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CHAPTER TWO
CROSSING the square en route to his car, which he’d left in the inn’s rear courtyard as usual when he’d spent the day with the supervisor of his lavender operation, Anton noticed the woman immediately. Strangers who lingered in Bellevue-sur-Lac after sunset were a rarity, even during the summer months when travelers flocked to Provence. Usually they came for the day only, arriving early by the busload to tour the château, winery, lavender distillery and olive mills.
By now—it was almost half-past five o’clock—they were gone, not only because accommodation in the village was limited to what L’Auberge d’Olivier had to offer, but because they preferred the livelier nightlife in Nice or Marseille or Monaco.
This woman, though, sat at a table under the shade of the plane trees, sipping a glass of wine, and what captured his attention was not so much her delicate features and exquisite clothing, but her watchfulness. Her gaze scanned the passing scene repeatedly, taking note of every person who crossed her line of vision. At this moment, it was focused on him.
“Who’s the visitor, Henri?” he asked, leaning casually against the outdoor bar where the innkeeper was busy polishing glasses in preparation for the locals, who’d gather later to drink cassis and play dominoes.
Henri paused in his task long enough to shoot an appreciative glance her way. “An American. She arrived last night.”
“She’d reserved a room here?”
“No, she just showed up unannounced and asked if I could accommodate her. She’s lucky the man you were expecting canceled at the last minute, or I’d have had to turn her away. Too bad he broke his leg, eh?”
“For him, and me both. I’m going to have to find someone to replace him pretty quickly.” Again, Anton looked at the woman, observing her from the corner of his eye. Not just watchful, he decided, but nervous, too. Drumming her fingers lightly on the tabletop as if she were playing the piano. Keeping time by tapping her foot on the dusty paving stones. “What do you know about her, Henri?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Not much. She speaks very good French, the high society kind. And she’s in no hurry to leave here. She’s taken the room for a month.”
“A month?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Did she happen to mention why?”
“She did not.”
When Marie-Louise died, reporters had descended on the area within hours, posing as innocent tourists to disguise the fact they were sniffing out scandal, real or imagined, with which to titillate their readers. In less than a week, Anton had been front-page news throughout France and most of Europe. COMTE’S WIFE’S MYSTERIOUS DEATH, the tabloid headlines screamed. MURDER OR SUICIDE? POLICE QUESTION HUSBAND.
Although public appetite for sensationalism eventually found other victims on which to feed, having his private life exposed to malicious speculation had been a nightmare while it lasted, not just for him and his immediate family, but for everyone in Bellevue-sur-Lac. Since then, he’d been mistrustful of strangers who chose to linger in such a backwater village, content to live in a small inn where they’d be sharing a common bathroom with other guests. And with the third anniversary of his wife’s death coming up, he was especially wary. Like those which had gone before, it promised a burst of renewed interest in the whole tragic mess.
“One has to wonder how she plans to occupy her time,” he remarked.
“Perhaps she’s an artist.”
She, and a hundred thousand others—would-be Cézannes, Van Goghs, Picassos, sure if they breathed the golden light of Provence, genius would ooze from their pores. They came looking suitably tormented by their muse, right down to their disheveled appearance and the paint under their fingernails.
Not this woman, though. She wouldn’t allow a speck of dust to settle on her shoe.
Anton did not, as a rule, patronize the inn. Tonight, though, he was inclined to make an exception. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something about the woman—the set of her slender shoulders, perhaps, or the tilt of her head—seemed vaguely familiar. That alone was enough to increase his suspicions. Had he seen her before? Was she one of the rabid reporters, come back for another helping of empty speculation?
“Pour two glasses of whatever the lady is drinking, Henri,” he said, arriving at a decision.
Although Henri knew better than to say so, his face betrayed his surprise. Much might have changed since feudal times, but the people of Bellevue-sur-Lac and the surrounding area had been under the protection of the de Valois family for centuries. Whether or not he liked it, Anton reigned as their present-day seigneur.
They came to him to arbitrate their differences, to seek his advice, to request his help. That Monsieur le Comte would choose to sit among them at the L’Auberge d’Olivier, drinking the same wine they drank, would do more for Henri’s reputation than if he’d been awarded the Legion of Honor.
