Man of Destiny Read online

  “It is quite light. I can manage...”

  A pair of handsome dark eyebrows lifted and made her feel both impulsive and stupid.

  “Look after the boy,” he advised. “That is your job, senhorita ... for the time being! Make certain he doesn’t fall into the sea while leaving the ship.” They descended a somewhat steep ladder into the launch that was waiting, and despite a hot feeling about her neck and a sense of resentment that made her clench her teeth, Caroline realised as they made the descent that there was a certain amount of practical common sense in the recommendation to look after Richard. He was not normally particularly nervous, but today his wits seemed to have deserted him, and he clung to her in an almost embarrassing fashion as they negotiated the ladder. A jovial seaman came to her assistance and relieved her of the encumbrance before they actually entered the launch, and then she saw that Senhor de Capuchos, who had gone ahead of them, was eyeing them both with marked disfavour.

  He snatched Richard—who had been handed back to her—out of her arms, and dumped him on the seat beside him.

  “The boy is not yet a very brave one, no?” he said, in a tone of cold criticism.

  She began indignantly:

  “He’s only very little.” And then staggered and might very possibly have fallen overboard herself if his arm hadn’t come out and steadied her. He refused to release her until she was safely seated, and Richard had seized the opportunity to wriggle across and literally hurl himself on to her lap, where he developed limpet-like tendencies and declined to be dislodged. Senhor de Capuchos removed a thin gold cigarette-case from an inside pocket of his immaculate white silk suit, selected one, and lit it—and said nothing at all.

  But Caroline knew he was thinking a good deal.

  The launch shot away from the side of the ship while those still left on board hung over the side and waved to them, and Caroline spared a thought for Ilse de Fonteira, and she wondered whether—somewhere safely concealed by the rim of a porthole— she was watching her son being taken away from her, and whether she had also observed the man who was whisking them away. Perhaps if she had known that the Marques himself hadn’t intended to meet the ship, and that his deputy would be tall and dark and arrogantly handsome, and somewhere in his early thirties, she might have summoned up the courage to meet him.

  For a personable man was always something in the nature of a challenge to her, and Senhor de Capuchos was quite definitely personable.

  But Caroline had a feeling in all her bones that she was going to dislike him thoroughly before the time came for her to say goodbye to Portugal.

  There was a delightful breeze while they were cutting through the water, and Caroline’s soft fair hair streamed out behind her. Normally, since it was shoulder-length, she wore it in an attractive arrangement on the top of her head, but today for some reason she had allowed it to flow loose. The ends curled softly, and had a silken sheen on them, and the eyelashes that shadowed her grey-blue eyes had the same bright gleam at the tips. Her mouth was perhaps deceptively demure, and her chin rounded; but from the way in which Richard clung to her she was a tower of strength—something in the nature of a refuge—in a small boy’s eyes.

  Senhor de Capuchos smoked thoughtfully and watched them both with black brows drawn together.

  On the quay an enormous, chauffeur-driven car awaited them, and Caroline and Richard were invited to share the back seat while the Portuguese occupied the seat beside the chauffeur. His back view inspired her with almost as little confidence as his arrogant front view, for he had a well-held head and shoulders that were broad and somehow dominating beneath the thin silk of his hot-weather suiting, and even the carefully trimmed crisp dark hair on his neck had a tendency to appear assertive.

  When they arrived at the hotel Caroline felt so confused by the speed of their progress through streets noisy with the clanging of tramcars and crowded with colourfully dressed tourists that she hardly noticed what it looked like, but she was aware of excessive deference in the attentions of hotel porters once the car had come to rest, and a reception desk that buzzed with interest while the party awaited the handing over of their keys.

  Senhor de Capuchos signed the register on behalf of Caroline, and she found she had nothing to do but hang on to Richard’s hand. The hotel was extremely luxurious inside, and later she was to discover that it was one of the oldest and most exclusive in Lisbon, with a clientele that was almost as exclusive—apart from the inevitable tourists who found their way to it, or were recommended to try out its famous cuisine, and enjoy the magnificent opulence of its furnishings and amenities. And after the bright modernity of her quarters aboard the ship she found the note of elegance oppressive, and a little inclined to take her aback like the sumptuous fittings in her bathroom when she made the discovery that she and Richard had been allocated a whole suite to themselves—including a private drawing room with a dining-alcove where they could take their meals if they felt disinclined to face the restrained patrons downstairs.

  But before he saw them into the lift Senhor de Capuchos made it clear that he wished them to lunch with him in the main restaurant of the hotel. He gave them half an hour in which to make any alterations to their appearance that they might wish, such as the washing of a small boy’s hands and the brushing of his hair, and Caroline seized the opportunity to extract a clean dress from one of her cases because in the short journey in the launch someone had accidentally smeared her with a light smear of oil; and Richard’s determination to sit in her lap had badly creased what had once been an immaculately pressed skirt.

