Master of Comus

CHAPTER ONE

THEY travelled on the same flight to Athens. Leonie could see his smooth blond head from time to time when he turned to look out of the window. His hair and a tantalising portion of his profile; the long, classical nose, one insolent blue eye and the pale curve of his brow. She considered these thoughtfully, weighing them against what she knew of her cousin, Paul Caprel. Her knowledge of him was chiefly culled from newspaper gossip. His activities, both financial and amorous, were frequently plastered all over the popular papers. From an early age she had followed his adventures out of a secret admiration, regarding him rather in the light of a Byronic hero. He had been her chief claim to fame during her years at a monastic English girls' public school. After lights out, by the light of a romantic torch, she had read aloud his latest escapades to ecstatic murmurs of delight from her friends. She had kept a scrapbook of these clippings for years. Discreetly covered with brown paper and labelled 'My Family', it had escaped detection by the eagle-eyed schoolmistress who was in charge of her house. Leonie read it in the privacy of a steamy bathroom, perched on the side of the bath while she gazed at Paul's wild, handsome, disreputable features, and sighed out her undying love.

After leaving school she had refused the chance Of a university education, in preference choosing a London art school, where she met a large body of wild, disreputable young men and rapidly abandoned the remote dream for the reality. Her college years had been fun. She had felt as if she was breaking out of prison after the nun-like years at her school. Her guardian, a busy middle-aged aunt who lived in Bath and bred poodles, thoroughly disapproved of Leonie's decision to take up art as a career, but accepted it since the girl was by then eighteen and legally of age.

Leonie's father had been a quiet country solicitor until the day when he met her mother, the slim, dark, exquisite granddaughter of a Greek millionaire. She had whirled him away into a strangely different world from any he had ever known. Her parents were separated and indifferent, and only her grandfather had registered a protest at her marriage to a thirty-year-old solicitor with a small practice and no fortune. Elektra Caprel had shrugged her slender shoulders, laughed and married her sensible Englishman. A year later Leonie had been born. When she was three her parents were killed in an air crash and her father's sister became her guardian. Elektra's grandfather, Argon Caprel, had sent emissaries to demand her custody, but they had come up against the rock of Aunt Mary's tenacity. Aunt Mary had not liked Elektra Caprel, nor had she approved of her brother's marriage. It had been too far out of their sphere of life, but her strong sense of family duty had impelled her to bring Leonie up properly. She could not permit her brother's child to be whisked away to Greece. Argon Caprel had threatened from his remote eyrie on a Greek island —either Leonie was given up to him or he would cut her out of his will. Aunt Mary had been indifferent, indeed, she suspected and distrusted the idea of such a large fortune. Leonie would be better off without it.

So, brought up on notions of duty and common sense, nourished on bread and butter pudding and lamb chops, Leonie had grown up with just the appearance and manners her aunt desired of her. Cool, courteous, very English, she played tennis in summer and hockey in winter, wore well-tailored clothes and understated make-up, liked the theatre and the opera but disliked ballet, and had a circle of friends very much like herself. Her three years at art school had broadened her view of life considerably. For a while she had worn jeans and kaftans, let her dark hair hang in wild curls, stayed up all night for parties. But Aunt Mary had done her work too well. After this initial outburst of freedom, Leonie had settled down into a compromise between her staid background and her artistic surroundings.

She had made a large number of friends at college. When she left after three years she got a job with an advertising agency on a bright young team working for a range of popular products. The work was highly paid, stimulating and challenging. She had a flat in Chelsea a few minutes' walk away from the river, a small white car and a busy social life.

One night at a party she met a man whose face was instantly recognisable—a racing driver with a sallow skin, curly black hair and an engaging grin. Leo Ashenden dated her within a week of their first meeting, and went on seeing her whenever he was in England for the next three months. When he proposed marriage she was both enchanted and astonished—so astonished that she did not speak for several moments, and Leo, peering down at her face, said with his grin, 'Does silence mean yes or no?' It had meant yes.

