A Law Unto Himself. PENNY JORDAN

eyes and that shock of thick, dark hair so at odds with the curious lightness of his eyes. He could be charming too when he chose, although he invariably directed his light-hearted flirtatious remarks to women he knew full well were perfectly happy with their existing partners, and women who, moreover, had the social skills to return the volleyed flattery with easy sophistication. It was also true that he often chose to exhibit these skills in front of some poor unfortunate who had made it all too plain that she was dangerously on the verge of falling heavily for him. He had a way of nipping such affections in the bud that was brutal and very, very effective. Beatrice gave a faint shiver. Perhaps she had not been so clever after all, but because she had invited several other couples for dinner as well, wanting to introduce Francesca to as many new people as possible, she had decided that Oliver was hardly likely to suspect her of matchmaking.

      Not that she was doing, really… although she had to admit there was a definite temptation. How old was he now? Thirtysomething… four or five most likely; and it was eight years since Kristie had left him in such a spectacular blaze of publicity, claiming that their daughter was not his after all and that she was going to America to join her lover and Katie’s father.

      Other people endured similar tragedies. But other men were not Oliver, Beatrice admitted to herself.

      That steely pride of his would not have taken kindly to the gleeful publicity of the gutter Press at the downfall of his marriage. Not since he had made it plain how little time he had for them when his first book had been such a huge success.

      They had even speculated that losing his wife and child might make him lose the ability to write, but that had not proved the case, and Oliver had gone from strength to strength, his powerfully evocative novels with their accurate historical backgrounds and their vivid challenging characters had remained at the top of the best-seller lists throughout the world.

      His new book was set in both England and Italy, a complicated family saga spanning several generations and involving a wealth of internecine treachery of the type for which his books were justly famous.

      And it was here that Beatrice had a tiny stab of guilt, because she had not told Elliott exactly what it was she had in mind.

      All that was needed now was for both parties to be tactfully approached with the idea, and she was hoping that the dinner party on Friday would provide an ideal means of breaking the ice. She intended to say nothing to Francesca about Oliver, but planned to draw the girl out over the dinner-table, hoping to arouse Oliver’s interest. It struck her now that she might have been rather over-ambitious, but she was reluctant to abandon a plan that showed such potential promise, and so she crossed her fingers childishly and promised herself that all would go well, and that she wasn’t matchmaking at all… rather, what she was doing was a form of head-hunting, albeit of an extremely freelance variety.

      She would be met at Heathrow, Francesca had been told, but in the busy sea of faces in the Arrivals lounge it was impossible to pick out anyone holding up a card bearing her name, so the sudden shock of someone taking hold of her arm made her tense and spin round.

      ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Elliott Chalmers, and I think you’re Francesca, aren’t you?’

      Francesca focused on him: a tall, blunt-faced man with a commanding air of authority, and a faintly wry smile.

      He made her feel rather like a foolish schoolgirl as he escorted her across the concourse, collected her luggage, and marshalled her outside to where his car was waiting, but at least his blunt, no-nonsense attitude was preferable to the kind of heavy gallantry, not unmixed with sexual speculation, she had been subjected to increasingly of late, and which she found both irritating and distasteful, and from the most surprising of sources.

      Here was a man one could trust even if one could not always agree with him, she decided shrewdly. He was also a man who would respect one’s rights to one’s own opinions, even if he did attempt to steam-roller them.

      At home it had been mild and sunny; here in London it was damp and cold. Francesca shivered in her thin wool suit, wishing she had worn the heavier top coat that was packed away in her cases… New cases, because the only ones she possessed were those which had been ordered for her honeymoon, and stamped by Vuitton with her married initials. She winced a little, and hoped that her gesture would be mistakenly put down to the cold.

      Her new suitcases bore no initials, but they had come from Gucci and had been very expensive. Her father had insisted on buying them for her. Like all Italian men, he adored spoiling his womenfolk. The new Valentino wardrobe inside the cases had been another parental gift.

      Francesca had worn designer clothes almost from her teens. Her family was wealthy and in Italy good dressing was important, but this was the first time she had worn Valentino. He was considered a little fast by Paolo’s mother, and so Francesca had subdued her own desire to experiment with his innovative styles and strong colours and had instead settled for the designer favoured by her mother-in-law to be.

      Now she did not have to weigh such considerations any longer; she was free to do exactly as she wished. It was an extremely novel realisation, and she was only just beginning to learn not to be frightened of it; like a crab without its protective shell, she had to subdue the urge to scuttle away and hide herself because she felt so vulnerable.

      ‘Mm… I wonder if we’ll get all this lot in the car.’

      She looked at Elliott and saw to her relief that he was teasing her. She responded with a smile, her first proper smile in a very long time, she realised, her face muscles feeling slightly stiff.

      The dark blue Jaguar was a new model, polished and shiny, but inside, on the back seat where Elliott had suggested she might prefer to sit for comfort, were a couple of books of nursery rhymes and some children’s toys.

      ‘You have a son and a daughter, I believe,’ she commented quietly once they had cleared the heavy traffic of the airport approaches.

      ‘Yes, Dominic and Rebecca. That’s why I’m meeting you, and not Bea. Henrietta, the mainstay of our household, is away having a few days holiday at the moment, but she will be back at the weekend. I take it that Lucia has filled you in with details of the Bellaire and Chalmers families?’

      ‘Yes. Your father married Beatrice’s mother, but she had been previously married to a fellow actor, Charles Bellaire, and after your father’s death and Charles’s subsequent divorce, they remarried…’

      ‘Yes, and went on to have four more children: the twins, Sebastian and Benedict, Miranda and last, but definitely not least, William. I dare say you will meet them all in due course, although probably not Lucilla, who is both mine and Beatrice’s half-sister. She’s the only child of my father’s marriage to Beatrice’s mother. She’s in the States at the moment with her husband, Nick Barrington. He has extensive interests and connections in Hollywood, and they’ve gone there to recruit a new star for a new film that is presently casting.’

      Francesca had heard all about her hostess’s fascinating family background, so very different from her own with its staid ranks of ducas and contes; its many, many Valerian aunts and uncles; its traditions and its shibboleths.

      ‘Bad flight?’ Elliott asked her, glancing into his driving mirror and observing her too pale face.

      She was a beautiful woman, even with the sculptured pared-down thinness of her face. Her hair was like polished silk, hanging thick and heavy on to her shoulders, her make-up immaculate, the golden eyes wary and shuttered, and yet for all her poise and beauty, for all the immaculateness of her appearance, there was none of the plastic dullness that sometimes characterised such perfection.

      Her elegance was unmistakably Italian, and yet there was at the same time just a hint of her English heritage, in the mobility of her face and that faint, betraying wariness of her eyes.

      He would have to warn Bea again not to expose Francesca to Oliver. He would make mincemeat out of her, and the girl was just vulnerable enough to be hurt by his abrasiveness.

      He could see Oliver’s viewpoint, though; a man who had been deceived