he paintings were beautiful, landscapes which Dusty had painted earlier in his career, dominating the walls of the drawing room at Willows Hall.

India stood in front of each one for several minutes, studying the scenes intently before moving on to the next. There were four altogether, one on each end wall and two hanging on the long back wall, which was intersected by French windows leading out to the terrace and the gardens.

She loved these landscapes, with their lush dark greens and pale-blue skies, light-filled and luminous. His skies reminded her of the sky in the Turner painting that hung at Pennistone Royal. She knew how hard it was to capture light on canvas, and how brilliantly Dusty had achieved it here. She admired the style he painted in, Classical Realism, and he had once mentioned to her that it was hard to master. ‘Painting landscapes and people as they are exactly seen by the world is not an easy thing to do,’ he had pointed out. She had nodded her understanding, had wanted to tell him how his landscapes of the English countryside resembled the great classical paintings of Constable. But she hadn’t dared for fear he thought she was saying he had copied Constable, which he hadn’t, of course. He could be touchy.

Over the beautifully-carved white marble fireplace hung a fifth painting. This was a portrait of a beautiful woman dressed in the clothes of the Georgian period. It looked as if it had been painted in the 1700s, but there was Dusty’s small signature in the right-hand corner to prove otherwise. It brought to mind George Romney’s famous portrait of Lady Hamilton that hung in the Frick Museum in New York. Her maiden name had been Emily Hart, and she had later changed her first name to Emma, and so became Emma Hart, oddly enough, but without the e at the end. For that reason, that odd coincidence, Lady Hamilton, Lord Nelson’s mistress, had always been of interest to India.

Walking across the floor she went and sat down on the sofa facing the fireplace, gazing up at the portrait of the young woman, but her mind was filled with thoughts of the artist, not the subject.

She had driven to the hospital in Harrogate this morning, picked him up and brought him home to Willows Hall, and after a light lunch, which the housekeeper Angelina had prepared, Dusty had gone to the studio. ‘To re-acquaint myself with it,’ he had explained, ‘to banish the hobgoblins.’

He had not had to tell her he wanted to go there alone; she understood that. This was one of India’s great assets, her awareness of another person’s moods, her ability to understand them, even to second guess them, to empathize: reasons everyone in the family loved her.

She heard footsteps in the marble hall, and she turned her head towards the handsome walnut doors, which stood open. Her face lit up at the thought that it was Dusty, but the smile faltered slightly as Paddy Whitaker hove into view.

‘I’m not disturbing you, am I, Lady India?’ he asked from the entrance to the room, his manners scrupulous, as usual.

‘No, you’re not, Paddy,’ she answered, ‘I was just sitting here admiring the portrait over the fireplace.’

‘Yes, it is rather lovely,’ he agreed, now stepping into the room. ‘Mr Rhodes was wondering if you could come over to the studio…he just buzzed me on the intercom in the butler’s pantry. There isn’t one in here, you see.’

‘Of course,’ she replied and jumped up, walked around the sofa towards the double doors.

‘This is the first opportunity I’ve had to thank you for putting me in touch with Jack Figg,’ Paddy said. ‘He came over to look at Willows Hall, and then sent in a team of specialists. Remarkable blokes. You know, I’ve long been after Mr Rhodes to spruce up the security here. Anybody can wander in whenever they want. At least they could. Things have already improved.’ The house-manager looked directly at her, and added, ‘You saved Mr Rhodes’s life, Lady India, and for that we are all grateful, very grateful indeed.’

Dusty Rhodes was standing near the easel when she walked into the studio, and he stepped forward, stretched out his hands to her, smiling broadly. ‘It’s all right in here, India, after all. Perfectly all right. No hobgoblins, no bad vibes.’

She took hold of his hands, smiling back, allowed herself to be pulled forward, closer to him. Dusty leaned into her and said against her cheek, ‘Thank you.’ Then he moved away, looked into her face, and added softly, ‘It’s been such a difficult time for you. I’m sorry.’

‘Dusty, there’s nothing to be sorry about! It happened. Thank God you’re all right. You are all right?’

‘Yes. Are you?’ he asked carefully.

‘Absolutely. I’m fine…as long as you’re fine.’

‘I thought I might feel uneasy in here, but I don’t. So I can happily go back to work tomorrow, India my sweet.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Oh, yes, very sure. Anyway, I paint with my right hand, not my left.’

She nodded, and walked across the studio, sat down in one of the armchairs.

After a moment or two loitering near the easel, Dusty came and joined her, took the other chair and stretched out his legs. There was a small silence before he said, ‘I haven’t felt up to talking about the stabbing before now, even though I know you’ve been anxious to discuss it.’

