Masquerade. Part 9

"Yes, Mr. Mallory," she said quietly, and rang off.

The commissionaire obtained a taxi for her and soon she was on her way. She was quite calm, although the but terflies in her stomach were not to be denied. If she gave way to panic she would be lost, and she had got to conduct this interview in a manner which Barbara would approve of. She did not want to appease Barbara, but her grand mother deserved her consideration, and Patrick Mallory must be made to see that she was not to be intimidated.

High Tower Road turned out to be a row of impressive houses with bas.e.m.e.nts and at least three stories with tiny attic rooms peeping out of the roofs. She had to admit it was an attractive area and she speculated on the price of the houses.

Several thousands, she presumed. How nice it was to be affluent!

Number thirty-four had a white door and a bra.s.s knocker and she paid and dismissed the taxi driver before climbing the three stone steps. She lifted the knocker and let it fall, and then waited, nervously now, hands in the pockets of her coat.

It was quite a mild day, but Samantha was still not used to the sudden change of climate and consequently still felt cold.

She supposed she was lucky she had not developed a chill or influenza or something, considering the weather, after her life in Italy.

Suddenly, the door opened and an elderly woman stood there. She was dressed in black and was wearing a checked ap.r.o.n, so Samantha supposed she must be his house-keeper.

"I...er... I've come to see Mr. Mallory. He is expect ing me,"

she said.

The woman smiled warmly. "Oh, yes, you must be Miss Kingsley. Come along in, miss. I'll show you to his study.' He's waiting; for you."

The central heating of the house was a pleasant change after the cool air outside and Samantha loosened her coat, looking about her with interest.

The hall was panelled in a dark oak wood, and the carpet underfoot was a dark red. A high window above the door let in plenty of light so that the hall was not dull, but merely subdued and restful. Several doors opened from the hall, while a corridor seemed to lead along to the kit chen quarters.

A wide staircase led to the upper floors, and several paintings mounted with the panelling. Paintings of men and women, dressed in the garb of days gone by. Darkly handsome men with black eyebrows which somehow re sembled Patrick Mallory and pale, waxen-cheeked women, with children gathered about their feet.

"This way, miss," said the housekeeper, bringing her back to earth.

Samantha smiled, and followed the woman across to a door at the far side of the hall, below the curve of the stairs.

The woman knocked, and at the sound of a low: "Come in,"

she opened the door.

"Miss Kingsley, sir," she said, and ushered Samantha into the room, going out herself and closing the door behind her.

Samantha felt rather like a wrongdoer up before the judge, but she straightened her back and walked decorously into the room.

It was a very attractive room. After the stark modernity of her mother's apartment, she had expected something in like manner of Patrick's house, but she could not have been more mistaken.

This room, like the hall, was panelled, but there were cases of books lining the walls and it struck her as being more in the nature of a library than a study.

The room was dominated by a ma.s.sive mahogany desk, which stood square in the centre of the russet and green carpet.

Heavy curtains of a golden-coloured velvet hung at; the tall windows, while the seating arrangements comprised deep leather armchairs with green upholstered backs that looked well used and superbly comfortable. It was a warm, light, rea.s.suring room, and only the typewriter which stood on the desk lifted one into the twen tieth century. No telephone was here to disturb anyone who happened to be working, and Samantha could imagine Patrick engrossed in his work, to the exclusion of every thing else. Everything he did he appeared to do with a single-minded approach, like this summons to her to appear before him at once.

Patrick himself rose from behind the desk to greet her, his tall, broad-shouldered body seeming to minimize the generous proportions of the room. He was dressed this morning in tight-fitting dark slacks and a light wool shirt of royal blue, which had long sleeves and was open at the neck, revealing the darkness of the hairs upon his tanned chest. Every part of him seemed to be darkly tanned and Samantha presumed he must have spent the whole of his holiday, for she presumed he must have been in Italy on holiday, soaking up the sun. He was so attractive to her that she found herself blushing for no apparent reason and was immediately put at a disadvantage.

"h.e.l.lo," he said, his eyes appraising. "How are you this morning?"

Samantha toyed with the b.u.t.tons of her coat. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Take off your coat," he advised easily. "It's warm in here.

You can, you know. I won't frighten you so much that you have to make a hasty departure."

