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  “Of course, they do that sometimes, don’t they?” Lucilla said and she twirled round in front of the mirror, admiring the coat. “And – it’s Mama’s! I should love to wear it, even if it is twice as heavy.”

  “Where will you go for your luncheon?” Mariette asked, as she brought Lucilla a pretty cream lace hat that had also belonged to her Mama.

  “We are going to La Pomme d’Or – the Golden Apple!” Lucilla replied, wishing she could be there now, instead of standing patiently while Mariette pinned the hat on top of her hair.

  And then she was free and rushing down the broad staircase into the lobby.

  She was half-expecting the Marquis to be waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, but he was not there.

  Lucilla looked around, thinking that perhaps he was sitting on one of the white-and-gold striped sofas.

  In front of the reception desk, talking to the clerk, she could see a large man in a grey suit, that, although new and smart, was a little too small for him. His wide feet were clad in impeccable white spats, and, as he turned away from the desk, the huge bunch of yellow roses he was carrying obscured his face, so that for a moment she did not realise who it was.

  Then he came towards her, holding out the roses, and her heart gave a giant leap of fear.

  It was Harkness Jackson again. “Lady Lucilla,” he began, a wide grin on his round face as he pushed the roses into her hands, “I have come to apologise.”

  “Please, go away!” Lucilla cried, pushing him and the flowers fell to the marble floor.

  The clerk left his post at the desk and came over to them.

  “Mademoiselle Letitia – is everything all right?” he asked.

  Harkness laughed and then slapped the clerk on the shoulder. “A lovers’ tiff! My fiancée is just being a little hysterical. She hasn’t seen me for a while.”

  The clerk looked confused, but Harkness pressed a bunch of dollars into his hand. “Leave this to me,” he murmured. “I know how to handle a lady!”

  Then he bent close to Lucilla and she could smell the sour odour of the wine and champagne he had drunk the night before. “Your little charade ain’t foolin’ me, Princess,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re up to with that lah-di-dah Marquis of Castlebury, but I know exactly who you are. And you’re comin’ back to England with me, right away!”

  “I am not!” Lucilla shook her head, backing away from him.

  “I think you are! You’re goin’ to marry little old me, Princess, so you’d better get used to the idea.”

  Lucilla looked desperately round the lobby, but she could not see the Marquis anywhere. She bent and grabbed the bunch of roses and then thrust them into Harkness’s face, taking him completely unawares.

  Then she picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could out of the wide glass doors of the hotel and down into the avenue outside.

  A motor car was parked at the kerb with its engine running and its black leather roof pulled up over the seats, and, as she approached the vehicle, a man in a chauffeur’s livery opened the door and beckoned to her.

  “Votre automobile, mademoiselle!” he greeted her with a polite bow.

  Lucilla sighed with relief. Of course! The Marquis must have ordered a car to take them to luncheon.

  She ran up to the motor car and climbed inside, but the man sitting on the back seat and who reached to take hold of her hand was not the Marquis.

  He was a rough-looking black-bearded man she had never seen before and his grasp on her wrist was painful.

  “On y va!” he shouted and the chauffeur climbed into the front seat and took the wheel.

  The motor car pulled away from the curb, lurching violently to the side, as the door was opened and Harkness Jackson flung his heavy body inside, crashing down on the leather seat next to Lucilla.

  “Gotcha!” he exulted and she was trapped between his vast bulk on one side and the black-bearded man on the other and there was nothing she could do to free herself.

  The motor car then rattled forward over the cobbled avenue, scattering horses and carriages in its path.

  “So, my Princess, what do have to say for yourself now?” Harkness asked, digging Lucilla in the ribs with his elbow. “I’ve got one over on the Marquis of Castlebury, that’s for sure!”

  She kept her eyes on her kid-gloved hands, which lay in her lap, and refused to look at him.

  All she could think of was how the Marquis must feel, when he came to the lobby to take her out to luncheon and found her gone.