‘Yes, I have needed to talk it through with you, Dusty.’

‘The day it happened it wasn’t possible, and since then I haven’t been in the right frame of mind to explain, but it’s okay now. There’s one thing I must make clear, India. I do know her…the woman who stabbed me.’

India simply nodded.

He said: ‘We were involved once, a few years ago now, but only for a short while. We split up about a year and a half ago. She’s a drug-addict, very self-destructive, and, to be honest, try though I did to help her, she just couldn’t stay away from smack-heroin. I hadn’t seen her for a year, until about six months ago, when her mother phoned me up. Melinda, that’s her name, was really bad, and her mother needed help to get her into a clinic. I did my best to find the right place, and fortunately she agreed to go into detoxification. I thought it was all going well until she showed up here, then went berserk when she saw you.’

‘She must be still involved with you,’ India suggested, her eyes on his.

‘I dunno, maybe. And how she ever got out of the clinic I’ll never know,’ he answered, slightly embarrassed.

‘Is she back there now?’ India probed.

‘Yes. Her mother’s a good woman and she found Melinda within a day, convinced her to go back to the clinic. She put herself under the care of Dr Jeffers again.’

‘Can she get better, Dusty?’

‘If she wants to, and if she works at it. I hope she can, for her sake.’

‘Well so do I.’ India cleared her throat, gave him a very direct look and asked, ‘You didn’t press charges did you?’

‘How could I, India? She was off her head that day! I’m convinced she had access to drugs of some kind, and you know full well she was going for the painting, not me.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she replied softly. Biting her lip, she added in a low voice, ‘I think you did the right thing, actually.’

He looked at her alertly and held himself still, conscious of the worried expression on her face, the lack of energy when she spoke. He hoped she wasn’t going to tell him that she was going her own way. He wanted her to stick around, to be part of his life; he had known that in the hospital, and now he truly understood that she had become important to him. He leaned across the space between the chairs, took hold of her hand. ‘It wouldn’t have been a good idea to bring a case against her, darling.’

‘I know that, and I also know that stabbing you was an accident.’ India swallowed hard before asking, ‘Do you think she’s going to be a pest, though? She could make your life miserable.’

‘And yours, too, that’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is. I’m concerned for both of us, Dusty.’

‘She’s going to be in the clinic for a long time. Also, thanks to your bloke, Jack Figg, there’s no way she, or anyone else, can get onto the estate without being spotted. Security’s tight.’

India began to laugh. ‘Poor Jack undertook to do something for Linnet, and now he’s become the security expert for the entire family, and you, too. Oh dear, Jack must be cursing us all.’

Hearing the laughter, seeing the sudden cheery smile, Dusty immediately felt a lightening of his spirit. Everything was going to be all right with India and him, he felt certain of that. Wanting now to please her, he said, ‘What was it you told me earlier? About going to have dinner with your grandmother?’

India exclaimed, ‘Would you go?’

‘She sounds like a gutsy lady, just my type, don’t you think?’

‘She is. And she’ll be thrilled. Whenever you feel up to it, she’d love us to go to supper. She’s not far away, between Harrogate and Knaresborough. Can I tell her yes? Maybe over the weekend?’

‘You can tell her yes,’ he responded, smiling and then standing up. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the house.’

They left the studio hand in hand and walked in the direction of the back terrace. India was thinking how pleased her grandmother would be to meet Dusty.

And he was thinking how cowardly he had been not to tell India he had a child by Melinda. He hoped to God the press wouldn’t find out and make splashy headlines out of the story.

Fingers crossed, he said to himself. Fingers crossed.

‘I do like this suite,’ Lorne announced in his mellifluous voice, walking through the large sitting room and opening the door at the other end. ‘Oh, Tessa, look, here’s another bedroom. Well, my darling, this is a treat.’ He swung around to face his twin sister, and added, ‘When I spoke to Dad in New York the other day he said he’d made sure we had a large suite we could share, and he’s done us proud.’

‘And then some,’ Tessa agreed, glancing around the beautifully-furnished sitting room of the Paris O’Neill Hotel at the very end of Avenue Montaigne. ‘And it’s nice to have that bird’s eye view of the Eiffel Tower.’

Hurrying to her brother, she hugged him. ‘I’m glad I came with you, Lorne. Thanks for making me. I’ve been very down, so I think this trip will cheer me up, like you said.’

