Anne Weale Read online

  First published in 1966 by Mills & Boon Limited,

  50 Grafton Way, Fitzroy Square, London, England.

  © Anne Weale 1966

  Harlequin Canadian edition published December, 1966

  Harlequin U.S. edition published March, 1967

  All the characters In this book have no existence outside the

  imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to

  anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even

  distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the

  Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Harlequin trade mark, consisting the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  Printed In Canada

  1067

  CHAPTER ONE

  "OH, Richard, you misguided man! You'll wreck that poor child's life. It really is too abominable!" Mrs. Hurst exclaimed suddenly, in an excess of exasperation.

  She and her husband were having tea in the rather dilapidated summer house at the end of the rectory garden. But although there was no one else present, it was not Canon Hurst who had provoked her indignant outburst. She was apostrophising her brother, who was hundreds of miles away on an island in the Mediterranean.

  "What has Richard done now?" her husband enquired.

  "Nothing new," she answered vexedly, taking off her spectacles and passing across the airmail letter which had come by the afternoon post. "But every time I hear from Justine, my blood boils for her, poor darling. It's monstrous the way he treats her, Charles. Where will it end? What on earth is going to become of her?"

  Canon Hurst read his niece's letter. Then he handed it back to his wife and sat absently pulling the lobe of his left ear, a habit of his when pondering a difficult problem.

  "Well?" Mrs. Hurst prompted, after his contemplation had lasted for several minutes.

  He roused, and reached for the cup of tea she had poured for him. "Yes, it's wrong . . . very wrong indeed," he agreed with her, frowning. "But I'm afraid there's nothing we can do to help her, Helen. The remedy lies with Justine herself. She's not forced to stay with him, you know. She's of age now. If she wants her freedom, she must fight for it."

  "How can she?" his wife protested. "You know she adores Richard. She'll never go against his wishes . . . however unhappy he makes her."

  "Of course she's unhappy, poor child!" Helen Hurst retorted positively. "She doesn't say so . . . wild horses wouldn't make her admit it. She's fanatically loyal to Richard. But how can she possibly be happy when all her natural instincts have been repressed? She's twenty-three years old, Charles, and she's never had a decent dress ... or a date with a young man ... or even a lipstick. It's absolutely criminal the way Richard denies her every vestige of femininity."

  "Yes, it's a great pity. But, to give him his due, he has never neglected her, my dear. In his own eccentric way, he's as devoted to her as she is to him."

  "Eccentric!" Mrs. Hurst expostulated. "Most people would call him unbalanced . . . and I think he must be."

  "Perhaps ... he is a very brilliant man. But Justine herself is no ordinary girl, Helen. It may be that she doesn't care about clothes and cosmetics in the way most young women do."

  "Richard has never allowed her to be ordinary," Mrs. Hurst replied impatiently. "I don't believe she's exceptionally clever at all. She's intelligent, yes. And she's been made to study intensively. But I'm sure she's not a born intellectual. It's a wonder to me she didn't break down years ago, the way he kept her nose to the grindstone. She was never allowed to play like a normal child. She was force-fed with knowledge like one of those poor Strasbourg geese."

  "Yes, the curriculum Richard set for her was much too exacting, in my opinion," her husband conceded. "But you can't deny she seemed happy enough as a youngster. She was quiet and well-behaved, but she wasn't unnaturally subdued."

  "Perhaps not—as a child. But now she's a woman," said Mrs. Hurst. "You didn't see her when they were in London for those few days in March, Charles. After we'd had lunch together, we walked down Regent Street. There was a lovely chiffon evening dress in one of Liberty's windows. She stopped and stared at it like . . . like a child gazing at a toy it knows it can never have. It was pathetic. I could have wept for her."

  She sighed, and made a gesture of helplessness. "I tried to persuade her to let me buy her some pretty things," she went on. "But she made some lame excuse about having plenty of clothes, and not needing anything new. It's incredible the hold Richard has on her. His word is law. She accepts his views on everything. I simply can't understand it," she ended distressfully.

  "Now don't start upsetting yourself, my dear," Canon Hurst said gently. "The situation may yet resolve itself. Consider the case of Elizabeth Barrett — and her predicament was a good deal worse than Justine's. I've no doubt that one of these days Justine will meet someone who will exert an even stronger influence than Richard."

  "But she never meets any men, Charles. And if she did, they wouldn't be interested. It isn't that she's a plain girl. She could be very attractive, if she were allowed to make the best of herself. But she isn't — quite the reverse. When I saw her in London, she was looking so drab and dowdy that nobody even glanced at her."

  "Someone may be drawn to her. There are more important qualities than a pretty face."

  "I daresay—but a nice disposition is not usually what attracts a man in the first place," Mrs. Hurst observed dryly. "It's not like it was when we were young, Charles. Beauties were born, not made, then. But nowadays, what with colour rinses and false eyelashes and so on, almost any girl can look charming. Any way, apart from her appearance, Justine's whole manner is against her. She wasn't really at ease with me—and I'm her aunt She isn't shy exactly. It's something more complex than that She's become so reserved that unless you keep asking her questions, she hardly opens her mouth. I'm sure she's incapable of giving a man any encouragement."

