Anne Grant watched them wistfully and coloured when she saw that Mallory was looking at her. “Fiona always makes me feel old,” she said.
“But not too old.” Mallory turned to the General. “You’ll excuse us, sir?”
The General touched the champagne bottle lightly and raised his glass. “Enjoy yourselves while you can. I’ll make do with this.”
They moved into the centre of the floor. She slipped one arm about his neck and danced with her head on his shoul-der, her body pressed so closely against him that he could feel the line from breast to thigh.
For a moment, he forgot about everything except the fact that he was dancing with a warm, exciting girl whose per-fume filled his nostrils and caused a pleasant ache of long-ing in the pit of his stomach.
It had been a long time since he had slept with a woman, but that wasn’t the whole explanation. That Anne Grant attracted him was undeniable, but there was something more there, something deeper that for the moment was beyond his comprehension.
The music stopped, a pause between records, and they went back to their table. The others followed a few moments later, and as Fiona seated herself there was a burst of loud laughter from Jacaud and his two friends in the corner, fol-lowed by a remark in French, coarse and to the point and quite unprintable.
Guyon swung round, his face hardening. The three men returned his gaze boldly. He took one quick step towards them and Mallory caught him by the sleeve and pulled him down into his chair.
“Let it go.”
Guyon was shaking with suppressed anger. “You heard what he said?”
Fiona leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t let it upset you, Raoul. They’ve had a little too much to drink, that’s all.”
A shadow fell across the table and Mallory looked up into the face of the man he had heard Owen Morgan refer to as Marcel a little earlier. He was of medium height and wore denim pants and a blue seaman’s jersey. He was very drunk and clutched at the edge of the table to steady himself.
“I think you’d be better off sitting down,” Mallory told him in French.
Marcel ignored him, leaned across the table, knocking over a glass, and grabbed Anne by one arm. “You dance with me now? he mouthed in broken English.
Mallory grabbed for the man’s right arm just above the elbow, his thumb hooking into the pressure point. As he swung round, mouth opening in a cry of agony, Guyon kicked him under the right knee-cap. Marcel staggered backwards, lost his balance and sprawled across the other table. Jacaud pushed him to one side, got to his feet and moved forward.
He stood there, swaying slightly as if drunk, and yet the slate-grey eyes were as cold as ice, eternally watchful.
“Two to one, messieurs,” he said in excellent English. “You made the odds.”
Owen Morgan came round the bar on the run, face very white, eyes blazing. The big Frenchman sent him staggering inbackwards with a single, contemptuous shove of his hand and laughed harshly.
“He asked for it, Jacaud,” de Beaumont called sharply. “Let it end there.”
Jacaud ignored him and de Beaumont made no move to come down into the bar, gave no indication of being able or willing to control the situation. He stayed by the fire, a watchful expression on his face.
In that moment Mallory realised that the whole thing had been arranged. That for some reason of his own de Be-aumont had deliberately engineered the situation.
Guyon started to rise and Mallory pulled him down again. “My affair.”
Jacaud stood there swaying a little, still keeping up the pretence of being drunk, his great hands hooked slightly, every muscle tensed and ready. He lurched forward and stood over them.
“Of course, my friend might be willing to settle for a drink.” He nodded at the table. “A bottle of champagne would do.”
“Anything to oblige,” Mallory said calmly.
He reached for the bottle and, as he turned, reversed his grip and smashed it across the side of the Frenchman’s skull. As Anne cried out, Jacaud staggered and fell to one knee. Mallory picked up a chair, moved in fast and smashed it down across the great shoulders. Jacaud grunted, started to keel over and Mallory smashed the broken chair down again and again, until it splintered. He tossed it to one side and waited.