Devil In Velvet

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Devil in Velvet

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE door wasn’t locked, so she didn’t need the key, and as she pushed it wide, the sickly-sweet odour of dampness and decay, and what might have been rotting apples, assailed her nostrils. A wooden table flanked by wooden benches and a disreputable old rocking chair near the hearth was the only furniture she could see, and a chipped enamel sink was surmounted by the kind of pumping mechanism she had thought obsolete for years. The stone floor was littered with leaves and other debris, blown in through the open gaps in the window, no doubt, and an ominous scuttering in the corner seemed to signify squatters of another species. Considering the heat outside, the air was cool, and her shirt which had been sticking to her back now sent a shiver of chill along her spine. The huge blackened hole of the fireplace had not even been swept clean before the last tenants departed, and the ashes from the grate had filmed everything with a fine grey dust.

Harriet’s heart sank. How could they possibly stay here? The place was filthy, and damp; and what was that rustling sound she could hear? Rats? Involuntarily, she shifted from one foot to the other, suppressing a desire to wrap the flared cuffs of her trousers about her ankles. Where was the spotless furnished farmhouse she had expected? The white-painted retreat, set in the lush valley of the Dordogne, the land overflowing with wine and pâté de foie gras, as the brochure extravagantly put it? How could anyone sell this as a suitable dwelling place, when it resembled nothing so much as a derelict? Her temper rose. How dared anyone sell such a place—and to her!

She had left Susan in the car, but now she heard the girl’s footsteps on the path behind her, and turning to face her endeavoured to disguise a little of the rage and frustration that was gripping her. Susan had had enough to stand these past weeks. Harriet hoped the sight of this place would not undo all the good work that had been done. It had seemed such a good idea, bringing her niece to France for a couple of months, giving her a completely new change of scene. Charles, Harriet’s employer, had been so kind, giving her the time off like this. But practically all Harriet’s savings had gone on this place. She had relied on the Paris agent’s assurances that this farmhouse in Rochelac was exactly what she wanted; and now to find that this was not so was the most bitter kind of humiliation.

‘Well?’ Susan’s young voice was reassuringly bright. ‘Is this the place?’

Harriet allowed a small sigh to escape her. ‘Unfortunately,’ she conceded.

‘Unfortunately?’ Susan brushed past her to stand inside the door. ‘Why unfortunately?’

‘Why?’ Harriet gazed at her incredulously. Then she waved an expressive arm. ‘Need you ask?’

Susan shrugged. ‘It is dirty,’ she agreed, with the casual gift for understatement of a fourteen-year-old. ‘But that doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, we can soon clean it up.’

‘It’s damp!’ retorted Harriet flatly. ‘Can’t you see those patches on the walls? I dread to think what it’s like upstairs. As for the furniture…’

‘Have you looked around?’ enquired Susan, crossing the floor, apparently unperturbed by the possible presence of their unwelcome visitors, and opening a door which hitherto Harriet had taken little notice of. ‘Hmm, this must be the parlour. Is that what it’s called in France?’

‘The salon,’ replied Harriet automatically, staring bleakly about her. ‘Susan, do mind where you’re putting your feet. I heard scufflings when I came in.’

‘Field mice probably,’ called Susan airily. ‘They always invade empty houses. Where are the stairs?’

‘Oh, Susan, I don’t know.’ Harriet heaved another sigh, and looked round. ‘I wonder who—’ She broke off abruptly. ‘It’s my own fault, I suppose. I should have insisted on seeing this place before spending a penny. Wait until I lay my hands on Monsieur Frond! I doubt if he’s ever been further south than Orleans!’

Susan came back into the kitchen. ‘Why are you getting so upset, Harry? There’s quite a decent pair of armchairs in there, and a sort of dresser. It’s not the end of the world. I think it’s rather super. You can see the garden at the back of the house, and there’s actually a stream…’

‘I imagine it’s overgrown with weeds, too. The garden, I mean. And don’t call me Harry!’

Susan grinned, the freckles on her face standing out against its pallor. These past weeks had robbed her of what little colour she had had, and it was good to see her smiling again. If the house could do that for her, it couldn’t be all bad.

‘Well, you don’t like me calling you Aunt Harriet, do you?’ she was saying now, and Harriet’s features relaxed.

‘No, that’s true. But I’d prefer it if you called me plain Harriet instead of the abbreviation.’

‘All right. Plain Harriet, it shall be,’ teased Susan mischievously, and they both laughed. ‘Seriously, though,’ she went on, ‘it’s not so bad, is it? I like it. I’m sick of—conventional things.’

