Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 6: The Enigmatic Rake / The Lord And The Mystery Lady / The Wagering Widow / An Unconventional Widow - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 12

Rather than a more conventional honeymoon, perhaps in the Italian Lakes or on the romantic shores of the Adriatic, Lord and Lady Joshua Faringdon took themselves, the children and their household to the attractive estate on the edge of Richmond. After the flurry of activity to prepare for the wedding, by the bride at least, the rural tranquillity was a blessing, and an opportunity for the new family to become better acquainted. And not merely the bride and groom. Sarah would have been particularly interested in a private conversation between Lord Joshua Faringdon and Master John Russell when she was not present. She might have blushed at her son’s blunt style, but she would not have been surprised and would certainly not have been displeased at the outcome.

‘Sir.’ Joshua looked up to see the boy standing just inside the open library door one morning, the opportunity still there for flight if his courage failed him. ‘Sir… Will you now be my father?’

Ah. He should have expected this—but perhaps not quite so soon. John, it seemed, was as expedient as his mother. Joshua held out his hand to encourage the child to approach. ‘No. Your father is Captain John Russell, for whom you are named.’ And waited.

‘Yes.’ John nodded. ‘He was a hero and died in a battle. Mama told me. He sailed a ship all by himself.’

‘He did.’

‘He was very brave, but he died.’ A thoughtful pause as John leaned against the polished desk, rubbing the edge with none-too-clean fingers. ‘Does Mama like you?’

‘I hope so.’ Joshua fought against the irresistible ripple of laughter that threatened his composure. ‘She likes me enough to live with me.’

Which was accepted with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Will we always live here, sir?’

‘Some of the time.’ A catechism, no less! Much like Lady Beatrice, he decided, so he was well practised in fielding questions. But where was this leading?

‘Where else? Shall I like it?’

‘In London, which you know. I have an estate in Yorkshire that I think you will like. And perhaps one day you will come with me to Paris.’

‘Can I ride a horse in Yorkshire?’ Paris as yet had no such attraction. ‘I used to in New York. I was very good!’

Considering his age, Joshua doubted it, but recognised the ambition and had no intention of shattering dreams. He kept his face solemn despite the gleam in his eyes. ‘Of course. And here too. We can ride in the Park.’

‘I like horses more than ships,’ the boy confided. ‘I was sick when we sailed here. Will Beth be my sister?’

The change of subject did not throw his lordship. ‘Yes. Does that worry you?’

‘No.’ John glanced at his lordship under fair brows, assessing. ‘She likes her own way.’

‘I expect she does. Women often do. They enjoy managing.’ Joshua leaned his arms on the desk, angled his head, still waiting.

John frowned, accepting but not quite understanding. ‘I can almost run as fast as she can.’ Then: ‘What do I call you?’

So this was it. There was a lot of Sarah in this splendid child.

Not just his colouring, but his squared shoulders and determined stance. And his courage. The unknown Captain Russell should be very proud of his son, as should his mama. Perhaps one day… But there was a serious matter to be settled here.

‘Can I suggest…’ Joshua’s reply was gentle, full of understanding of the child’s insecurities. ‘Captain Russell is your father and for now you will keep his name. But you could call me Papa, as Beth does. That might be easier. Do you think?’

John thought. ‘Yes, sir. Papa. I can do that.’ His face was lit by a sudden disarming grin. ‘I’m glad I asked. I must go now. Mama says I still have to have lessons.’

He ran to the door in some relief.

‘John…’

‘Yes…Papa?’

‘Ah… it does not matter.’ He did not know what he wished to say after all. ‘This afternoon we will ride in the park.’

‘Yes!’And left.

Which was a pretty good outcome for a morning’s work.

When Sarah heard her son address Joshua as Papa for the first time that very afternoon, her head whipped round, a range of expressions on her face. If her life had depended on it, she could not have explained her emotions in that one moment. Her lord saw and understood.

‘It was his choice,’ Joshua explained when the children were out of earshot. ‘He knows that John Russell is his father. But it is simpler for him this way. We came to a…an understanding. At present he likes horses better than ships, so I am an attractive prospect as the owner of an extensive stable.’ A smile—a little wry—touched his face. ‘Unless you object, of course.’

‘No. No—how could I?’ A flame of heat warmed her heart for this man who could take her and her son with such ease. Perhaps one day they would have children of their own. It was by no means an unpleasant prospect. Sarah turned back to watch her son, who was longingly and impatiently clinging to the head of a lively pony, hoping to hide the sudden heat in her cheeks.

