Free King of the Castle by Victoria Holt

disease. It looked to me as though it had been exposed to the weather.
    I was contemplating this picture when I heard a movement behind me. I swung round to find that a man had entered the gallery and was standing there watching me. I felt my heart pound and my legs tremble.
    I knew at once that I was at last face to face with the Comte de la Talle.
    “It is Mademoiselle Lawson, of course,” he said. Even his voice was unusual deep, cold.
    “You are the Comte de la Talle?”
    He bowed. He did not come towards me. His eyes surveyed me across the
    gallery, and his manner was as cool as his voice. I noticed that he was tallish, and I was struck by his leanness. There was a slight resemblance to Philippe;
    but there was none of Philippe’s femininity in this man. He was darker than his cousin; his cheekbones were high and this gave his face the pointed look which seemed almost satanic. His eyes were very dark sometimes they could seem almost black, I discovered later, depending on his mood; they were deeply set and his lids were heavy;
    his aquiline nose gave to his face the look of haughtiness;
    his mouth was mobile; it changed according to the man he was. But at this time I knew only one man the arrogant King of the Castle on whom my fate depended.
    He wore a black riding-coat with a velvet collar and above his white cravat his face was pale, even cruel.
    “My cousin has told me of your coming.” He advanced towards me now. He walked as a king might have walked through the hall of mirrors.
    I had regained my poise very quickly. There was nothing like haughtiness to bring out my bristling armour.
    “I am glad you have returned. Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, ‘for I have been waiting several days to know whether you wish me to stay and do the work. “
    “It must have been tiresome for you to be uncertain whether or not you were wasting your time.”
    “I have found the gallery very interesting, I assure you, so it will not have been an unpleasant way of wasting time.”
    “It is a pity,” he said, ‘that you did not tell us of your father’s death. It would have saved so much trouble. “
    So I was to go. I felt angry because I was so miserable. Back to London, I thought. I should have to find a lodging. And how could I afford to live until I discovered a post? I looked down the years and saw myself becoming more and more like Mademoiselle Dubois. What nonsense! As if I ever should! I could go to Cousin Jane. Never, never!
    I hated him in that moment because I believed he guessed the thoughts which were passing through my mind. He
     
    would know that a woman as independent as I, must have been desperate to have come in the first place, and he was enjoying tormenting me.
    How she must have hated him, that wife of his! Perhaps she killed herself to get away from him. I should not be surprised if that were the answer.
    “I did not realize that you were so old-fashioned in France,” I said with a touch of venom.
    “At home I have done this work with my father.
    No one minded because I was a woman. But as you have different notions here there is nothing more to be said. “
    “I disagree. There is a great deal to be said.”
    “Then,” I said, lifting my eyes to his face, ‘perhaps you will begin to say it. “
    “Mademoiselle Lawson, you would like to restore these pictures, would you not?”
    “It is my profession to restore paintings and the more in need of repair they are, the more interesting the task becomes.”
    “And you find mine in that need?”
    “You must know that some of these pictures are in poor condition. I was examining this one when I realized you had come in. What kind of treatment could it have had to be in that state?”
    “Pray, Mademoiselle Lawson, do not look at me so sternly. I am not responsible for the state of the picture.”
    “Oh? I presumed it had been some time in your possession. You see, there is a failing in the paint. It is chalky. Obviously it has been