The House of Seven Fountains by Anne Weale Page A

matrimony soon palls in the East, and we’re all very broadminded.”
    Her distaste must have been reflected in her face, for his cynical grin faded and he said quickly, “What’s the matter? Is your drink sour?”
    She shook her head. This was not the moment for an argument on ethics, and no doubt Julian would think her hopelessly naive if she revealed that she was not as broadminded as her compatriots. Although she had hated the careless way he had referred to the blonde’s “little diversions,” she did not want to lose his support at this juncture.
    Unaware of the true reason for her look of displeasure, Julian went on to describe the background and characteristics of the other club members. He had paused to order another whiskey when a voice cried, “Why, Julian, you naughty boy! Why didn’t you come to my party on Friday?”
    A small, stout woman with bright dark eyes and an elaborate blue-rinsed coiffure had come up behind them and was regarding Julian with mingled reproof and coquetry.
    “Hello, Madge. Sorry about the party. I had to work that night. Didn’t you get my note?” Julian said, kissing her plump fingers with a flourish.
    “Working? I don’t believe it. I suppose you had a more interesting assignation with one of your Chinese beauties, you wicked creature,” she said archly, giving him a playful rap with her fan.
    Julian coughed and looked slightly discomfited.
    “Madge, this is Miss Vivien Connell,” he said a shade too hastily. “Vivien ... Mrs. Carshalton.”
    “Welcome to Mauping, my dear,” Mrs. Carshalton said, her eyes flickering over Vivien’s face and figure in a swift but comprehensive inspection. “So you’re Mr. Cunningham’s goddaughter. We were all so shocked by his death. Such a wonderful man.”
    “Did you know him well?” Vivien asked, rather surprised at this remark in view of what she had been told about her godfather’s standing in Mauping.
    “Well ... not intimately, of course. Like so many brilliant men, he was rather reserved, you know. But I always had the greatest admiration for him, and if there is anything I can do to help you, you must let me know at once.”
    “That’s very kind of you.”
    “Nonsense, I shall be delighted. I think it’s most courageous of you to come here all by yourself. How do you like the house?”
    “I haven’t had time to explore it thoroughly yet,” Vivien said.
    “No, I suppose not. Julian, why don’t you bring Miss Connell over to our table? Everyone is anxious to meet her, and it’s very selfish of you to keep her to yourself, although—” with a roguish laugh “—she is so pretty that I can’t really blame you.”
    For the next hour Vivien found herself being introduced to a succession of strangers, all of whom spoke of the late John Cunningham in such glowing terms that she could hardly credit that her godfather had been a cantankerous recluse at loggerheads with his fellow Europeans. Yet, Julian himself had confirmed what Mr. Adams had told her.
    She was listening to a long and complicated anecdote told by a florid-faced man with a ginger mustache when Mrs. Carshalton suddenly began to wave to a new arrival and, looking around, Vivien saw a girl of about her own age standing by the door.
    “Cara, darling, come and join us,” Mrs. Carshalton called, and after a momentary hesitation the girl strolled toward them.
    Even if she had not possessed a tall, perfectly proportioned figure and classic features, Cara Maitland would have attracted attention. Her coloring was that rare combination of black hair, blue eyes and milk-white skin, dramatized by the dress of scarlet chiffon that she wore with the superb nonchalance of a professional mannequin. It was cut like a Grecian tunic, leaving one pale shoulder bare, and clasped at the waist by a narrow belt of silver kid. She wore a silver bracelet studded with enormous imitation rubies around one delicately shaped wrist, and her long, tapered nails were lacquered to