  The traffic was growing thicker and there seemed to be more farm carts and heavy horses blocking the path of the motor car. Lucilla could smell cabbages and onions, and when she glanced up for a moment, she saw the unmistakable metal and glass roof of the indoor market, Les Halles.

  Suddenly she realised that with all the bustle of porters loading vegetables onto carts and clearing up the mess after the morning market, there was a slim chance that she might be able to escape. She groaned and brought her hands up to her head.

  The black-bearded man shook her arm roughly, saying something in French.

  “Oh – I feel so ill,” she groaned. “I think it must be the fumes from the engine – ”

  She swayed forward, as if she was going to faint.

  “Help,” she gasped. “Stop the motor car! Quickly or I shall pass out.”

  Harkness stared at her, his eyes bulging with alarm and shouted to the driver to stop.

  “I’ll get you somethin’ – a glass of wine, that’ll do it!” he said and scrambled out of the car, heading for a little café close by on the pavement.

  As soon as he was inside the café, Lucilla moaned more loudly still and rolled her eyes upwards in her head.

  “Oh, I think I’m going to die!” she cried and called out Harkness’s name, begging for him to come back. She gave out a little sigh and slumped down on the seat, as if she had lost consciousness.

  The black-bearded man then let go of her arm and started talking to the driver in an agitated tone.

  “Oooh, Harkness – ” she whimpered and then half-opened her eyes as she felt the black-bearded man standing up to climb out of the car and fetch the American.

  The moment he reached the door of the café, she rolled over, flipped the door handle and jumped down into the road.

  The driver shouted after her, but he was too late.

  Lucilla ran for her life, dodging between the carts and horses.

  Her cream shoes and the hem of her velvet coat were spattered with mud and rotting vegetables, but she did not care. She ran, pushing her way between the pedestrians and then she turned down a narrow street, following only her instinct, as she had no idea where she was going.

  For a moment she thought that she had given her captors the slip, but then she heard running feet echoing behind her and the sound of shouting voices.

  Lucilla could run quite fast, but she knew that she would not be able to outpace her pursuers for very long.

  At the end of the street stood a little Church and Lucilla made for it, pulling open the green door and diving into the peaceful but gloomy interior.

  It was very quiet and smelled strongly of incense and of lilies and there was a large bunch on the altar.

  She looked round for somewhere to hide, muttering a little prayer to the blue-robed statue of the Virgin Mary, hanging high on the wall with the Baby Jesus in her arms.

  “Please, help me, I beg you!” she whispered.

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle – but you are English – yes?” a voice said at her elbow and she turned to see a thin man in a Priest’s robe standing beside her.

  “Yes, I am!” Someone was now rattling at the Church door and she could hear men’s voices shouting.

  The Priest looked at her with hooded eyes and then gestured towards a small wooden kiosk at the side of the Church.

  “You have come to make your confession, yes?” he asked and he smiled at her. “Do not fear, mademoiselle. I have locked the door.
Go inside the Confessional and wait there while I speak to these men. You will be quite safe.”

  Lucilla looked up at the Virgin Mary and breathed a quick ‘thank you’, as she made her way to her hiding place.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As Lucilla crouched inside the stuffy darkness of the Confessional, she could hear raised voices arguing in French with the Priest. It was the two men who had abducted her in the motor car.

  The Priest was speaking quietly and so she could not follow everything he said, but she thought that he was telling them to leave, if they could not respect the sanctity of God’s Holy Church.

  After a few minutes, she heard the men swearing loudly and then the door of the Church clanged shut and she knew that they must have gone.

  “Merci, Monseigneur!” she exclaimed, stepping out of the Confessional. “You saved me, I am so grateful!”

  “De rien!” the Priest shrugged his thin shoulders. “I could tell that you were in trouble, as soon as you came into the Church. Then those men came and I realised they were pursuing you.”

