Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [8]
He was so absorbed by the music, leaning forward over the edge in an attempt to get a clearer view of the almost invisible soloist, he didn’t hear her enter. The presence of a stranger in his box was betrayed by a rush of remembered scent carried towards him on a sudden air current as the door opened quietly and closed again. The effect on George was instant. Memories had ambushed him before he could even turn his head.
The scent of an Indian garden at twilight . . . L’Heure Bleue he’d been informed when he’d dispatched some gauche young subaltern to make discreet enquiries. The aide had returned oozing information, parroting on about vanilla, iris and spices. George had been gratified and amused that the young man had been received with such voluble courtesy by the wearer. Amused but not surprised; she had always been able to charm . . . enslave wouldn’t be too strong a word . . . his impressionable young men.
The name said it all. The Twilight Hour. He didn’t need to listen to accounts of top-notes and bases. It spoke, for him, in a voice soft as velvet, of the swift, magical dark blue moment between sunset and starlight. But, intriguingly, it brought with it an undertow of something sinister . . . bitter almonds . . . the scent of death. George shivered. The scent of a woman long dead. A woman he had mourned for five years. Silently in his heart, never in his speech.
And here, in this gaudy box, in frenetic Paris, the scent seemed as out of place as he was himself. He whirled angrily to confront whoever had invaded his privacy and – idiotically – with a thought to challenge the invader for daring to wear a perfume which for him would forever be the essence of one woman: Alice.
‘Alice?’
George’s voice was an indistinct croak expressing his disbelief, his raised hand not a greeting but an exorcism, an instinctive gesture of self-protection, as he peered through the gloom, focusing on the dark-clad figure standing by the door. An elegant gloved hand released the hood of the opera cloak allowing it to slide down on to her shoulders. He could just make out, with the aid of the remaining dim light from the orchestra pit, the sleek shape of a blonde head but the face was indistinguishable. Her finger went to her lips and he heard a whispered: ‘Chut!
’ In a second, the woman had slid into the chair at his side and had grasped his hand in greeting. She leaned and whispered into his ear: ‘George! How wonderful to see you again! And how touching to find you still recognize me – and in the dark too! Alice? Am I then still Alice for you?’
‘Always were. Always will be. Alice,’ he mumbled, struggling for a measure of control. He hunted for and caught her hands in his, pressing them together, moving his grasp to encircle both her slim wrists in one of his great hands, his gnarled fingers closing in an iron and inescapable grip.
‘And, Alice Conyers, you’re under arrest.’
Chapter Three
She laughed and winced but made no attempt to struggle. ‘Let’s enjoy the performance first, shall we? And . . . who knows? . . . perhaps I’ll surrender to you later, George?’
Her purring voice had always, for him, spoken with a teasing double entendre in every sentence. He had dismissed it as a delusion, the product of his own susceptibility,