"No, really, Cobie, no one should look like you, it isn't
decent," exclaimed Susanna Winthrop, wife of the American
Envoy in London, to her foster-brother Jacobus Grant,
always called Cobie.
In reply he offered her his lazy smile over the breakfast
table — which was sufficient to exasperate her all over
again.
It wasn't just the classical perfection of his handsome
face, nor his athletic body, nor even the way in which he
wore his clothes, or his arrogant air of be damned to
everybody which all combined not only to fascinate and to
charm, but also to arouse a certain fear, even in those
who met him briefly, which was enraging her. No, it was
the whole tout ensemble which did the damage, so many
remarkable things combined together in one human male.
She was so fierce that he could not resist teasing her. He
said provokingly, "Well, nor am I decent. So what of that?"
For a brief moment the sexual attraction between them,
long dormant on Cobie's part, had been revived.
"That's what I mean," she retorted, still fierce. "To
answer me like you do! You've neither shame nor modesty —
and you only believe in yourself."
His brows lifted, and like Susanna he felt regret for the
love which had once existed between them, but was now
lost. Alas, that river had long flowed under the bridge,
and would not return again.
"Who better to believe in?" he asked, and his grin was
almost a child's, pure in its apparent innocence.
"Oh, you're impossible!" 'That, too," he agreed.
Susanna began to laugh. She could never be angry with
Cobie for long. She had loved him ever since she had first
met him when he was a fat baby and she was nearly ten
years old. He was the supposed adopted son of Jack and
Marietta Dilhorne — in actuality their own son, made
illegitimate by the machinations of Marietta's jealous
cousin Sophie. Susanna was the daughter of Marietta's
first husband and, as such, no blood relation of Cobie's.
Ten years ago their affection had blossomed into
passionate love, but Susanna had refused to marry him,
seeing the years between them as a fatal barrier. His calf-
love for her had inevitably died, but she was still
agonisingly aware that her passion for him was still
burning strongly beneath her apparent serenity. Susanna
had thought she knew him, but ever since he had arrived in
London she had begun to realise exactly how much Cobie had
changed — and how little she had.
Eight years ago he had returned from two years spent in
the American Southwest and the man he had become was
someone whom she hardly knew: a man quite unlike the
innocent and carefree boy whom she had refused. She had
married in his absence, and had spent her life alternately
trying to forget him, or wishing that she had married him,
and not her unexciting husband.
Her annoyance with Cobie this time was the consequence of
what had happened the night before at a reception which
she and her husband had given and which the cream of
London society had attended.
Inevitably — and unwillingly — Susanna had been compelled
to introduce Cobie to that society's most notorious
beauty, Violet, Lady Kenilworth, the Prince of Wales's
current mistress. She had known only too desolately well
what would follow when such a pair of sexual predators met
for the first time.
Belle amie of the heir to the throne Violet might be, but
she could not resist the challenge which Apollo — as she
had instantly named Cobie — presented to her.
"Half-sister?" she queried after Susanna had left
them. "You might call her that," Cobie replied in his
society drawl, which was neither English nor American but
something carefully pitched between the two.
"Might you?" Violet was all cool charm. "You're not a bit
like her, you know."
"No, I'm not," Cobie replied to this impertinent remark
which broke all society's rules — but Violet, like Cobie,
always made up her own. Then, with a touch of charming
impudence, "And are you like your sister, Lady Kenilworth?"
Violet threw her lovely head back to show the long line of
her throat, her blue eyes alight beneath the gold crown of
her hair. "God forbid!" she exclaimed. "We are quite
unlike in every way — to my great relief, she's the
world's greatest bore — and call me Violet, do."
Despite himself Cobie was intrigued. What in the world
could the sister be like who inspired Violet to be so
cuttingly cruel? Nevertheless he merely bowed and
said, "Violet, since you wish it. For my part I wish that
I were more like Susanna."
"I don't," said Violet, full of provocation. "Not if it
involved you turning into a dark young woman. I much
prefer tall, handsome, blond men."
Seeing that the Prince of Wales was neither tall nor blond
and was certainly not handsome, this riposte amused Cobie —
as it was intended to. Before he could reply, Violet was
busy verbally seducing him again.
"You are over from the States, I gather. Is it your first
visit? I do hope that you will make it a long one."
"It will be my first long visit," he replied, his mouth
curling a little in amusement at her naked sexual
aggression barely hidden beneath the nothings of polite
conversation. "I have made several short ones before — on
business."
"Business!" It was the turn of Violet's mouth to
curl. "Forgive me, but you seem made for pleasure."
The buttons were off the foils with a vengeance, were they
not!
"A useful impression to give if one wishes to succeed in
business —" he began.
"But not this visit —" she said sweetly, interrupting him —
so for quid pro quo he decided to interrupt her with,
"No, not this visit. I have been overworking and I need a
holiday."
"The overwork is truly American," pronounced Violet. "The
holiday part is not. I thought that Americans never
rested, were always full of — what is it? — get up and go!"
"Ah, another illusion shattered." Cobie was beginning to
enjoy himself. "The first of many, I hope. It all depends
on what kind of get up and go we are speaking of."
