she could not face the prospect of seeing him continuously. It was asking too much of herself to go on working with him now he was free from guilt and able to marry. "It might be best if I don't work for you," she said. "The success of your Collection will ensure you as much publicity as you need. And if you do find you want any extra, I can recommend someone who'll do the job for half the price." "Are you anxious to save my money or anxious not to see me?" he asked quietly. "Or is there a third reason?" "A third one?" "Mark. Are you going to Canada with him?" Alix debated whether or not to say yes. If she allowed Paul to believe she was going to marry Mark, it would at least prevent him from guessing her true feelings. Except that one day he would inevitably learn she was still single and might wonder why she had lied. Reluctantly she knew she had to be truthful. "I'm not going to marry anyone. Mark asked me but I refused. I don't love him." "Why not?" She gaped at him. "How do I know why not? I don't, that's all. You can't love someone to order." "You can't stop loving them to order, either," Paul retorted bitterly. "I know that to my cost."

"Well, that's all in the past now. There's nothing to stop you from flying out to Australiatomorrow, if you like." Alix tortured herself some more. "I'll get the story into the papers for you. It'll be my wedding present to you both. A final splash of publicity!" "Does that also include finding me a bride?" "A b-bride?" "Yes," he said coldly. "One can't have a wedding without a bride." "But Dina" "Damn Dina! I don't intend cosseting her for the rest of my life. My father gave her a bad time but it served her right. I only protected her because I was scared she'd do something crazy and bring more unwelcome publicity onto my mother. But now she's in Australia and she can stay there forever!" Alix stared at him as if he were a strangeras at this moment indeed he was. His eyes were gleaming with sudden mischief and faint color was seeping into his face. He came close and put his hands upon her shoulders. "Today, thanks to you," he said, "I find myself freed from suspicion. Free to tell you you're the only woman with whom I want to share my life." "Me?" she said incredulously. "Didn't you guess?" "How could I? You never once gave me a hint." "I tried to but I was reluctant to be too obvious. There was Mark and you were so plainly happy with him." She eyed him coldly. "Couldn't you have put up a fight?" "By the time I had decided to do so, you were looking at me as if I'd crawled from under a stone." "Because of Dina. You were so besotted over her." Alix's coldness remained. "I hadn't known what an excellent actor you were." "I had decided to stop acting on the night of the fancy-dress party. I was going to tell you the truth then, but when father was murdered and I found myself a suspect " His grip on her tightened. "But why are we talking about the past? It's over and I'm free. More important still, so are you. I love you, Alix. Don't you believe me?" "You called me a diamond girl once. That's so hard and shining."

"It's also bright and glittering," he corrected, "and with so many brilliant facets. That's how I think of you, Alix." Tears filled her eyes and she did not attempt to wipe them away; all at once it seemed right for him to see her weakness as well as her strength. "I don't feel like a diamond all the time," she said huskily. "At the moment I'm more like an emerald." "The softest stone," he smiled. "I'll give you one as an engagement ring, but I'll surround it with diamonds for protection!" He pulled her into his arms. "When I kissed you that night in the garden and you pushed me away, I was sure I meant nothing to you." "You meant too much." She nuzzled her head on his shoulder. "I couldn't kiss you because I because I suspected you! Oh Paul" her voice thickened "I actually believed you capable of murder." "So I would be if anyone harmed you," he said and tilted her chin to look into her eyes. His own held no anger at her lack of faith in him. "Even doubting me, you still wanted to help me. Do you remember how you lied to Truscott on my behalf? How you didn't tell him you had overheard my meeting with Dina?'' Alix nodded but before she could speak, Paul placed his lips on hers. Their touch was gentle and she twined her arms around his neck and caressed his silky brown hair. Paul trembled and pulled her roughly closer. The gentleness vanished and he became demanding; more demanding still as his hands moved over her body, lingering on the curves to explore them. "I want you so much." His voice was shaken. "You're my life Without you" "You'll never be without me." She was shaking, too. "I'll marry you whenever you want." "Now," he said thickly. "I want you now." Once more his mouth took possession of hers, forcing her lips apartthough no force was necessary for they parted joyously to him. His warmth permeated her, radiating through her body as his total possession of her would so soon do. She thrilled to know she would soon be a part of him: the arouser of his desire, the only one able to assuage it. She drew back slightly and looked into his face, her violet eyes glowing. "Your appearance is deceptive, Paul. You look like a faun but you behave like a ram!" He chuckled. "Unlike a ram, I don't want lots of different females. Only you, my darling Alix." His hands moved along her back and curved around her to cup her breasts. "Do you think you'll be able to cope with me?"

"Try me," Alix said. "Don't take my word for it." The gold in his eyes became more pronounced.' 'Those are fighting words, you know." "Surrendering ones," she corrected. "A mutual surrender," he replied. "In that respect I am not my father's son. One woman for me, Alix. Only you." "I know," she said, tremulous and happy. "I know."