Beth quickly came to her own understanding with Sarah. A pragmatic child as ever, she decided that she would address Sarah as Mama and did so in her solemn fashion from the very beginning.

The relaxed days in Richmond also gave Lord and Lady Faringdon time and space in which to discover each other. Sarah learnt that although her husband might appear stern, sometimes austere and given to moments of deep distraction, he was blessed with an appreciation of the ridiculous and a quick infectious grin. He was a man who liked matters arranged to his own way of thinking, but could be sensitive and thoughtful of her needs too. It was a shock to have her desires preempted, her wishes attended to, sometimes before she had even voiced them. How could she not love a man so stunningly attractive, so graciously disposed towards her? Sometimes he surprised her by his impulsive actions. He was very Faringdon, she decided as she observed Joshua ordering their removal from London to Richmond. There were traits of both Henry and Nicholas here, particularly his impatience when thwarted. But those two gentlemen had never made her heart race, brought a blush to her cheeks or a tingle to the surface of her skin at the very thought of the man’s touch. Even the slightest brush of his hand on her arm was enough to stir a heat in her belly. A response to him that she became very adept at masking.

When he came to her at night, Lord Joshua continued to be careful of her. Gentle at all times. He made no demands on her with which she might be uncomfortable. A man of honour in all things, she thought, no matter the scandals that surrounded his name. Perversely, she felt just a touch of disappointment. What would it be like if her lord felt real passion for her— to love her, to possess her with such intensity, such lack of control as to rob her of her will and her choice? She thought she might like it. Then blushed an even deeper hue. And had to accept that she lacked the confidence or knowledge to do anything about it.

But of course she did not expect her lord to be carried away, his control destroyed, in the heat of an overwhelming passion, did she?

Joshua at first found his wife shy. But then, perhaps not shy. It was just that she was not at ease with him yet. He had learnt very quickly that she needed encouragement to relax and be herself. She thought too much about what people might think of her, if they would approve of her, if they would be critical of her actions and opinions. She had a gentle humour, a tendency to chuckle before she became aware and stopped herself. But her quiet blue eyes would still dance. Patient, generous with her time, she lavished love openly on the children, Beth as well as John, determined that they should never lack for affection. Joshua watched her with a sharp prick of guilt for it seemed that Sarah knew his daughter better than he did. For herself, she needed to know that she was wanted, appreciated. When he came to her bed, a freedom within their relationship that he could not resist, she responded to his needs readily enough. But here, too, there was a reserve that made him hold back, prevented him from making too many demands on her. It pleased him that she slept easily in his arms.

Whatever the difficulties, they found a rapport in the days together. And a startling moment of illumination for both of them.

It became customary on mild days to ride in the expanse of Richmond Park, Lord Joshua with the two children. Sarah did not accompany them, but one afternoon, on her son’s insistence, went to the stables to admire his prowess. Joshua handed his horse to a groom and walked toward her, a welcoming smile.

‘Will you join us?’

‘No.’ Sarah shook her head, but he caught a glimpse of what he interpreted as regret.

On a thought he asked, ‘Can you ride?’ He had never considered that she could not, merely that it was not to her taste. Theodora rode, so he had presumed that her sister did also.

‘No. Our horses were sold.’

Of course. He had not thought of that. A childhood blighted by lack of resources, a profligate father and a feckless mother. Horseflesh would be the first luxury to be sold. He saw the faint colour in her face at the admission, but did not embarrass her with further comment.

‘Do you wish to? I can teach you.’

Sarah hesitated, finding herself struggling between a sharp desire to achieve that skill for herself, yet not wishing to put the burden of her inexperience on to anyone. Certainly not on to Joshua, who probably had his hands full with her son’s enthusiastic efforts. She must not be demanding of his time more than she already was. So: ‘No, but thank you for your kind offer. You go on. You will enjoy the air. I shall take a turn in the garden.’

He would have allowed her to turn away, to deny her interest, but her voice held so wistful a note. He realised in that moment that Sarah had lived her whole life at the whim of others, doing what would please them, never putting her own wishes forward. So much unlike his own life, where the desires of the Faringdon heir were paramount. Well, he would change all that. Today, she would be given the desires of her heart.

‘Sarah.’ He stretched out his hand to grasp hers, to stop her making a retreat. ‘Would you truly wish to ride?’

‘Not an animal such as that.’ She laughed, retreating into light humour, effectively hiding any personal inclination with consummate skill. She had been doing it for years, Lord Joshua decided. And he had only just come to realise it. He watched her as with a shake of her head she indicated her lord’s dark bay stallion, which was in process of pawing up the turf.