‘Just as long as you’re going to relax and not worry about Adele. She’s absolutely as safe as houses with Elvira and Linnet at Pennistone Royal, and Evan’s there as well, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she’s been working at the Leeds store with India, but I suppose India’s staying with Dusty Rhodes at the moment, and not at Pennistone Royal. Gideon and Julian will be spending the weekend with Evan and Linnet, they’re arriving tomorrow night, Linnet told me. So I’m fine with it, honestly. Now, which bedroom do you want?’

Lorne glanced over his shoulder, looking into the room he’d just discovered, and said, ‘I think this is the more feminine of the two, and the larger. Why don’t you take this one, Tessa, and I’ll use the one at the other end of the sitting room.’

The doorbell rang and Lorne went to answer it. He ushered in the bellboy with the bags, directed him on the placement of the luggage, and tipped him.

Alone again with Tessa, Lorne said, ‘Now, Tessa my darling, I want you to get all spruced up. We’ve got a special evening ahead of us.’

‘We do? Where are we going? You didn’t mention anything before on the plane coming to Paris.’

‘I thought it would be a nice surprise. First we’re going to a book party–a sort of cocktail party and book-signing combined–and after that we’re going on to dinner as guests of the author.’

‘Who’s the author? I suppose it’s a beautiful woman, knowing you, brother of mine,’ Tessa murmured, throwing him a pointed look.

‘No,’ Lorne said, shaking his head, smiling at her, his eyes full of mischief. ‘It’s Jean-Claude Deléon.’

Staring hard at him, Tessa frowned. ‘You say his name as if I should know him. Do I?’

‘You did meet him once. Briefly. At an opening of mine. But I don’t know that he registered on you that night. However, you should know him, Tessa, since he’s the most famous intellectual in France after Bernard-Henri Lévy.’

‘I’ve never heard of him either. Who’s Bernard-Henri Lévy?’

‘Oh, Tess, don’t be such a dunce. Lévy is the first most famous intellectual in France, and look, both men are renowned, they’re celebrities.’

‘I don’t think I want to go. This party’s pas ma tasse de thé.’

‘It is your cup of tea, don’t be so silly. Anyway, the party’s seven to nine. So we’ll go at eight-fifteen for forty-five minutes, then go on to dinner with him and a small group of his friends.’

‘Even forty-five minutes sounds too long to me. Can’t I come for the last ten minutes?’

‘No, you can’t,’ he exclaimed sharply. ‘It’s about time you got out and about. We’re in Paris, you agreed to do whatever I wanted before we came, so we’re going to the book-signing. At eight-fifteen.’

‘All right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist!’ she exclaimed, and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s six-thirty, an hour earlier in England, so I’m going to phone Elvira and Adele, and then I’ll get ready.’

‘I want you to look gorgeous and glamorous,’ Lorne instructed, and hurried to his bedroom to get ready himself.

An hour later Tessa stood staring at herself in the bathroom, the walls of which were entirely mirrored. Turning this side and that, she was wondering if she had chosen the right outfit.

Perhaps she should have worn something a little more dressy for the book party. Lorne had told her that Jean-Claude Deléon was a national celebrity, and a special favourite amongst the chic in the worlds of literature, theatre and society. Therefore it would be full of sophisticated writers and intellectuals and the beau monde of Paris, as well as actors. And certainly this outfit was simple, to say the least.

And yet her reflection now told her that she looked pretty, and this pleased her. She hadn’t felt pretty in the longest time, weighed down by worries about the divorce, her sense of failure that the marriage had ended. And then there had been the dreadful experience of Adele’s abduction; she could not deny that the fear had taken its toll, rendered her helpless at times.

One of the reasons she had chosen the outfit she was wearing was the weather. It was as hot here as it was in London, and a short while ago, as she had looked over the clothes she had brought with her, she had settled on this skirt and top made of white voile. The voile was gauzy and light as air; the three-quarter-length skirt, that fell to just above her ankles, was relatively full and intersected with bands of narrow lace. Each band was set into the voile at intervals from the hip down, and the same narrow lace trimmed the hemline. The matching top was sleeveless and had a draped neckline that was flattering to her, very becoming, she thought. A white leather belt clinched her waist and matched her high-heeled sandals, and her only jewellery was a watch and chandelier earrings made of pearls.

Glancing at herself one more time, she nodded, decided she’d done the best she could, and went back into the bedroom. Picking up a small white leather purse, she opened the door to the sitting room and walked in.

Lorne was speaking on the phone, and he looked across the room as he heard the door opening. ‘Got to go, Phil. My date’s arrived. See you tomorrow,’ he murmured and hung up.

Coming towards her in long strides, her brother let out a low wolf-whistle, and exclaimed, ‘You’ve done me proud, Ancient One! You look absolutely bloody wonderful!’