  "Well, she may not have much small-talk, but I expect she's more forthcoming on her own subject" said Canon Hurst.

  "Yes, but who wants to talk about ancient relics all the time—except other archaeologists? And they're all old fogies," said his wife.

  "On the contrary, there was one on television the other night who was both young and extremely personable," he told her, with a twinkle. "His sphere is the ancient Mayan culture, so he is not likely to cross Justine's path. But I expect there are others, equally eligible, in the classical field. I should think it would be best if Justine were to marry an archaeologist I can't see her settling down in a suburban semi-detached, after the nomadic life she's led with Richard."

  "I doubt if she will ever marry anyone," Mrs Hurst said pessimistically. "Richard will never let her go, and by the time he dies it will be too late. She'll be an embittered, frustrated spinster."

  "Single women are not necessarily embittered or frustrated," the Canon pointed out mildly. "And marriage is not ipso facto a state of bliss—witness Richard's marriage to Cathy."

  Mrs. Hurst waved a fly from the buttered scones. "Richard should never have married at all. When a self-centred bachelor of forty-five marries a girl young enough to be his daughter, it's bound to turn out badly. Apart from the difference in their ages, they had nothing whatever in common. Cathy was lovely to look at, but she hadn't a brain in her head. Not that that was any excuse for Richard treating her so shamefully once his mad infatuation began to wear off. The way he snubbed her whenever she said something silly was unforgivable. I used to cringe with embarrassment when he was so cruelly sarcastic to her. And if he was like that in front of other people, what must he have been like in private?"

>   "He knew he had made a fool of himself, and for a proud man that kind of humiliation must be almost unendurable," said Charles Hurst. "I must confess that even I found Cathy's triviality rather irritating. She must have driven Richard to distraction. Though if he had been a little more tolerant, and she had had the sense to chatter less, they might have dealt tolerably well together. There was some improvement in their relationship when she was expecting Justine."

  Mrs. Hurst did not reply. She was remembering the day Cathy had died, without ever seeing her new-born child. Richard Field had set his heart on having a son, to be called Justin. But the baby, a puny little thing, had turned out to be a girl.

  Taking for granted that her brother would be only too glad to be relieved of responsibility for the infant, Mrs. Hurst had offered to take charge of her.

  To the Hursts' astonishment, Professor Field had refused even to consider their offer. In spite of war-time conditions, he had managed to find a capable elderly woman to keep house for him and look after little Justine.

  Helen Hurst had always been uneasy about her brother's motive for keeping his daughter. It seemed very strange that a man of his fundamentally cold temperament should saddle himself with an unwanted girl child when the Hursts would willingly have taken her into their home.

  Charles had suggested that perhaps his brother-in-law was expiating a sense of guilt about the way he had treated his young wife after his brief passion had burnt itself out. But Helen had never been convinced by this explanation, and her misgivings had proved to be well founded.

  For what Professor Field had done was to rear his daughter as if she were the son he had wanted. As soon as she was old enough not to need constant supervision, he had dismissed the housekeeper and replaced her with a daily woman. Justine had never gone to school. That would have exposed her to other influences, and ruined, his extraordinary experiment. He had instructed her himself.

  When she was only ten years old, he had resumed his field work—interrupted by the war, and forgone for some years after it—and taken her with him on the first of an almost continuous series of expeditions. During their infrequent visits to England, he had never permitted Justine to stay with the Hursts for more than one night. Indeed, short of actually shutting her up and keeping her a prisoner, he had managed to exclude from her life every influence but his own.

  And, because she had never been neglected or ill-treated in the legal definition of the terms, and had always seemed content with her lot, there had been nothing anyone could do about it.

  While her aunt and uncle were having tea in their peaceful country garden far away in England, Justine Field was sitting under a canvas awning close, to the site of her father's latest excavations on the island of Pisano.

  Justine was alone that afternoon. There was a tray of what were known as 'small finds' on the trestle table at which she was working, and she was carefully marking or labelling them, and recording the particulars in the Site and Objects registers.

  It was painstaking work, marking the smaller fragments with a mapping pen and waterproof ink on their broken edges. From time to time, she sat back to flex her fingers, or to fan herself or to take a drink from her Vacuum flask.

  Pisano was a half hour sea-trip by motor boat from the south-west coast of Corsica. Professor Field had gone to Ajaccio, the capital of Corsica, for the day, and would not return till late that night. Among other errands, he was going to a chemist's shop for something to relieve his dyspepsia.

  Justine had urged him to see a doctor, for he had never suffered from recurring indigestion before. She was worried in case the pain might have a more serious cause. The irritability with which he had rejected her suggestion made her even more concerned. It was not like her father to be so short-tempered.

  She had stopped working, and was lost in anxious thought, when someone said, "Good afternoon."

  Justine jumped, and drew in a startled breath. Less than twenty feet way, a man was watching her.