‘Sarah… ‘ He allowed just a hint of impatience to creep in.

She heard it. ‘I might.’ To agree was to escape.

‘Go and find something to wear.’ Definitely a command.

‘But I—’

‘We will wait for you.’

In a mild panic, Sarah cast an eye over to where the children were growing impatient.

‘Go on, Scheherazade.’ Joshua clasped her shoulders, turned her round and gave her a gentle but definite push in the direction of the house.

Sarah stalked off. She never stalked—but on this occasion she felt like it, ordered about as if she were a servant. Scheherazade indeed! The thought brought a shocked giggle to her throat, unsure of which emotion took precedence. Terrible nerves at the coming ordeal, disapproval of being ordered to ride whether she wished to or not or…or delight that she might actually, at last, learn to ride a horse.

Within the half hour Lady Faringdon marched back again into the stableyard, clad in plain skirt and close-fitting jacket, accompanied by an obvious cloud of indignation and an invisible but strong bout of nerves.

‘I don’t at all know of the wisdom of this… ‘ The frown between her brows was directed at her lord. Until her attention was caught by a movement in the stable doorway. ‘Oh…’

‘Mama. This is Jewel.’ A groom beside him to hold her head, John held the end of the reins of a little mare, so pale grey as to be almost white. Soft and gentle, perfectly proportioned, a lady’s riding horse with side saddle. Exactly like a painted palfrey, all neat lines and elegantly curving neck, glowing in the winter sunshine as if from a gilded medieval illustration.

‘She’ll look after you.’ Joshua could only smile at his wife’s obvious enchantment with the little animal. If any mare in his stable could entice a reluctant lady to risk the dangers of a first ride, it was The Jewel. And, he knew as he watched her, his wife was just as enchanting as the mare. ‘This is one of Nick’s breeding from Aymestry. She is a gentle little animal, as comfortable a ride as a feather bed. You need have no concerns of her running off with you. She will go to sleep on her feet if you let her.’

‘Well!’ Sarah was speechless. She stroked the satin coat and almost purred as the mare turned dark, long-lashed eyes on her. ‘You are so very pretty.’ The mare promptly sighed and leaned her shoulder against her. Sarah fell instantly in love. Now she had two objects of unreserved love in her life other than her son, she realised. And both of them Faringdon.

‘Come then, my lady.’ Lord Joshua gave her no time to renege, lifted her into the saddle, helped her hook her knee in place with brisk efficiency, held her as she arranged her skirt in graceful folds. ‘The Jewel will do nothing that you do not ask of her.’ He enfolded her hands in his, gave them a light pressure. And made her a promise. ‘And I will not allow any harm to come to you.’ He swung up onto the back of the well-mannered bay and was rewarded by a smile that illuminated his wife’s face with such joy and beauty that it took his breath away.

So they rode in the Park. As a family, Sarah thought, a family of her own. As she had always longed to do. Nothing could have given her greater pleasure. She was nervous, but The Jewel was as precious as her name, as placid, as careful of her rider’s comfort, as had been promised. Sarah could not believe the level of happiness that threatened to overflow and reduce her to emotional tears. She swiped at the dampness on her lashes before anyone could see. The shame and terrors of the past receded into distant impenetrable mist whilst at the centre of her existence was Joshua Faringdon, her world, her universe, filling her heart with love.

The pleasure for Lord Joshua Faringdon was quite simply to see his wife’s delight. The colour, delicate rose, in her face. To hear her laugh when she succeeded in mastering the mare’s slow trot without loss of dignity. He felt the splendour of it as a blow to his gut, a heavy thud of admiration and also of arousal. The desire to draw her close and caress her, mouth to mouth, soft curves to hard planes, her sweet breath mingling with his.

He blinked against the image. And set himself to ignore it. Of course it pleased him to give his wife pleasure. What man could not be moved by the sight of so attractive a lady basking in a new-found confidence and praise from those around her. Any man would feel a need to touch and hold her. It was nothing more complicated than that.

All in all, it was a most satisfactory sojourn at Richmond for everyone. There was only one matter to catch Sarah’s notice and gave her cause for speculation. She found herself remembering Millington’s comments on the anonymous individuals who visited Joshua in London. And the deluge of correspondence to come through the door. The visitors and correspondence followed them to Richmond.

‘Who was that?’ Sarah asked one evening, crossing the path of an unknown gentleman who bowed and wished her good night as he made his way to the front door.

‘My lawyer.’ Joshua’s reply came without hesitation.

‘Is he connected with Mr Hoskins?’ Sarah was acquainted with Hoskins, the Faringdon family’s man of legal affairs.