Tessa laughed. ‘And you don’t look so bad yourself, Lorne Fairley. Now isn’t it great that you’re wearing black. We blend very well, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I would. And thank God I didn’t wear my white shirt and trousers, we’d have looked like some awful double act, the two of us in white.’

‘Never,’ she shot back. ‘We could never look awful, Lorne. I might, but not you, sweetie pie.’

‘Oh, you’re just prejudiced because you’re related to me. Little me, a famous actor,’ he said in his self-deprecating way, laughing. ‘Now, come on, let’s get a move on, I don’t want to get there any later than eight-fifteen.’

‘But it’s early, only twenty to eight–’

‘Ah, but the traffic is worse here than London,’ he cut in. ‘And we have to get to the Faubourg Saint-Germain.’

‘So come on then, slowcoach, let’s get going,’ Tessa replied, and hurried towards the door of the suite. ‘I’m assuming you arranged for us to have a car.’

‘Of course we’ve got wheels, silly girl,’ he exclaimed, taking hold of her arm and opening the door at the same time. ‘I’m very well organized. The Harte training, you know.’

She looked up at him and began to laugh, suddenly feeling happy for the first time in ages, happy to be with someone who cared about her, loved her as Lorne did, and to be in Paris, a city she had a very soft spot for. Their mother had brought them to Paris when they were quite young, and they had been coming here ever since, often on their way to the south of France and the Villa Faviola, which they visited several times a year. As they went down in the lift she felt a sudden sense of anticipation, and wondered why.

Once they were settled in the car and the driver was edging away from the hotel, Tessa said, ‘I like the seventh arrondissement, in fact I’ve often thought I’d like to have an apartment in that district. Actually, anywhere on the Left Bank would be fine by me, I’ve always enjoyed it, felt at home there.’

Lorne was taken aback, and he looked at her in surprise, and exclaimed, ‘Anywhere around the Faubourg Saint-Germain costs an arm and a leg, but those private houses are quite beautiful.’

‘I wasn’t talking about a private house, just a little garret for me and my child. It might be a nice escape from time to time.’

‘Well, why not,’ he murmured, wondering if she was serious. Then he said, ‘I like the area, too, because it’s such a great mix, an enclave for aristocrats and a haven for students, artists and writers. And aside from all the historic buildings such as Napoleon’s tomb, the French Academy and the Rodin Museum, there are two of the most famous hangouts for writers and artists, the Café des Deux Magots and the Café de Flore. Both of which I love.’

‘I know, and what about all the little antique shops, and bistros and art galleries? It’d be a wonderful place to have a little hideaway around there–it’s charming.’

‘If you really mean it, we can look at some real estate in the next few days. Actually, I’d enjoy it,’ Lorne remarked, deciding to call her bluff, still wondering if she was merely daydreaming.

‘Maybe we can do that; it would be fun, a little adventure,’ Tessa murmured, then said, ‘When actually do you have to check in for work?’

‘Shooting starts on Monday, but I’m not on call until Wednesday morning. Why?’

‘No reason, you hadn’t really said and I just wondered. Anyway, Lorne, tell me about Jean-Claude Deléon.’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘No, you haven’t. All you said is that he’s famous, a celebrity, an intellectual, and a good friend of yours. Tell me a bit more about him, so I don’t feel a total fool when I meet him.’

‘Let me see…he’s a journalist as well as an author of books, and he also lectures. He’s considered to be one of the great modern thinkers in France today, and he’s certainly thought of as a philosopher, ranks second to Lévy. He’s genial, charming, a great bloke. You’ll like him, and I think you’ll enjoy the evening.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘I met him in the south of France a few years ago, when I was staying at Villa Faviola with Gideon, Toby, Uncle Winston and Dad. If you remember, we had that all-male weekend together. Jean-Claude came over with one of Toby’s friends, and we hit it off. Spent a lot of time talking about the theatre and films. And then whenever he was in London he called me, and we got together if we could.’

‘And is there a Madame Deléon?’

‘No, there isn’t. And I don’t think there ever has been. To my knowledge Jean-Claude has never been married. Mind you, he does have quite a reputation…as being something of a ladies’ man.’

‘Oh, so he’s young then?’ Tessa asked.

‘Maybe he’s forty-nine, fifty, I’m not sure.’

‘And where are we going to dinner after the party?’

‘Tessa, darling, I’ve no idea. He simply said, “Bring your sister to the book party and afterwards you’ll both join me for dinner with a few friends.” So your guess is as good as mine. We’ll just have to wait and see.’