As far as Anton was concerned, being the object of such reverence was nothing short of ludicrous. When all was said and done, he was just a man, no more able than any other to control fate. His wife’s death and the reason behind it was proof enough of that. But tragedy and scandal hadn’t been enough to topple him from his pedestal, any more than his disdain for his title relieved him of the obligations inherent in it.
“I should serve it immediately, Anton?” Henri wanted to know, still flushed with pleasure.
“No,” he said, turning away. “I’ll signal when we’re ready.”
The square was deserted now. No faces for the stranger to scrutinize. Instead she stared at her hands where they rested on the table.
“A beautiful woman should not sit alone on such a night, with only an empty glass for company,” he said, approaching her. “May I join you?”
Startled, she looked up. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom, and he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, only that they were large. He’d addressed her in English, and she replied in kind. “Oh, no…thank you, but no.”
It was his turn to be taken aback. Her slightly panicked rejection smacked more of propriety than guile. Hardly the response of a seasoned scandal-hunter, he thought. Or else, she was very good at hiding her true identity.
Covering his surprise with a smile, he said, “Because we haven’t been formally introduced?”
She spared him the barest smile in return. “Well, since you put it that way, yes.”
“Then allow me to rectify the matter. My name is Anton de Valois, and I am well-known in these parts. Ask anyone. They will vouch for me.”
He thought she blushed then—another surprise—though it was hard to be sure, with night closing in. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. She had a low, musical voice, refined and quite charming.
“Nor did you. It pays to be cautious these days, especially for a woman traveling by herself.” Then, even though he already knew the answer, he paused just long enough to give his question the ring of authenticity before suggesting, “Or perhaps I’m mistaken and you’re not alone after all, but waiting for someone else. Your husband, perhaps?”
“No,” she replied, far too quickly, and lowered her eyes to stare at her left hand which was bare of rings. The lights in the square came on at that moment, glimmering through the branches of the plane tree to cast the shadow of her lashes in perfect dusky crescents across her cheeks. “No husband. Not anymore.”
Again, not quite the attitude or the response he expected. Rather, she seemed lost, and very unsure of herself. On the other hand, he knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving. That being so, he led into the subject she’d surely latch on to with a vengeance, if she was indeed, as he suspected, a brash journalist with a hidden agenda.
“Then we share something of significance in common,” he remarked, sliding into the chair across from hers without asking permission this time. “I also lost my spouse several years ago.”
“Oh, I’m not a widow!” she exclaimed, meeting his gaze again. “I’m…divorced.”
She uttered the word as if it were something of which she was deeply ashamed. A clever ploy, perhaps, designed to deflect attention from her true motives.
“What kind of man would be fool enough to let you go?” he inquired, sickened by the taste of false sympathy on his tongue. He was normally a straightforward man with little use for subterfuge.
“Actually…” She gave a tiny shrug and bit down briefly on her lower lip. She had a very lovely mouth, he noticed. Soft, sensitive, defenseless. “He’s the one who left me.”
Afraid that the longer he engaged in a game of cat and mouse with such a woman, the duller the sharp edge of his suspicions might grow, Anton observed her closely, willing himself to uncover artifice, but finding only sincerity. Was he overreacting? At the mercy of his own paranoia—and she its innocent victim?
Suddenly despising himself for toying with memories she clearly found painful, he murmured with honest compassion, “In that case, he is a double fool and a cad. I can see that he’s caused you much unhappiness.”
“At the time, yes, but I’m over it now.”
“And over him?”
She managed another smile, and if it was a trifle hesitant, it was also unmistakably genuine. “Oh, yes. Most definitely over him.”
Choosing not to examine the real cause of the relief flooding through him, he nodded to Henri, who scooped up a tray bearing the two glasses of wine and a lighted candle, and brought it to the table. “Then we shall celebrate your freedom with a toast.”
“No,” she began. “It’s very kind of you, but I meant what I said before. I really—”
Sweeping aside her objection, Anton said, “Henri, your lovely guest isn’t certain it’s safe to get to know me. Reassure her, will you, that I’m quite respectable?”