  He then told Lucilla that he had no wish to pry into her private business, but he must ask what she intended to do.

  “I should go back to the hotel where I am staying,” she said. “But I am so afraid – what if they catch up with me again – ?”

  “Wait here for a little while,” the Priest suggested. “The Church will be quiet now until the Evening Mass. Sit quietly and rest yourself and perhaps God will show you a way out of your troubles.”

  Lucilla thanked him and went to sit on one of the carved pews. Her heart was still hammering from the terror of being chased, but she knew that while she stayed inside the Church she was safe.

  After an hour an old lady, the Priest’s housekeeper, brought her a cup of coffee and a bread roll and Lucilla began to feel much better.

  Soon she noticed that the light outside the stained glass windows was fading.

  ‘I must go back,’ she thought. ‘I must explain to the Marquis what happened and why I could not meet him for luncheon.’

  And then she looked again at the gentle face of the Virgin Mary, high up on the wall above her and decided that she would wait a little longer, just until Evening Mass.

  *

  On the further side of Paris, Ethel Armstrong had also noticed that the afternoon light was now fading into evening, as she stood by the window that led out onto the balcony of the Marquis of Castlebury’s suite.

  “Well now, Dermot,” she remarked, her soft voice giving nothing away of the fury raging in her heart. “It’s getting dark. Surely you are not still expecting her to turn up, are you?”

  She hated to see the hangdog expression on his handsome face. It was one thing for him to mope around after her, Ethel – the acknowledged belle of London and Paris – but it was so infuriating that he should now have transferred his affections to that most foolish girl, Lucilla.

  Since last night, she had spoken to a number of the guests who had attended the reception and she had heard nothing from these gentlemen and their wives but tales of the astonishing loveliness of the Marquis of Castlebury’s little sister, Letitia. How exquisite her complexion was and her glorious chestnut brown hair – and how wonderful was the dress she had worn to the reception, quite the most up-to-date and dazzling outfit that any of the sophisticated Parisians had seen that year.

  Ethel prided herself on being the most beautiful and best-dressed young woman everywhere she went and she certainly did not like the idea of Lucilla stealing her crown and especially when she was not co-operating with Ethel’s plan that she should marry Harkness.

  The Marquis’s eyes were dull with misery. “I don’t understand,” he murmured. “She seemed such an honest person. So affectionate, so gentle – ”

  Ethel tossed her head in scorn, flicking her blonde hair, which had been arranged that morning by the most expensive hairdresser in Paris.

  “That’s how she operates, Dermot,” she replied and placed a hand gently on his arm. “Look at how she pulled Harkness into her net! She is completely untrustworthy.”

  “She told me she did not like him. I cannot believe that she would just get into a car with him, not when she had promised to join me for luncheon – ”

  Ethel laughed. “But the clerk at reception saw her doing just that, Dermot! She is probably with Harkness now even as we speak.”

  The Marquis gave a little shiver and moved away from her.

  “And what about all this ‘Letitia’ business?” Ethel continued. “Surely the fact that she agreed to go along with that deception should tell you exactly what kind of girl she is!”

  “It was my idea,” the Marquis replied morosely. “I knew Violet would be unhappy if she came with me. So I then asked Lucilla. She did not want to do it at first, but I persuaded her.”

  “Oh, Dermot, you do come up with some madcap schemes. I miss you, dear boy!” Ethel moved closer to him again and laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry that things didn’t work out for us.”

  As he did not move away from her this time, she slid her arms around his waist. He was such a handsome creature and it was such a shame that he did not have a more substantial fortune. It would be nice if they could stay good friends, even though she was going to marry Mortimer.

  *

  The Church was beginning to fill up with people and high above her head, Lucilla could hear a bell ringing, signalling that it was time for Evening Mass to begin.

  She moved along her pew to make room and a fair-haired young woman in a dark coat and hat came in to sit beside her.