  He did not belong to the island. There were not many people on Pisano, and she had met them all. But even if she had not, she would have known at once that he was a stranger.

  The majority of the islanders were fisherfolk. The girls were slim and graceful until they married, but soon lost their figures as their families increased year by year. The men were short and wiry, and kept their cheap best suits for Sundays and Saints' days. They were likeable people —poor but not servile, reserved but innately courteous.

  The man standing out in the blazing glare of the sun was too tall and too well dressed to be one of them.

  "I'm sorry . . . I'm afraid I startled you."

  His voice was English, and his dark hair was cut and brushed in an English way. Yet there was something foreign about him. He was wearing smoked glasses, so she could not tell the colour of his eyes, but his skin was almost as swarthy as that of the island men.

  "You must be Professor Field's daughter. He is a very distinguished man. I am looking forward to meeting him. I understand he is in Ajaccio today," he said.

  Conscious of her dishevelled state, Justine said awkwardly, "You have the advantage of me, monsieur."

  "I am David Cassano."

  Justine had an excellent memory, and she was sure she had never heard of the name before. Yet something in the way he announced it made her feel she ought to recognise it

  It could have been a trick of the light, but she thought a slight smile curved his mouth.

  "Well I can see you are busy, so I won't disturb you." He gave her an un-English bow, and moved away to follow the winding track which led to the other side of the island.

  Justine watched him go up the rising ground with a long, limber, sure-footed stride. At the crest of the incline, where the ground fell away again, he paused for a moment to survey the surrounding landscape. Then, as if he knew she was still watching him, he turned and raised his hand, and passed out of sight.

  I am David Cassano.

  She nibbled her pen, and searched the recesses of her mind for the reason the name seemed to strike a chord.

  She had been right about his not being English. His surname sounded Italian ... or possibly Corsican or Sardinian. But David was Hebrew in origin, Welsh by adoption, and popular in England and America. It was not as far as she knew, common in Latin countries. So he must be of mixed descent.

  On the question of what he was doing on Pisano, she could not even hazard a guess. The island was private property, owned by the di Rostini family since the days of the First Empire when the Corsican-born Emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, had bestowed it on Ludovico di Rostini, one of his aides.

  Although Justine stayed at the site until six o'clock, she did not see David Cassano again. Either he was still over on the western side of the island, or he had returned to the village by another route. Looking forward to her evening swim, she packed up her belongings and made her way back to the villa.

  Usually, she and her father lived under canvas when they were on a 'dig.' But Madame di Rostini, to whom they had had to apply for permission to excavate, had insisted they should live at her villa for the duration of their stay on Pisano.

  She was an old lady of over seventy, the last of her line, and, for several years past, a semi-invalid. She lived alone, except for her housekeeper, a widowed island woman. Madame had taken lunch with the Fields on their first day as her guests, but they had seen little of her since then.

  In contrast to the dazzling southern light out of doors, the interior of the villa was restfully cool and dim, with marble floors and slatted shutters at the windows. Justine had the impression that the house had once been full of rare and beautiful furniture and objets d'art, but that most of them were missing now. Perhaps Madame had been obliged to sell them.

  When Justine reached the edge of the cliffs, and the villa on its rocky headland came into view, she was surprised to see a large ocean-going yacht lying at anchor in the deep water of the larger bay.

  It was a magnificent vessel of t
he kind which could only belong to someone immensely wealthy ... a Greek shipping magnate, or an American oil tycoon.

  Justine knew instantly that this yacht belonged to David Cassano. With an irrational prickle of hostility, she wondered if he had obtained permission to berth and look over the island, or if he had simply done so, as if by right

  She had had a slight headache since midday. When she reached the villa, she decided not to bathe after all, but to rest in the cool of her room for a little while. She had washed at the old-fashioned washstand, and was brushing the dust out of her hair, when there was a tap at the door and Sophia, the housekeeper, came in.

  "Ah, you have returned, mademoiselle," she said, in French. "What a pity Monsieur le Professeur will not be back until late. Madame requests the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight It is a special occasion, you understand. Monsieur Julien has come home."

  "Monsieur Julien . .. who is he?" Justine asked blankly.

  "He is Madame's grandson," Sophia explained beaming. "He has been in Paris for the past year, and we did not expect to see him for some time yet You have noticed the yacht in the bay? It belongs to his friend, who will also be present tonight."

  She clapped her hands to her temples, and rolled her eyes. "So little time, and so many preparations to be made! The other gentleman is someone of great importance. He will be accustomed to the finest cuisine. It will not do to offer him anything but the best."

  "I'm sure he won't be able to find any fault with your cooking, Sophia. The food here is always delicious," Justine said warmly. "I didn't realise Madame had any family. I thought she was quite alone in the world."

  "Oh, no—as well as Monsieur Julien there is his sister, Mademoiselle Diane," the housekeeper told her. "Their father, Madame's only son, was killed in the war . . . God rest his soul," she added, crossing herself. "Such a tragedy! It nearly broke Madame's heart when she heard of his death, poor lady. He was such a fine man. But you will see for yourself tonight Monsieur Julien is very like him."