Masquerade. Anne Mather
safety belt now.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She released the strap and relaxed in her seat.
Patrick unfastened his own, and then said: “Do you smoke?” He offered her his slim platinum case, with the engraved monogram.
“Thanks.” She took one and leaned forward to apply the tip to his lighter. Then she lay back again and looked speculatively at him.
Patrick lit a cigarette for himself and wondered, half-amused at his thoughts, why he was taking such an inordinate interest in this girl. He rarely struck up conversations on aeroplanes, as they had a habit of becoming a bore. Besides, well-known as he was, people usually had ulterior motives in speaking to him. He had grown wary of the casual remarks passed to him, and usually spent journeys either reading or studying some aspect of his work.
But the girl did not somehow come into this category. She did not appear to recognize him and was certainly unlikely to be connected with the theatre, dressed in such an outmoded way.
He drew on his cigarette, and looked again at her.
“What’s your name?” he asked idly, his eyes narrowed.
“Samantha Kingsley,” she replied at once. “And yours?”
“Oh!” Patrick hesitated. Now for it! Even if she did not recognize him, the name might mean something to her. “Patrick Mallory,” he said reluctantly.
If he had expected a reaction he was disappointed. If was obvious his name meant nothing to her. He sighed gratefully. Although he never lied about his identity it was a pleasure to meet someone who knew nothing at all about him. “Are you going to London?” he asked.
“Well, to begin with, but not exactly there. Wiltshire. Is that near London?”
“Reasonably so,” Patrick nodded, amused by her expression. “You don’t know much about England, do you? I thought you were English.”
“I am. At least, I was born there, but I’ve lived in Italy since I was four years old.”
“Oh, I see.” Patrick frowned. “And you’ve never been back?”
“No. Never. My father preferred not to do so.” Samantha was silent for a moment and Patrick had the feeling that she was withholding much more than she had told him.
“And your father?” he probed, curious about this girl, and unable to stop the question. “Is he not going with you?”
“No. My father is dead. He was killed over a month ago.”
Patrick frowned again. “I’m sorry.” He studied his cigarette for a moment. The name Kingsley rang a bell somewhere and now she had told him that her father had been killed, he remembered where he had heard it. “John Kingsley,” he said slowly. “Your father wasn’t John Kingsley, was he?” Samantha’s eyes widened.
“Why … why, yes. Did you know him?”
“No, not exactly. I met him in Milan at the exhibition. It was an excellent show. That must have been just before …”
Samantha sighed. “Yes, it was. I’m still a bit dazed about it. And … and you liked the sculptures?”
“Oh, yes.” Patrick stubbed out his cigarette. “Very much. And so now you are an orphan?”
Samantha hesitated. “Not exactly.” She halted awkwardly.
Patrick glanced curiously at her, and then seeing that she obviously did not want to talk about her immediate future, he changed the subject.
They talked about general things, books, art, music. Patrick was not bored by her rather shy conversation. It was so refreshing to find a girl as comparatively untouched as she seemed to be.
“Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what do you do?”
Patrick lit another cigarette, reflecting that he was smoking too much. The brief respite gave him time to think.
“I’m a writer,” he replied, without qualification.
Samantha frowned, wrinkling up her brow. “What do you write?”
Patrick shrugged. He had no wish to become embroiled in a conversation about his work. His relief was overwhelming when the stewardess appeared at their side and asked them if they would like a drink.
Samantha looked up in surprise. This was all quite new to her. It was almost lunchtime, already.
“I’ll have a tomato juice, please,” she said quietly, but the stewardess had eyes only for Patrick Mallory. She knew only too well who he was and the influence he had in the theatre. Besides, his physical attributes alone were a challenge in themselves to any woman.
“What will you have, Mr. Mallory?” she was asking gushingly.
Patrick looked up, his lazy eyes amused. “Scotch,” he said easily. “And bring this young lady a sweet sherry instead of tomato juice.”
Samantha stared at him in surprise, and with obvious reluctance the stewardess moved away.
“You don’t object, do you?” he asked half-mockingly.
Samantha shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not.” She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at him. “Why did that stewardess act so strangely?”
Patrick grinned. “Strangely?” he mocked.
“Yes. You must know what I mean. She … well …” She flushed.
Patrick looked at her through a haze of smoke. “When you get a bit more experienced, you won’t ask questions like that.”
“Won’t I?” Samantha shrugged.
Patrick laughed softly. “Here are the drinks. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she echoed slowly, and sipped her sherry.
Lunch was served soon afterwards, a delicious meal although it had all been pre-cooked. Samantha looked out on the fluffy cotton-wool world of cloud below the aircraft and wondered why people made such a fuss about flying. There was absolutely nothing to be seen and it did not seem so much different from bus-riding at home.
Home! She sighed. She had got to stop thinking about Italy as her home. Soon Daven House in Wiltshire was to be her home. There was no going back. If she returned to Italy it would be to marry Benito, but as the distance between them increased, she felt the ties between them decreasing.
She took the opportunity after lunch of going back to the ladies’ room. She washed her face and hands and combed her hair. The eyes that stared back at her through the glass were scared eyes and she inwardly chided herself. Why should she feel scared? After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. It was these women she was going to meet today who ought to feel ashamed.
Stiffening her shoulders, she walked back to her seat to find Patrick Mallory absorbed in some papers he had extracted from his briefcase. He did not even glance at her as she reseated herself beside him and Samantha found her thoughts returning to the problem of the next few hours. She felt that she was gradually becoming more and more nervous and she would be glad when this day was over at last.
Her eyes strayed once more to her companion, as though drawn to him. In profile his features were just as attractive and from his immaculate tailoring and ease of manner she guessed he was a man who knew the world and what life was all about. He looked quite young and she speculated about his exact age. He must be about thirty, she decided, and wondered whether he was English. His name was English enough and yet there was something slightly alien about his dark complexion and tawny eyes. Cat’s eyes, Samantha thought. Like those of the tiger she had once seen in a travelling circus. Pondering, she wondered whether he was virtually quite as dangerous. He was very easy to talk to and she could understand a woman enjoying the attention he would devote to her. He treated Samantha rather like an overgrown schoolgirl and she wondered whether she acted that way. It was rather disconcerting to find that after having