  The woman leant forward and dropped her head in her hands to pray and Lucilla saw her shoulders quivering, as if she were crying.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered to her, touching the girl’s arm.

  The young woman turned round to look at her and Lucilla caught her breath with shock, for it was Mariette, her face red and swollen as if she had been weeping for a long time.

  “Mademoiselle!” Mariette gasped. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “But – Mariette!” Lucilla replied. “Why aren’t you at the hotel? I was just about to return there – I thought you would be waiting for me!”

  Mariette shook her head and several more tears slid down her cheeks.

  “Oh no, no, mademoiselle! I no longer work there. The Marquis has asked me to leave!”

  Lucilla felt a sinking sensation in her chest. “Why, Mariette?” she whispered. “He thinks that you have eloped with an American! Your secret fiancé! And that I helped you – ”

  “But Mariette – why?”

  “The clerk said that he saw you getting into a car with this man – and then an Englishwoman came to the hotel – a young woman, blonde and trés chic and she told him that you are bad and not to be trusted!”

  “I must go back at once!” Lucilla cried, jumping up from the pew. Ethel had come to Paris and had somehow found out that she was pretending to be the Marquis’s sister.

  “No, no mademoiselle!” Mariette caught Lucilla’s arm. “The Marquis is so very angry. That woman is still there – and she has told him that you are going to marry this American because you want his money.”

  Lucilla slowly sat down again. If Ethel was with the Marquis, he might not listen to anything she said. And wherever Ethel was, Harkness was sure not to be far away.

  “Oh, Mariette! Whatever am I to do?” Mariette signalled for her to be quiet, as the Priest was standing at the front of the congregation and the Mass was about to begin.

  Lucilla sat still and let the Latin words of the Mass wash over her. The quiet strength of the Priest’s voice made her feel calm and the thought that the lovely face of the Virgin Mary watching over her was very comforting.

  She remembered how her Mama had seemed to speak to her, when she sat in her bedroom at Wellsprings Place, telling her to be happy.

  ‘Whatever happens to me, I will be all right,’ she murmured to herself. ‘I escaped from Harkness a
nd now I am safe, here in this lovely Church. And I am not alone, as Mariette has found me. All will be well.’

  Lucilla closed her eyes, drinking in the peaceful atmosphere around her, but then suddenly the Marquis’s face appeared in her mind, his brown eyes full of anger and pain and her heart ached. ‘Perhaps I should become a nun,’ she told herself. ‘For if I cannot be with the Marquis, I do not want the love of any other man.’

  Mariette was touching her arm and all around them people were starting to leave as the Mass was now over.

  “Mademoiselle – is it true that he is your fiancé, this rich American?”

  Lucilla shook her head vigorously and explained about Harkness and how he had tried to abduct her.

  Mariette gasped. “So you were not running away with him?”

  “No! He tricked me – and now I am running away from him!”

  Mariette took Lucilla’s hand in hers.

  “It is not safe for you to be all alone in Paris,” she said. “You must come home with me. No one will think to look for you there.”

  The thought that Harkness might still be hunting for her, now that the sun had set and darkness had fallen over the City, was a frightening one.

  “You are so kind, Mariette. I shall be glad to come with you.”

  The streets that led to Mariette’s home were badly lit and the tall houses crowded closely together.

  Men lounging in doorways called out to them as they passed, but Mariette took no notice, holding Lucilla’s arm tightly and guiding her over the rough cobblestones.

  At last they came to a big wooden door, where the brown paint was old and peeling and Mariette pulled out an iron key from her pocket and opened it.

  “Welcome to the Studio!” she announced.

  Lucilla peered into the high gloomy room lit by just one small candle.

  It looked as if it had once been a coach house, but now had been made into a living space with a small iron stove and some chairs arranged round a table.

  In the corner Mariette noticed a big folding screen with birds and trees painted on it and now a young man with tousled hair came out from behind the screen, rubbing his eyes.