‘Ah. Yes. A new member of the firm.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Why, no.’ Joshua smiled at his wife and held out his hand in welcome. ‘I have an interest in purchasing some land, which he is dealing with. That is all.’

With which Sarah had to be content. Of course he would have business interests. What gentleman of considerable fortune would not?

The Faringdon family returned and took up residence in Hanover Square.

One of Sarah’s first dilemmas was the continuing position of Millington in the household. She remembered his depredations in the wine cellar and her own distressing encounter with him of a more personal nature. With her lord’s permission to dismiss and choose the servants as she saw fit, it would be a matter of common sense to appoint a new butler. But now that she could, she did not at all know that she wished to do so. As she thought about it, the little smile that curved her lips grew, recalling with a degree of affection his part in the French banquet and the subsequent celebration in the servants’ hall. Millington had risen to her support, a positive champion, with aplomb, unquestionable arrogance and an impressive French accent, overseeing the serving of the meal with supercilious hauteur. Not to mention the appearance of the bottles of claret in which they had toasted the defeat of the Countess of Wexford. So Millington remained as butler in the Faringdon household, but with strict instructions as to the amount of port he might consume in any one week.

Within the first week of their return, Lady Joshua Faringdon found herself in receipt of an invitation to pay a morning visit on the Countess of Painscastle in Grosvenor Square. Presenting herself at the appropriate time, she was far from surprised to find Theodora already sitting comfortably with Judith, both awaiting the bride’s appearance. Both were sipping glasses of madeira, both looked up as she entered. Sarah immediately realised that she had been the topic under discussion and with quick understanding set herself to repel any questions of an intimate nature.

She need not have bothered. There was no hope of her holding out with dignity under the scrutiny of two determined ladies.

They rose to greet her, sat her down, presented her with a glass of madeira and proceeded to quiz her on her state of health, her enjoyment of the wedding, her appreciation of the house in Richmond and, of course, her new relationship with Lord Joshua Faringdon.

‘So how is the bride?’ Thea surveyed her critically over the rim of her glass.

‘Very well, Thea. As you see.’ She winced at the prim note in her voice, but determined to give nothing more away.

‘Are you enjoying being a married lady again?’

‘Yes, indeed. Most enjoyable.’

‘I expect your stay in Richmond gave you the opportunity to get to know Joshua better.’

‘Why, yes.’

‘Does Joshua please you?’ There was just a hint of impatience in Thea now. Perhaps the clue was the slight tapping of her foot against the Aubusson carpet.

‘Of course.’ Sarah gripped the stem of her glass rather more firmly and took a fortifying sip.

‘Sarah!’ Thea sighed. ‘Is he virile?’

‘Theodora!’ Judith cast her a look no more horrified than Sarah’s.

‘What?’ The lady’s brows rose in perfect astonishment. ‘We want to know, do we not? And if I do not ask Sarah outright, she will never tell us!’

‘He is my brother!’ Judith explained. ‘It does not seem to me suitable to be discussing such matters of Sher’s…of his… Well! You know what I mean!’

‘Well, I can discuss it. You are suddenly very mealy-mouthed, Ju.’ Thea turned back to her sister with a laugh and a sparkle in her delphinium-blue eyes. ‘Sarah. Did Joshua make you happy?’

The tell-tale colour began to creep up the bride’s throat from the fashionable ruched neckline of her morning gown. ‘Yes. He gave me The Jewel for my own.’

‘That is not what I meant, as you very well know.’

‘I know,’ Sarah admitted, but her smile was now mischievous.

Are you not going to say?’

‘No.’

‘You look very happy.’

‘I am.’

‘Does he give you pleasure? Is he a good lover?’

‘Oh, yes.’ By now Sarah’s cheeks were as pink as a June rose. ‘Oh, yes!’

They laughed. For indeed there could be no doubting it. Thea and Judith clucked in a maternal fashion, Judith pouring more glasses of madeira so that they might toast the bride. Because Sarah Faringdon positively glowed. And her friends were more delighted for her than they would ever have admitted.

It became necessary later within that week for the object of their intense discussion also to pay a morning visit on his sister, fortunately for his dignity knowing nothing of the previous conversation. The visit to Richmond had been more pleasurable than he could have imagined, for a surprising number of reasons, not least his attraction to Sarah herself, his increasing desire to make her happy. So when a thought came into his mind, one that he could not resolve, he decided to pay a visit on Judith.

‘Sher. At last. I am delighted to see you.’ Judith kissed his cheek. ‘How well you look. And completely healed, I see. No cane and no limp. Country life has been good for you.’