Her voice quavered a little, and to give her a moment to recover herself, Harriet essayed a determined interest in her surroundings. There were other doors, and with some trepidation she opened one of them, relieved to find a wooden stairway winding to the upper floor.

‘The stairs!’ she announced dryly, and taking a deep breath, began to climb up.

There was no handrail, and they were very steep, and any notion of carpeting them would have to be abandoned. But at least they seemed sound enough. They emerged into a square apartment with a ceiling that sloped sharply towards tiny windows set under the eaves, and a floor that was rough with knots and uneven boards. There was a sagging bedstead, and a rag mat, and near the windows was a rickety old washstand with a cracked jug and basin. The smell of rotting fruit was stronger here, and the heat of the sun had robbed the room of all air, giving it a stuffy oppressive atmosphere.

The windows would all be intact here, thought Harriet cynically, but when she tried to open them they resisted all her efforts. The fact that it was cleaner up here registered only faintly as she fought with swollen woodwork.

Susan had followed her up and now exclaimed excitedly: ‘Look! There must be a loft. There’s a trapdoor.’

Harriet looked round half impatiently, looping her long pale hair back behind her ears with a careless hand. Susan was pointing to a square-shaped opening set into the crumbling plaster of the ceiling, and now Harriet noticed a wooden ladder propped against the wall beside the bed. Leaving the stubborn window, she came to stand below the trapdoor, but vetoed Susan’s eagerness to explore further.

Glancing at her watch, she said: ‘It’s almost a quarter to five. If we’re to spend the night here, and I’m not at all sure that we should, we ought to be making an effort towards tidying up downstairs.’

Susan stared at her. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving!’

‘Not that exactly.’ Harriet spoke slowly. ‘But you must admit, Sue, it isn’t exactly what we expected.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘You say that—’

‘I mean it,’ Susan interrupted her. ‘It’s a sort of adventure, really. And I’ve slept in worse places. Heavens, when I went camping with the Guides—’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t spend several thousand francs on a house that’s only fit to camp in!’ declared Harriet firmly, and then seeing Susan’s face beginning to crumple, added quickly: ‘Perhaps we can do something about it, but for tonight I think we should find a pension and stay there until I’ve had a chance to contact Monsieur Frond—’

‘But we planned to camp here!’ Susan pursed her lips. ‘We’ve brought our sleeping bags.’

‘Because I expected the beds might need airing,’ Harriet reminded her, gesturing behind them. ‘As you can see, there’s only one bed, and I wouldn’t allow a dog to sleep on that mattress! Besides, the air up here is foul, and until we can get those windows open…’

Ignoring the lost look that came into Susan’s eyes, she clattered down the stairs again, her cork soles echoing hollowly on the treads, and emerged into the infinitely fresher atmosphere of the kitchen.

Susan followed her and together they surveyed the room. ‘You have to admit—it is deplorable!’ Harriet insisted, and Susan hunched her shoulders.

‘Where are we going to stay then? And what will you say when you speak to Monsieur Frond?’

Harriet shook her head. She didn’t honestly know herself. Had she any redress? She doubted it. She should have investigated the property beforehand, and not allowed herself to be duped by fairytale fantasies of vineyards and chateaux, and lazy afternoons punting along the river with an unlimited supply of Dubonnet.

‘I don’t know what I shall do,’ she said now, noticing how the dust had already soiled her shirt. She stepped gingerly across the flagged floor and emerged into the sunlight breathing deeply, and unfastened another button to reveal a depth of cleavage she would never have dared display at home.

The car was parked in the lane, beyond the thorny hedge that marked the garden. It was certainly peaceful enough, and approaching down a tree-shaded avenue she had been as enthusiastic as Susan. But even this front stretch of garden rioted heedlessly, and what had seemed a simple enough task when she walked up the path, had now assumed larger proportions. The walls of the house needed painting, along with all its other shortcomings, she saw now, but she had allowed the wild roses and nasturtiums to blind her to that fact. She had scarcely noticed the knee-high grasses and choking bindweed, or the nettles that threatened to sting unwary legs.

‘We will come back, won’t we?’ Susan demanded anxiously, as Harriet turned the key in the squeaking lock, and her aunt looked at her ruefully.

‘We shall probably have to,’ she conceded dryly. ‘Or go home.’

Susan’s lips trembled. ‘You wouldn’t—we couldn’t do that, could we?’