He’d switched to French, aware that Henri’s English was minimal, at best. Without waiting for Henri to reply, she spoke, also in French, and it was, as the man had said, flawless. “I’m sure you’re respectable enough. I’m just not accustomed to being approached by strange men.”
“Strange men?” Henri set down the tray with a distinct thump. “Madame, you speak of the Comte de Valois!”
“A real live Comte?” She tipped her head to one side and this time managed a slight laugh. “In this day and age?”
Henri drew himself up to his full one hundred and seventy-five centimeters—about five feet eight inches in her part of the world. “A gentleman remains a gentleman, regardless of the times, Madame, and you may rest assured Monsieur le Comte fits the description in every way.”
“Thanks, Henri,” Anton intervened, knowing he scarcely deserved the accolade in the present circumstances. “That’ll be all, for now.”
She watched the innkeeper march back to the bar, his spine stiff with outrage, then switched her gaze to Anton again. “He wasn’t joking, was he? You really are you a Count.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, dear! Then I owe you an apology. You must think me incredibly rude, not to mention gauche.”
“I find you quite delightful,” he said, and with the sense of floundering ever deeper into dangerous waters, realized he spoke the truth.
She clasped both hands to her cheeks. “I don’t quite know how to behave or what to say. I’ve never had drinks with royalty before.”
“I don’t consider myself royalty. As for how you should behave, simply be yourself and speak your mind freely. Isn’t that always the best way?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It hasn’t done me a lot of good, in the past.”
He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Then let us drink to the future. À votre santé.”
“À votre santé aussi, Monsieur le Comte.”
Continuing in French, he said, “To my friends, I am Anton.”
“I hardly think I qualify as a friend on such short acquaintance.”
The candle flame illuminated the classic oval of her face, the dimples beside her cupid’s bow mouth and the delicate winged brows showcasing her eyes which, he saw now, were the same deep, intense blue as a Provencal sky in high summer. Her shoulder-length hair, worn simply, shone with the luster of a newly polished, old gold coin.
Was she beautiful?
Not in the conventional sense, no, he decided. Hers was a more subtle appeal, one he found quite irresistible. “Sometimes,” he said earnestly, “friendship, like love, can strike instantly, as I believe it has between you and me.”
“How can that be? You don’t even know my name.”
Returning her smile, he said, “You think I haven’t noticed? I’ve been trying to learn it from the moment I saw you, but you’ve evaded me at every turn.”
“It’s no secret. I’m Diana. Diana…Reeves.”
He noticed her slight hesitation, but decided not to push the point. She was skittish enough as it was. Instead, taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Diana Reeves. What did you have for dinner, last night?”
“Beef stew with potato dumplings.”
“Then we’ll order something different, tonight.”
“I don’t recall saying I’d have dinner with you. Not that that seems to mean much,” she added ruefully. “I didn’t agree to have a drink with you, either, but I’m doing it anyway. Do you always get your own way?”
“If I want something badly enough, I do. It’s one of the perks of being a Count.”
She regarded him soberly. “You’re being very charming, Anton, and I’m sure most women would be flattered by your attention, but I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’m not very good at flirting.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s one of the qualities about you that I find most attractive.”
“My ex-husband said I took things far too seriously and didn’t know how to have fun.”
“I thought we already established that your ex-husband is a fool.”
Her dimples deepened as another smile lit up her face. “You’re right, we did.”
“Then forget about him and concentrate on us and friendship at first sight. When did you arrive in France?”
“Just yesterday.”
“And you came straight here, to Bellevue-sur-Lac?”
At his question, tension emanated from her, so fierce that he half expected to see blue sparks crackling from the ends of her hair. “As a matter of fact, I did. What’s wrong with that?”
Why so defensive, all of a sudden? he wondered, his suspicions on high alert again. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong, Diana,” he replied mildly.
Color swept into her cheeks. “Well, you sounded as if you did.”
“Perhaps you interpreted surprise as disapproval.”
“Why should you be surprised?”
He shrugged. “Bellevue-sur-Lac is barely a dot on the map of Provence, and has little to offer a tourist, yet you chose it over the many other, more interesting villages in the region.”