  The fresh dress was a strawberry-pink linen, and with it she wore white shoes with moderate heels, and carried a white handbag. She knew that she didn’t look like the accepted version of a nursery-governess—not one who had received any training, that is; and she didn’t look very much like an employee, either, once her hair was brushed and floating out behind her like a golden cloud, and she had added just a touch of lipstick to her shapely mouth, and the merest touch of eyeshadow to her white eyelids.

  Mrs. de Fonteira, who made up heavily herself, had never raised any objections to the girl she employed to take charge of her son resorting to moderate make-up, and if she wanted to look like a young woman on holiday that was perfectly all right by her.

  But from the moment Caroline appeared in the doorway of the dining-room—with Richard still clinging like a leech to her hand—and Senhor de Capuchos came forward to meet them, she could tell by the expression on his face that something was not altogether right. That is to say, something was very definitely wrong.

  In a manner that was quite determined he detached Richard from her side, and led him to the table that had been reserved for them, and at which a couple of waiters were already standing as if at attention, ready to attend to their wants.

  Richard glanced appealingly at Caroline as he was aloofly allocated a chair, and it was clear he was terrified that she was not going to be allowed to occupy the chair nearest to him. But the senhor pulled out the all-important chair for the girl himself, and once she was seated sat down opposite the two of them, his black brows still drawn together in that ominous and warning frown.

  While Caroline was indicating to Richard by signs that he should unfold his napkin, and a waiter bent forward to place a menu in front of her eyes, Senhor de Capuchos spoke to her in a low aside.

  “You will allow me to order for both of you on this occasion. I think I am more fitted to choose—certainly for Richard!—what you are likely to enjoy, and also what I consider suitable. You are as yet unaccustomed to Portuguese food, and that which is untried must be treated with respect.”

  “We had Portuguese food on the ship,” Caroline said demurely, looking down at the menu which seemed to her to contain so many dishes it would be almost impossible to choose. “And in Africa,” she added.

  “Did you?” But he didn’t ask what her opinion of Portuguese food was. Instead he frowned more blackly than before, and referred
to a subject that had apparently troubled him from the moment he set eyes on her. “You must forgive me, Senhorita Worth, for mentioning this matter, as you may consider it quite outside my province. But did Senhora de Fonteira countenance your wearing your own clothes instead of something more easily recognisable as a uniform while you were actually in charge of the Marques de Fonteira’s great-nephew?”

  Caroline’s brightly tipped eyelashes flew upwards. Her grey-blue eyes—and now that he had an opportunity to study them at close quarters he realised they were very much the colour of English summer seas— looked more amazed than surprised.

  “Why, certainly, senhor. As a matter of fact, it was never even suggested that I should wear a uniform.”

  “No?” He was sampling the clear red wine that had been poured into a glass for his approval, and he devoted a few seconds to the all-important business before nodding his head curtly and then once more permitting her his full attention. “But that was while you were on the ship,” in a meticulous, drawling voice, “and everyone knows that life aboard ship is somewhat more relaxed than ordinary daily life. You are now in Portugal—in Lisbon; and although it may be only for a few days may I request, in the name of the Marques who, at the moment, happens to be our joint employer, that you look for something amongst the contents of your wardrobe a little more formal and less likely to be mistaken for holiday wear than that dress you have on at the moment?”

  And from the cool gleam—definitely disparaging—in his infinitely black eyes it might have been made of the coarsest form of sailcloth instead of rosy-tinted linen.

  Caroline felt a flush of resentment rise up over the lightly tanned skin of her face and neck. Any appetite she had been working up for the meal vanished as some excellent-smelling soup was put in front of her, and Senhor de Capuchos started pouring wine into her glass.

  “Not for me, senhor,” she said stiffly. “I would prefer water.” And then as he looked frankly surprised: “I won’t forget your request. After lunch I’ll go through my things and see if I can find something that will offend you less than this frock I’m wearing, and I apologise if I’m unsuitably dressed.”

  His well-cut lips curved a little, and the dry humour he indulged occasionally flashed out.

  “It isn’t so much a question of being unsuitably dressed, senhorita, as impractically dressed. You have a position to maintain—albeit for a very short while; and you can’t do that while wearing the wrong kind of clothes.”

  “No, senhor,” she said.

  He lifted his glass to her.

  “Water is a poor substitute for wine. If you were remaining in Portugal long enough I would rid you of your predilection for that tasteless beverage.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE meal was a series of minor disasters so far as Richard was concerned. He spilled his soup, he overturned a glass of lemonade, and his appetite failed when he was no more than a quarter of the way through.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said sullenly, when his great-uncle’s man of affairs expressed surprise when he looked away in aversion from a specially prepared fish dish.

  “But all small boys are hungry in the middle of the day.” The voice was sharp, the expression coldly critical. “You have just been several weeks at sea. You must have an appetite!”

  “But I haven’t” Richard swallowed. “As a matter of fact, I feel—I feel a bit sick!”

  “Richard!” Caroline exclaimed.

  “Nonsense!” de Capuchos overrode her impatiently. “You are merely attempting to attract attention to yourself. It is a bad habit ... And it seems to me you have been allowed to develop quite a few bad habits.” His dark, accusing glance swung to Caroline. “Ricardo is six, is it not?” he said. “Or is he seven years of age?”

