Devil In Velvet. Anne Mather

sounds of birds and insects, and the soft babbling of the stream.

      Unfortunately, with time on her hands, her thoughts turned irresistibly to André Laroche, and the amazing coincidence of his owning this house. Perhaps it was as well she had not probed more deeply into its history or she might never have come here at all.

      Unwillingly, her mind drifted back to her first encounter with the man who was to have such a destructive influence on her life. Eight years ago, she had been eighteen and on her first buying trip with Charles Hockney in Paris. She had been thrilled at the experience of handling items which hitherto she had only read about, and their visits to the various salerooms had revealed a wealth of beauty and craftsmanship even to her uneducated eyes. Perhaps that was when she had first conceived her love of porcelain—when she held a pair of exquisite Mennecy figures in her hands, and learned to distinguish the marks of the Duc de Villeroy, the factory’s founder—or was it simply that afterwards she remembered every detail of that trip with an exactitude that far outweighed its importance?

      Whatever the truth might be, she could still recall standing beside Charles at the back of the saleroom in the Place St Germain, watching the auctioneer at work. She had suddenly become aware that someone was watching her, and although Charles thought she was engrossed in the sale, she had turned her head and met the intent gaze of a man standing at the other side of the room. He was taller than many of the people there, lean and dark, with the kind of uneven features that are so much more attractive than bland good looks. Deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a mouth that had a slightly cruel twist, she thought. She even remembered what he was wearing–a dark blue velvet suit and a matching silk shirt which on anyone else would have looked effeminate. Harriet had never encountered anyone like him before, and the way he was looking at her made her feel curiously weak inside, and just a little frightened. He wasn’t like the young men she was used to associating with, and he certainly wasn’t like Charles, who was plump and shortsighted, and inclined to baldness. She guessed this man was in his thirties, twenty years younger than Charles, with all the experience of a man who knows he is attractive to women.

      Blind panic invaded her later when he made an excuse to speak to Charles—and through him to Harriet. But the panic had been unwarranted, she acknowledged now. He had been charming, fascinating, and so easy to talk to. He had asked her about her job and her ambitions, and how long she was staying in Paris, so that Harriet began to feel she really must be something special. She had left the saleroom in a state of euphoria which had only lasted as long as it took Charles to bring her down to earth again.

      Then the following day he had telephoned her at the hotel, and she forgot Charles’ warnings and agreed to meet him for dinner that evening. Charles did not approve, but he could not forbid her to go, and even if he had, she thought she would probably have disobeyed him.

      André took her to a restaurant in Montmartre, where they ate grilled lobster and Camembert, and Harriet drank more wine than she had ever done before. It crossed her mind that he might be trying to get her slightly drunk, but by then she was too bemused to do anything about it.