Avoiding his glance, she said, “You might not think it interesting, but I find it thoroughly delightful.”
“And on behalf of everyone living here, I thank you. But how did you discover it?”
She took a moment to consider her answer. “By chance,” she said finally. “I’d fallen into a rut after my marriage ended, and decided I was ready for a little adventure. I knew I wanted to visit the south of France, so I stuck a pin on the map, promised myself I’d explore the spot I found, no matter what, and here I am. I consider myself lucky that I ended up in a place that offers food and lodging, and not on top of a mountain with nothing but the stars for company.”
“Yet you’re wasting the opportunity to see the best Provence has to offer. Why else do you think we make no real effort to accommodate tourists here?”
“I’m not exactly your average tourist. I don’t care about seeing the sights. I just want a place where I can find a little peace.”
A plausible enough story on the surface, and one he might have accepted were it not that she still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Not nearly as lucky as I consider myself, that you chose here,” he returned smoothly. “Fate brought us together, no question about it, which means we definitely must dine together. I highly recommend Henri’s bouillabaisse.”
But she’d already gathered up her straw handbag and was preparing to leave. “Some other time, perhaps, but not tonight, thank you. After my earlier faux-pas, I’m afraid Henri might poison me. I even wonder if he’ll still allow me to stay here.”
A pity he couldn’t keep her a little longer and discover the reason for her sudden uneasiness, Anton thought, but he had a whole month in which to uncover her secrets, and could afford to bide his time. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that,” he said, coming around the table to pull out her chair. “Henri Molyneux is one of the most equable fellows you’ll ever meet.”
In her eagerness to escape him, she must have risen too quickly because she staggered, and if he hadn’t steadied her with a hand at her shoulder, he thought she might have fallen. As it was, her bag slipped from her grasp and fell on the table, knocking over her wineglass and sending it rolling to the dusty paving stones where it shattered.
Concerned, he said, “Diana? Are you okay?”
“No,” she muttered distractedly, as breathless as if she’d run five kilometers in under five minutes. “I spilled my wine and broke the glass.”
“Alors, don’t worry about that. It happens all the time. See, Henri’s already coming to clean it up.”
“No,” she insisted. “It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
Pressing her down onto the chair again, he said firmly, “You’ll do no such thing. You’re shaking, and white as a sheet. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” she cried. Then, as if she realized she was behaving oddly, she made a concerted effort to pull herself together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that I haven’t eaten all day, and two glasses of wine on an empty stomach…”
“That settles it, then. We’re having dinner.” He nodded to Henri who, having shoveled up the broken glass, was wiping down the table. “How’s the bouillabaisse coming along, my friend?”
“Not ready for another fifteen minutes, I regret to say,” he replied, and cast an anxious glance at Diana. “You did not cut yourself, madame? You are not hurt?”
Diana stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge. Two bright spots of color bloomed in her cheeks, making the rest of her face that much paler by comparison. Although the evening was pleasantly warm, she shivered as if it was winter and the mistral blew.
Baffled, Henri swung his glance to Anton. “Perhaps a little cognac might help?”
Equally mystified, Anton shook his head. There was more going on here than a missed meal. He was no doctor, but he recognized shock when he saw it. What he couldn’t determine was its cause. In fact, nothing about this woman quite added up. “No alcohol,” he said, laying his hand against her forehead and finding it clammy. “She’s cold. Bring her a tisane and some bread instead.”
She flinched at his touch, as if she’d been startled from sleep. “I don’t need tea,” she mumbled, struggling to her feet. “I’ll get a sweater from my room.”
“Send someone else for it. Those stairs—”
“No. I felt a little faint for a moment, but I’m fine now, and I’ll be even better after I’ve freshened up a little.”
“Very well,” he conceded. “But don’t think for a minute I’ll allow you to miss dinner. If you’re not back down here by the time the bouillabaisse is ready, I’m coming up to get you.”
She managed a smile, as if the very idea of trying to avoid him would never cross her mind, and turned to Henri. “Fifteen minutes, you said?”
“At the very most, madame.”
“Okay. I’ll be ready and waiting.”