  “He had his seventh birthday on board ship,” Caroline admitted. And then added hastily: “But he is very young for his age ... and rather small. He has always been delicate, and Senhora de Fonteira asked me to make allowances for him because of his delicacy. We often had to coax him to eat.”

  “That is purest nonsense,” the man declared. “School will put all that sort of thing right, and most fortunately we have already arranged for his admittance to a very excellent school.”

  “In—in Portugal?” Caroline heard herself enquiring, largely to make conversation because Richard looked as if the ultimate nightmare had engulfed him.

  Not merely had the rich fish dish turned queasy in his small inside, but his whole world was crumbling about his ears. This hard-faced man who sat opposite him, and carried out his uncle’s will, had already made it clear that Caroline was to be sent away from him at the earliest possible moment that she could be spared—which might be, literally, any moment, judging by the rigidity of that set expression!—and now he was hearing that he was to be despatched to school.

  “Naturally. Where else would he—a Portuguese!—be sent to school?”

  “I thought you might have plans to—to send him to England later on. To Eton ... I know his mother rather hoped that you would do that.”

  “His mother is English.” For that reason alone he apparently dismissed her as quite unimportant. “And in future she will not be consulted about the bringing up of her son.”

  “I—I see,” she said.

  His cold eyes raked her.

  “A woman who is apparently planning to marry after a very brief period of widowhood, and had so little interest in the boy that she couldn’t hand him over personally to me this morning, is hardly the ideal , mother to be consulted about the well-being of a child she is quite happy to discard,” Senhor de Capuchos stated bluntly.

  Caroline felt surprised and embarrassed at the same time.

  “So you know about that,” she said.

  “Of course we know about it! It is our business to know such things.” But how he had learned Caroline didn’t dare to ask.

  The really rather splendid dark eyes—and he had eyelashes thicker and blacker than any she had ever seen on a man before—regarded her as if she, as well as Ilse de Fonteira, was a somewhat despicable feminine creature of little or no account.

  “The only thing a boy of Ricardo’s age needs in his life is discipline,” he said. “Reasoned, dispassionate discipline. It would have been a disaster for him if he had been forced to remain tied to his mother’s apron-strings, and it would be almost as big a disaster if a young woman like yourself was permitted to have charge of him for any length of time. I have no doubt,” condescendingly, “that you have his interests at heart, and are perfectly capable of looking after really small children. But Ricardo is not a small child any longer. He is a boy of seven, and from now on he will be treated like a boy of seven. He will be handed over to the care of men, and consequently will thrive.”

  Caroline looked at Richard dubiously. She also felt distinctly shocked.

  “But you can’t deprive a—even a boy of seven—of some sort of contact with the opposite sex,” she ventured to remonstrate. “He really is no more than a baby. A governess—perhaps just for a year or so...?” with a faint hint of pleading in her voice, because Richard’s eyes were growing larger and larger, and his face looked pinched.

  De Capuchos nodded, and helped himself to a bunch of grapes from the well-filled bowl of fruit on the table.

  “Perhaps for a year or so, if he really is as undeveloped as you say. But she will be, I can assure you,” with emphasis, “very carefully selected!”

  “And Portuguese?”

  “Why not?”

  The hauteur in his black eyes was a challenge—almost an indignant challenge—and she asked herself why not, indeed? Since Richard would one day inherit a Portuguese title!

  “The Marques de Fonteira will, I’m sure, have his great-nephew’s interests at heart,” she observed a trifle bleakly, because she had no such happy conviction, and she really was devoted to children—all children, not simply and solely Richard. Who had become an important small person in the last few weeks.

 
“But naturally,” de Capuchos drawled.

  Richard watched an ice cream, garlanded with fruit and other delicacies, put in front of him— although he had shaken his head mutinously when consulted about a sweet, insisting that he didn’t want anything more—felt as if the ship was still heaving under his feet, and in point of fact it was growing a little rough, clapped both hands to his mouth and was violently sick.

  Caroline did the best that she could with her own table napkin, and with a face that seemed to be developing an additional hardness with every second that passed de Capuchos proffered his. The attentive waiters were really helpful now that the situation had got so badly out of hand, and one of them lifted Richard and bore him out of the dining-room. Caroline followed, and took her place in the lift beside a faintly moaning Richard as he was borne upwards to their suite.

  The Portuguese waiter smiled reassuringly at—Caroline.

  “The little one has just come ashore from a ship, and as yet he has not found his land-legs, no?” he suggested. “A rest and a starve and he will be much better.”

  Caroline agreed with him, and she could have added that a short period of being deprived of a sight of the dark, slightly swarthy, but nevertheless handsome and arrogant face of Senhor Vasco Duarte de Capuchos would complete the cure. Or it would if the period of deprivation was not too short.

  She got Richard cleaned up fairly quickly, and sat beside him in a darkened room once she had laid him on the outside of his bed. He confided to her that he had started to feel sick after breakfast that morning, when he knew that they were so soon going ashore, and all the strangeness of a new life awaited him. And in particular he was terrified lest she was going to be snatched away from him...