Samantha sighed, and slipped off the coat, allowing him to take it and put it over a chair.

"That's better," he said. "Sit down. Would you like a cigarette? Mrs. Chesterton will bring us some coffee in a short while."

"Thank you." Samantha had taken the cigarette before she thought about her actions, and she glanced up at him to see whether he had been expecting any reaction from her. He merely smiled his lazy smile, and Samantha sighed and took a long draw on her cigarette, savouring the relaxation it engendered.

Patrick reseated himself, only this time it was of the opposite armchair to hers, so that his eyes were continually upon her. He had the longest eyelashes of any man she had ever seen, and at times when his lashes veiled his eyes, she was sure he was studying her through them, without her knowledge. His presence disturbed her more than she liked to admit, and deep in her stomach she felt the begin nings of the fear she was later to realize. She was beginning to like him too much! Much too much, and like was such an insipid word to apply to a man like Patrick Mallory. She was sure a woman would either love or hate him, and last night Barbara had been an example of that fact. She had hated him, for the indifference he had shown her and this morning, when Samantha got the telephone call from him she had hated him too, for forcing her hand.

Now her feelings had changed. In his presence, with his attention directed at her, she felt entirely different. His charm worked with practically anyone, she realized that now, and she was no more likely to remain immune than anyone else. It was terrible to feel this way, particularly as she knew he was simply baiting her by making her come here, and that her mother had much more chance of appealing to him in this than she had herself.

Everything about him seemed to mock and taunt her, and she moved restlessly, saying: "Can't we get this over with? I'm sure you're simply longing to make me squirm."

"Now why should you imagine that?" he asked mock ingly.

"Samantha, honey, we were friends on the aircraft. Or so I thought. How was I to know you would appear as the daughter of the woman I... ?" he halted.

"Go on. You what?"

Patrick smiled. "Later. First of all, I want to know why Barbara is spreading the rumour that you've been living in Italy with a nanny, when actually you've been living with your father?

And another thing, if John Kingsley was your father, why does Barbara say he died years ago?"

Samantha ran a tongue over her dry lips. "Well, my parents were divorced. That's the truth o the matter. Oh, Mr. Mallory, Barbara doesn't want any adverse publicity from this. Just imagine what would happen if it was dis covered that my parents were divorced and that I had been living with my father all these years ..."

"Yes." Patrick exhaled a cloud of smoke from his cig arette slowly. "So. That is the reason for all this intrigue?"

"I suppose so."

Patrick frowned. "That still leaves something else you said."

Samantha sought about in her mind, trying to remember what had pa.s.sed between them.

"What was it?" she asked in rather a small voice.

"You said, if I remember correctly, that you had never been in England since you were four years old. You also said that your father preferred not to do so. Now I can understand that your father might find another country more to his liking after his unfortunate experiences here, but what puzzles me is how often have you seen Barbara during these past years? It can't have been very frequently with all her commitments!"

"No, not very frequently," replied Samantha, wishing she had not got to lie to him.

"And Barbara treats you like a long-lost daughter." He smiled sardonically. "My G.o.d, what an actress she is! No wonder she doesn't want this broadcasting. I can imagine Martin Pryor making a beano out of it all."

"Martin Pryor!" Samantha's eyes widened. "Do you know him?"

"Everyone knows Martin Pryor," remarked Patrick dryly.

"For their sins."

"I see. He contacted me one day. He started asking me questions about my life in Italy,"

"Did he? I wonder why? Probably pure curiosity."

"Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" she asked, sigh ing.

"You know now, so soon everyone will."

Patrick frowned. "Indeed. And who is going to tell them?"

Samantha flushed. "Well, I thought -"

"Did you?" Patrick raised his dark eyebrows. "Then you thought wrong. I have no intention of denouncing Barbara to the world. Why should I? It's not really any concern of mine. If she chooses to keep her marriage secret, I shan't care."

Samantha stared at him, a feeling of relief overwhelm ing her.

"But... I thought when you asked me here today -"

"- that I was going to get a certain form of enjoyment out of making you squirm. I know. Well, that was not my intention. I'm a writer, Samantha, and people interest me. I was also curious to know the reason for such subterfuge. It does not really surprise me. Whatever you might have a.s.sumed to the contrary, I find Barbara Harriet quite a transparent personality. After all, as I remember, she met me at the airport, the same day and time as you were arriv ing. That's something else that betrays the sort of woman she is."