Harriet gave a resigned grimace. ‘Probably not,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, I’m thirsty. I think there’s a can of lime juice in the car.’

Harriet felt tired and depressed now. She had been driving since early that morning, urged on by the eagerness to reach their destination. But it had all gone flat, and even her resentment towards Monsieur Frond was giving way to anger towards herself. When would she learn that people were not always what they seemed?

Sharing the can of lime juice with Susan, and assuming an interest she was far from feeling, she consulted the map, spreading it out over the steering wheel of the car, pinpointing their position with wry accuracy.

‘Well, we’re about thirty kilometres from Beynac, which I suppose is the nearest town, but the village is nearer, of course—Rochelac. Do you think we should try there?’

‘Of course.’ Obviously Susan preferred to stay within a reasonable distance, and the village was only a matter of some three or four kilometres.

‘There may not be a pension there,’ Harriet observed thoughtfully, but Susan felt sure there would be. ‘What if there’s not?’ asked Harriet reasonably, and her niece shrugged.

‘We can always sleep in the car,’ she pointed out, and unwillingly Harriet let her have her way.

To reach the village necessitated reversing back up the lane, it was too narrow to turn, and regaining the road that ran between two villages, Bel-sur-Baux and Rochelac. There was something vaguely familiar about Rochelac, which was what had attracted Harriet to it in the first place, but she didn’t exactly know what it was.

From the road, it was possible to look down on the trees that surrounded the house. They were even able to see the grey tiles of the roof, and beyond, the shallow ravine where the stream tumbled. Distance lent enchantment, but Harriet was too tired and dishevelled to appreciate its finer points right then. Susan was less inhibited and looked back longingly, but her aunt pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator, and the small Fiat surged obediently forward.

Rochelac seemed to cling to the hillside above the river of which their stream was a tributary. Harriet guessed it might be possible to walk to the village as quickly as to drive the few kilometres round by the road, and then stifled the weakening thought. They would probably never find out, she told herself firmly, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

The village was as picturesque as she could have wished: narrow streets, balconies overflowing with flowering creepers, a tiny square, and the inevitable spire of the church. Harriet parked the car outside a patisserie, where the smell of new bread was mouth-watering, and then locking the car she and Susan took a walk down the steep cobbled slope which led to the river.

The houses that flanked the stone jetty were tall and thin, jostling together as if to conserve space. Steep, pointed roofs thrust up against the rocky buttresses above, with jutting attic windows projecting at right angles. Here and there, colourful canvas blinds shielded the upper windows from the effects of sun on shining water, while the river flowed by, smooth and mysterious.

Susan stood at the very edge of the path and looked down into its depths, and Harriet came to join her, her eyes drawn by the enviable sight of a pleasure launch floating downstream, its passengers trailing wrists in the cooling water.

Then she heaved a deep sigh and said: ‘Come along. We have to find somewhere to stay.’

‘Oh, look!’

Susan had turned and was pointing beyond the village to where the turrets of a castle or a chateau, Harriet was never quite sure of the distinction, could be seen above the trees at the top of the escarpment. They had seen many such examples of architecture on their way to Rochelac, and had even taken the time to stop in Beynac and look at the castle which had once been the base of the sinister Mercadier. During the reign of Richard the Lionheart, he had pillaged the countryside around Beynac on behalf of the English king, until Simon de Montfort himself seized control in 1214. This area of France was rife with such stories, and its turbulent history was no small part of its attraction.

‘Do you suppose anyone lives there?’ asked Susan curiously, but Harriet could only shake her head.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she replied. ‘Let’s walk up into the square again. There are no hotels or pensions down here.’

But the village appeared not to cater for passing tourists, and the proprietor of the only café explained that they did not get a lot of visitors. Fortunately Harriet was reasonably fluent in his language, her work having brought her to France on more than one occasion, as he explained that he only spoke a little English.

‘So what now?’ Harriet asked of Susan, trying not to show impatience with the girl. ‘I don’t honestly find the prospect of driving back to Beynac appealing.’

Susan grimaced, and addressed herself in school-girl French to the proprietor: ‘Connaissez-vous quelqu’un qui pourrait nous héberger cette nuit?’

The proprietor frowned, and then launched into a long speech of which Susan understood little except the word chateau. She turned confused eyes in Harriet’s direction, and taking pity on her, Harriet explained: ‘Monsieur—er—Monsieur—?’