"All kinds, I hope," murmured Violet, lowering her eyes,
only to raise them again, saying, "Now we must part — to
entertain others. Before we do so, may I invite you to
visit us at Moorings, our place in the country. We go
there in ten days' time to spend a few weeks before the
Season proper starts.
"In the meantime, allow me to inform you that I am always
at home to my true friends from two o'clock. Pray don't
wait until four-fifteen — only the bores visit then."
Cobie bowed, and she moved away. He was aware that he had
become the centre of interest. He was, Susanna told him
later, socially made now that Violet Kenilworth had taken
him up. Not all the eyes on him were kind, among them
those of Sir Ratcliffe Heneage to whom Arthur Winthrop
introduced him later.
Sir Ratcliffe's eyes raked him dismissively. He was
everything which an American thought of as a typical
English aristocrat. He was tall, dark, impeccably dressed,
authoritative, well built with a hawk-like face. He was a
junior Cabinet Minister, a noted bon viveur, was part of
the Prince of Wales's circle, and had once been an officer
in the Guards.
The assessing part of Cobie, however, which never left
him, even when he was amusing himself, told him that,
disguise it as he might, Sir Ratcliffe was on the verge of
running to seed. His face was already showing the early
signs of over-indulgence.
"Related to Sir Alan Dilhorne, I hear," Sir Ratcliffe
drawled condescendingly to this damned American upstart,
only able to enter good society because of his immense
wealth — made by dubious means, no doubt.
"Distantly." Cobie's drawl matched Sir Ratcliffe's — he
made it more English than usual. "Only distantly."
"Getting old, Sir Alan — giving up politics, I hear.
That's a dog's life, you know. Can't think why I went in
for it. Who wants to sit around listening for division
bells and all that? Gives one a certain cachet, though.
You in politics back home?"
"Not my line," said Cobie cheerfully. "Too busy earning a
living." He wondered what had caused the waves of dislike
emanating from the man opposite. "Takes me all my time to
survive on Wall Street."
And, oh, what a lie that was!
Sir Ratcliffe's lip curled a little. "In business, are
you?" he asked, his tone showing what he thought of those
who worked for a living rather than played for it. "Sooner
you than me, old fellow. Miss it while you're over here,
will you?"
"I've come to enjoy myself," was Cobie's reply to that.
The man's patronising air was enough to set your teeth on
edge, he thought.
"Plenty of that on offer — if you know where to look for
it. Shoot, do you?"
"A little," lied Cobie, who was a crack shot with every
kind of weapon, but for some reason decided not to confess
to that. There were times when he wondered whether he
would ever be permitted the luxury of telling the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!
"A little, eh? Don't suppose you get much chance to shoot
anything in Wall Street, hey! hey! Or anywhere else for
that matter."
"Exactly," drawled Cobie, suppressing a dreadful urge to
tell the languid fool opposite to him that there had been
a time when Cobie Grant, then known as Jake Coburn, a six-
shooter in his hand, had been a man to fear and to avoid.
On the other hand, if Sir Ratcliffe chose to think him a
soft townie, then it was all to the good. It usually paid
to be underestimated.
At breakfast that morning, Susanna explained why Sir
Ratcliffe disliked him so much.
"He saw Violet was taken with you, didn't he? She was
looking at you as though you were a rather delicious meal
laid out for her to enjoy. He's been after her for months —
with no luck. He's made an ass of himself over the
Prince's favouring her. On top of that, the rumour is that
he's in Queer Street financially, and there's you, an
enormously rich Yankee, fascinating Violet without even
trying."
Of course, Sir Ratcliffe had been right to be jealous —
and so had Susanna, which was why she was reproaching
Cobie for being the man he was and not the man he had been.
Susanna had been only too well aware that Cobie would take
up Violet's two o'clock invitation at the earliest
opportunity — which he promptly did, that very afternoon.
At the Kenilworths' town house in Piccadilly he enjoyed,
for what it was worth, what a famous actress and beauty
had once called the hurly burly of the chaise-longue
rather than the deep peace of the marriage bed. One
disadvantage being that one remained virtually fully
clothed.
He also, a little reluctantly, agreed to visit Moorings
several days before the rest of the guests arrived. Violet
had smiled at him confidentially, and drawled, "As early
as you like so that we can enjoy ourselves in comfort."
Cobie was not sure that he wished his affair with her to
be more than a passing thing. Violet had not improved on
further acquaintance, and to some extent he was regretting
having pursued her at all — but he could not refuse to
visit Moorings without offending her — and he had no wish
to do that. It was plain that she saw him as a trophy, and
was determined to flaunt him before the rest of society.
He wondered a little what the Prince of Wales would think
of Violet taking a second lover, but she made nothing of
that.
"I understand that your nickname in the States is The
Dollar Prince," were her final words to him, "which means
that I now have two of such name."
He was tempted to say, "No, Violet, you certainly don't
have me," but he was well aware that it would be unwise to
make an enemy of her, so he merely bowed in
acknowledgement of her mild witticism when taking his
leave before the bores arrived at four o'clock.
Well, at least he would be able to enjoy living for a few
weeks in one of the most spectacularly beautiful country
houses in England, even if he did have to pay for it by
pleasuring Violet!