It had never occurred to her to tell him of her connection with the Caprel family. Her great-grand- father had made no attempt to get in touch with her since his rebuff eighteen years earlier. When Leo casually asked her if she had told Argon Caprel of their engagement, she had been surprised. 'No, why should I?' Innocently, she had explained that her great-grandfather had cut her out of his will and took no interest in her, and that she, for her part, was indifferent to him. Leo had listened with an odd expression. Only weeks later did Leonie comprehend. Realisation came with a curt letter from him informing her of his engagement to the daughter of a South African copper baron. He had expressed cool regret, adding that he had decided that they were not compatible. Leonie's heart had winced, but her head had rapidly come to the conclusion that Leo had only been interested in her as her great-grand- father's heiress. At what point he had discovered the family connection she would never know, but she suspected it to have been early on in their relationship.

By a strange coincidence, a week later she received a letter from her great-grandfather himself, inviting her to visit him on his Greek island.

It would be a family party, he told her. He was now seventy and in poor health. He did not expect to live long, and he wanted to see her before he died.

Leonie had consulted Aunt Mary. Reading the letter with a wry expression, her aunt advised her to go. 'It's your duty. He is your great-grandfather, after all. But it must be your own decision. You're an adult now.'

So Leonie had written to accept. The following day a London branch of the Caprel organisation rang her to say that her ticket to Athens had been booked, that she would be met at Athens and flown by private plane to the island of Comus. She had said nothing to the woman who spoke to her, but her spirit of independence had prickled angrily, and she had written to her great-grandfather to protest at his high-handed behaviour.

'I can certainly afford to pay my own fare and will refund you the cost of my ticket,' she had written. Argon Caprel had replied via his secretary with a cold letter telling her that since he had requested her presence he would be responsible for her travel arrangements. Leonie had written back curtly saying that no one but herself could be responsible for her and enclosing the cheque for a first-class fare to Athens. Argon wrote to her himself a few days later. The letter was brief and consisted of three words: Damn your impudence. Clipped to the letter was a receipt for her cheque. She had studied the heavy black scrawl with interest and amusement. For the first time she felt curiosity about Argon.

Now, on the flight, she saw her cousin Paul seated a few rows ahead of her, and wondered if he, too, were bound for Comus. He was he

r great-grand- father's heir—everyone knew that. He was a jet- setter, flying constantly between London, Paris, New York and Athens. Thirty years old, in charge of his own fast-growing property company, he was a notorious international playboy with a penchant for svelte young women and fast cars. He had never married, but engagements had been hinted at from time to time, and his extra-marital gaiety had kept the gossip columnists happy for years.

As he walked back along the deck their eyes met once, and Leonie saw by his blank expression that he did not know her. There was no reason why he should. She was the alienated member of the family. She had the advantage of him since she knew a great deal about him, while Paul knew nothing about her.

When they left the plane at Athens the heat struck her like a blowtorch, setting up a pounding in her temples and blinding her eyes. She made her way to the reception area and gave her name to the desk clerk, as she had been instructed. A few moments later a small, dark Greek materialised courteously, took charge of her luggage and escorted her back across the tarmac to a smaller plane waiting in the full blaze of the sun.

When she climbed aboard she found herself faced with Paul once more. He was lounging back in a well-upholstered chair, a glass in his hand. Through elegant sun-glasses he scrutinised her curiously. Her guide bowed to him. 'Miss Leonie,' he said in softly accented English.

Above the. sunglasses Paul's pale brows rose to a perfect arch. 'Good lord! The dark horse!'

Leonie felt herself flushing angrily at the mockery in his tone. She nodded to him and sat down in the seat beside him, occupying herself with her seat belt and a handful of magazines. A few moments later the plane took off into the bright Greek sky.

Paul turned his head to study her coolly. 'So you're making an appearance at last!'

She saw no point in replying to that beyond a small, polite nod. Accepting a glass of orange flavoured with gin, she leaned back and pretended to study the horizon. When the plane dipped down she caught a strange, slanting glimpse of the Aegean sea below them, dark blue and sun-dappled. Here and there the blue was interrupted by an island, jutting up out of the waves, grey and shadowed, a rocky explosion from the surrounding sea.

'You live in England, I gather,' Paul drawled, his insolent gaze still fixed on her.

She started. He had been silent so long she had forgotten his presence in her fascination with the view below them. She turned, eyes widening. 'Yes.'

He took off his sunglasses and the blue eyes flashed into view, taking her breath away by their brightness and beauty. He really was an incredibly handsome young man. 'So you speak!' The tone

was lightly mocking. 'I was beginning to suspect you were dumb.'