‘Macon,’ supplied the proprietor importantly, and smiling her thanks, Harriet continued: ‘Monsieur Macon was saying that apart from the chateau, there are no houses large enough to accommodate visitors around here.’

‘Is the chateau an hotel, then?’ cried Susan excitedly, obviously finding the prospect of spending the night in some mediaeval castle to her liking, but Harriet quickly disillusioned her.

‘Apparently no one lives in the chateau these days,’ she said. ‘The owner couldn’t afford its upkeep, and it’s fallen into disrepair like some other property I could mention. Wait a minute!’

This last was spoken with such vehemence that both Susan and Monsieur Macon started violently, and stared in bewilderment at Harriet, who had sprung to her feet.

‘Monsieur Macon,’ she exclaimed earnestly, ‘is the chateau part of an estate? Would whoever owned the estate own the farms hereabouts?’

The proprietor looked taken aback now, and not altogether happy at her question. It was as though she had overstepped the mark of what was proper to ask, and he levered his overindulged body up from his chair.

‘It is possible, mademoiselle,’ he agreed stiffly. ‘Now if you will excuse me?’

Harriet clenched her fists. ‘Just—just one more thing, monsieur,’ she appealed. ‘Who owns the chateau?’

The proprietor smoothed his apron. ‘Why do you wish to know?’ he asked evasively.

Harriet glanced down at Susan. ‘I—we—as a matter of fact, I’ve bought a property only a few kilometres from here.’ She hesitated. ‘I was curious to know who used to own it, that’s all. You see,’ she hastened on, ‘I bought it through an agent, in Paris.’

The proprietor looked suspicious now. ‘But you said you needed somewhere to stay,’ he reminded her.

Harriet managed to prevent the surge of heat that seemed to be moistening every inch of skin on her body from filling her face with revealing colour. ‘Er—naturally the place needs airing,’ she protested, but she could see the man was not entirely convinced. ‘You were saying…?’

The proprietor frowned and looked doubtfully about him, as if hoping for another customer on whom to devote his attentions. But the tiny café was deserted at this hour of the day, and Harriet guessed he was wishing he had closed up earlier.

‘At least tell me the name of the chateau,’ she pressed him urgently, reasoning that whatever the chateau’s name, the owner’s would not be dissimilar.

‘It is the Chateau de Rochefort, mademoiselle,’ he told her reluctantly. ‘Anyone could tell you that.’

‘Thank you.’ Harriet gathered up her handbag and the map she had carried with her, and together with Susan left the café.

‘What was all that about?’ exclaimed Susan, as soon as they were outside and out of earshot. ‘What does it matter who owns the chateau?’

Harriet gave a secret smile. ‘I should have thought it was obvious.’

‘Well, it’s not.’

Susan was getting irritable, and Harriet gave in. ‘Don’t you see? Monsieur Frond is an agent, acting on behalf of the owners. The house—our house—was probably owned by the Count de Rochefort, or whatever the owner of that chateau up there calls himself.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Susan’s face cleared. ‘You mean—perhaps we should speak to him, is that what you mean?’

‘Something like that.’

‘But when? Now?’

‘Heavens, no.’ Harriet shook her head, and consulted her watch. ‘It’s nearly six. There’s no point in us trying to find our way there tonight and getting lost in the process. No, we’ll have to leave that until tomorrow.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ exclaimed Susan.

Harriet gave her a rueful look. ‘Well, I’m loath to say it, but I guess we go back.’

‘To the house!’ Susan sounded highly delighted.

‘Yes,’ agreed Harriet dryly, ‘to the house. But I suggest we buy a few things before we go. Like some cleaning materials, for example, and some disinfectant.’

The car was already loaded with food for a week, but Harriet added a carton of milk and some fresh eggs for good measure before bundling their recent acquisitions on to the back seat.

‘I hope you realise this isn’t going to be a picnic,’ she warned Susan, when her niece seemed incapable of wiping the smile from her face, and Susan laughed.

‘I don’t believe you’re really as sorry to be going back as you pretend,’ she insisted, and although Harriet disputed this, she couldn’t help the surge of pleasure she felt when the Fiat turned on to the bumpy, tree-lined lane. The setting sun through the trees was gilding the tiles of the house, casting a concealing mantle of shadow over the chipped and peeling walls so that like a courtesan at dusk, it did not reveal its flaws.

It was only as Harriet brought the car to a halt in front of the house that she saw the smoke emitting from the chimney, and her heart palpitated wildly as all the wild stories she had heard of ghosts and unearthly presences tumbled through her head.