Samantha felt somehow dejected. She had thought that Patrick might discover her mother's true feelings in this matter, but to find that he already had made quite a shrewd a.s.sessment of her character was disappointing. After all, his a.s.sessment of her could not be entirely based on the few facts that had come to light within the last couple of days. From his manner of speaking it would seem that he had already summed Barbara up, long before Samantha appeared on the scene. And in spite of this he apparently still found her very attractive.

"Tell me," she said suddenly, "why didn't you admit you knew me last night?"

Patrick laughed softly. "Oh, G.o.d, if I'd done that, your life would have been a h.e.l.l on earth! Particularly in these circ.u.mstances. As it is, I don't think Barbara is particu larly pleased with you for all the attention you received last night.

After all, sixteen-year-old daughters are sup posed to stay in the background. You really are sixteen, I suppose. Or is that another fallacy?"

Samantha hesitated. It would be so easy to admit to her real age. She was sure he would not tell anyone., but that would age Barbara considerably, and although she was nothing as a mother, Samantha could not betray her so blatantly, whatever her own feelings in the matter. "It's no fallacy," she said slowly.

Just then Mrs. Chesterton tapped at the door and a few moments later entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits which she placed on Patrick's desk. ''

She left the tray and after she had closed the door, Pat rick said: "Will you pour the coffee? Or shall I ?"

Samantha rose to her feet, glad of the diversion. "I will," she said, and busied herself at the tray.

After she had given him his coffee, she poured a cup for herself, added sugar and cream and then reseated herself, albeit a little nervously.

"Having rid ourselves of that topic, let's talk about something else," he said, smiling lazily.

"Such as what?"

"Well, let me see. How are you liking England, for a start?

Did Andrew give you a good time last evening?"

"Oh, yes." Samantha was enthusiastic. "He sang, too. He's very good, isn't he?"

Patrick grinned. "If you like that sort of thing." "I gather you prefer more sophisticated entertainment."

"Well..." Patrick looked amused, "I am a little older, you know. Have you been to the ballet yet ? "

"No. We went to see a play, Grandmother and I, one evening."

"You must go to the ballet."

"Yes, I think I should like that. I'd also like to see one of your plays," she added a little naively.

Patrick looked even more amused. "Would you? Well, I'm afraid you will have to wait until December. The new play opens on December the fifteenth at the Grosvenor Playhouse in the West End. Your mother has the leading role, so I imagine you wilt come to the first night. That is if you haven't vegetated at Daven by then."

"Oh! Aren't there any of your plays in London at the moment?"

"I'm afraid not. The last one closed about six weeks ago. It's at present touring in the provinces."

Samantha felt disappointed. She had been looking for ward to seeing something he had written.

"You will have to contain your curiosity," he remarked dryly. "Tell me about your life in Italy. I'd like to know what you did with yourself."

"Would you?" She looked doubtful. "It was a very simple life really. We lived at the villa and Father worked while I simply spent my time helping him with his corres pondence and sometimes helping Matilde with the house work. Nothing to interest you."

"I wouldn't say that," he murmured lazily. "My mother lives in Italy. She has a villa near Lake Como. I spent the last month with her. Don't you miss the climate?"

"I suppose so. Although since I arrived I've been too concerned with... other things."

"I can believe that," he said, rather sarcastically she thought.

"And when do you go to Daven?"

"I don't know. In a week or so, I should think. Grand mother doesn't really like the hectic world of London. She says she prefers the peace at Daven."

"Well, surely you could stay on here and live with your mother for a while. After all, she has plenty of room at her apartment."

"I don't think Barbara - I mean -" Samantha halted rather helplessly.

"Maybe not. We'll have to ensure that you enjoy the part of your visit that is left then, shan't we?"

"We? I mean you?" Samantha was staggered. "Who do you mean??

"I mean myself... and Barbara." Samantha felt her heart thumping wildly. To imagine herself spending an evening with Patrick Mallory seemed unlikely. Surely he could not be serious.

And even if he was, Barbara would never allow it.

"Wouldn't you like to go out with me?" he asked mockingly, and she felt sure he was quite well aware that she would love to do so.

"Well.. yes, I suppose so. But I don't think my mother]