Yesterday, when the chambermaid had shown her to her room, Diana had considered it barely acceptable. At little more than twelve feet square, with its old, mismatched furnishings, it was, without question, the least sophisticated space she’d ever occupied, and certainly not one in which she planned to spend much time. Now, leaning against the closed door, she surveyed the narrow, iron-framed bed, hand-painted night table, carved armoire and three-drawer chest, with fond gratitude for the haven they represented.
Even the age-spotted mirror hanging above the old-fashioned washstand held a certain charm. Its most grievous sin lay in distorting her reflection on its wavy surface so that one half of her face looked as if it didn’t quite belong to the other. Unlike Comte Anton de Valois, who possessed an unnerving talent for seeing clear through to her brain and detecting every nuance of hesitation, every carefully phrased falsehood.
She doubted he’d swallowed her excuse that hunger had left her light-headed, but it had been the best she could come up with on short notice, most especially since she really had been thrown for a loop at learning that Henri was a Molyneux.
“You are alone?” he’d inquired, when she’d shown up last night and requested a room.
She’d nodded and murmured assent, so captivated by everything she saw that it simply hadn’t occurred to her to ask his full name. It had been enough that everyone called him Henri.
Bathing her in a welcoming smile, he’d pushed an old-fashioned ledger across the counter for her to sign. “Then you’re in luck. It so happens a single room just became available.”
L’Auberge d’Olivier was a picturesque building with the date, 1712, stamped above the open front door. Its thick plaster walls were painted a soft creamy-yellow. Flowers tumbled from baskets perched on the sills of its sparkling, deep-set windows. Outside, under a huge plane tree, candles flickered on wrought-iron tables where old men hunched over glasses of dark wine and smoked pungent cigarettes.
Charmed, she’d seen it as a fortuitous start to her search. Because Bellevue-sur-Lac was so small, she’d thought it would be easy to unearth clues that would lead her to her birth mother. Had spent this entire day combing the narrow streets, convinced success was around the next corner. Behind the protection of her sunglasses, she’d scrutinized every woman she came across, searching for a physical resemblance, a visceral intuition, that would tell her she’d found the right one. But the very smallness of the village turned out to be a serious drawback.
“How do you plan to tackle this harebrained scheme of yours?” Carol had asked, just before she’d dropped her off at SeaTac airport.
“Very discreetly,” Diana had replied smugly. “I’ll be so smooth and subtle, no one will even notice me, let alone guess what I’m after.”
In fact, she’d been an object of suspicious curiosity everywhere she went. Although they’d been polite enough, people had closed ranks against her, not trusting a lone American wandering the area, and she’d come back to the inn that evening, no farther ahead than she had been when she’d left there that morning.
Was she really so naive that she’d expected all she had to do was show up, and her mother would instinctively know her? So foolish as to think that, in the unlikely event such a miracle occurred, a woman who’d kept her baby’s birth a secret for over twenty-eight years would willingly reveal it now?
“You’re rushing into this, Diana,” Carol had warned. “You need to take a step back and consider the pitfalls, the most obvious being that you’re the world’s worst liar. What makes you think you can pull off such a monumental deception?”
She should have listened to her friend. Perhaps then, she wouldn’t have made a spectacle of herself with a man smart enough to recognize something fishy when it was staring him in the face.
And so accustomed to having his own way that he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.
What had he threatened, before she fled to the sanctuary of her room? Be down here by the time the bouillabaisse is ready, or I’m coming up to get you, or words to that effect?
That he meant it was enough to have her changed into fresh clothes and on her way downstairs again in record time. If there was to be a confrontation, better it take place in public, than here in a room that was barely large enough for one. He was too pushy, too sure of himself—and, she admitted reluctantly, altogether too attractive for her to deal with him at close quarters.
She needed to keep her wits about her because, just when she’d been ready to concede defeat and admit Carol had been right all along, the one lead she’d hoped to find had fallen almost literally into her lap. Henri Molyneux, her host, might very well be the key to the mystery of who her birth mother was, and whether or not he knew it, Anton de Valois was going to help Diana unlock it.
Falling under his charming spell would undermine her resolve and might very well turn out to be a fatal mistake, because he struck her as a man of many layers; a classic example of the old saying that still waters run deep.
She must resist him at all costs.