‘I am very well.’ He grinned at her obvious ploy, but shook his head before kissing her cheek.

‘I have seen Sarah. She said she enjoyed Richmond. She certainly looks in the pink of health.’ The lady’s sly smile was also ignored.

‘I need your advice, Ju. I wish to buy Sarah a wedding gift.’

Judith laughed. ‘So?’

‘I have no idea what. She can be very… Well, I was hoping for some help. You probably know her the best of any of us.’

‘Joshua!’ Judith blinked at this ingenuous admission, but was immediately caught up in the project, although not without a sharp dig. ‘And I thought you knew women so well.’

‘But not Sarah, it seems.’

‘There is always jewellery, of course.’

‘No. That is not what I want.’ Joshua frowned a little. He knew instinctively that his wife would have difficulty in accepting precious stones. ‘Besides, she will have the Faringdon jewels that Lady Beatrice has promised to hand over.’

‘Mmm. If Mama will part with them. Let me see… You pay for her clothes anyway… ‘

‘Of course.’

Judith thought for a moment, eyes narrowed, contemplating the young woman whom she had indeed come to know well. ‘I know exactly what Sarah would like. It is easily done, but will take some organisation. Let me talk to you about this.’

It took a week to put the plan into operation. It demanded some organisation, as Judith had intimated, some surreptitious furniture moving in Hanover Square, some expenditure on Joshua’s part, the compliance and secrecy of the Faringdon servants and, finally, a need for Judith and Thea to arrange to remove Sarah from her home for a whole day. Sarah suspected nothing underhand when the morning visit to Thea became a light luncheon, then a drive around Hyde Park and finally a visit to a number of establishments in Bond Street with her sister and Judith. She arrived home in the growing dusk of late afternoon, pleasantly weary, changed her clothes, spent some time with Beth and John, who appeared to be particularly excitable, and at last went to search out the whereabouts of Lord Joshua, whom she had not set eyes on since leaving the breakfast table. For some reason she found him awaiting her in the entrance hall.

She smiled as she descended the stairs. He could not but smile back as he waited and watched her. She had no idea how lovely she was, he realised, or how her looks and her demeanour had unfurled as a rose with the warmth of the morning sun since her marriage. He could not help but experience a degree of purely masculine pride at the thought. Her skin was flawless, her eyes shining, enhanced by the favourite viola-blue of her gown. Her neat figure could not but attract attention as she conducted herself with confidence and a charming simplicity. Her fair curls gleamed softly in the light, held in place by rosettes of satin ribbon to match her gown. She had banished the lace cap—he had insisted that she banish the cap! Now she appeared as she was, a young matron of wealth, style and the gentlest degree of sophistication. That was Sarah.

‘Sarah.’ He took her hand, would have kissed her fingers, but could not resist drawing her closer to press his mouth to hers, a lingering pressure, a memory of more heated kisses, despite the possibility of their privacy being broached. It did not matter. She was his wife and he… What exactly? He did not know, except that he was coming to care for her… although care suddenly seemed too mild a word to describe the manner in which his pulse picked up its beat when he set eyes on her. Or even thought about her. But he deliberately banished from his mind the uncertainty of his exact emotions. Because here in the following few minutes a greater uncertainty was in the process of unfolding. Would the lady appreciate what he had done?

‘Joshua.’ She coloured, a delicate brush of rose, but let him hold her a little longer. Why not? It was the stuff of dreams after all, to see him standing there, all Faringdon magnificence, waiting for her, waiting to take her into his arms, to claim her lips with his own. What woman would not dream of that? She sighed softly and looked up at him. ‘Were you waiting for me?’ Just a little breathless as she noted the fiery heat in his eyes.

‘I was. It was in my mind that I would like to give you something. A wedding gift.’

‘Is it a diamond necklace? A parting gift?’ Her nose wrinkled deliciously. But was it humour or concern here?

He did not smile. In fact, his expression became quite severe. ‘Are you dissatisfied with me as a husband after a mere few weeks, ma’am?’

‘No.’

‘Well, neither am I with you as my wife. So, no, it is not a diamond necklace. Although, if you find a desire to sparkle and impress at a ball or soirée, there is at least one in the Faringdon collection.’

‘I might.’ She chuckled as he tucked her hand companionably through his arm to lead her back up the stairs in the direction from which she had just come. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Wait and see.’

Sarah knew the house well. Had she not been responsible for its cleaning and furbishment? So when he led her to the rarely-used parlour on the first floor with its view over the square and its garden she looked up, a quizzical expression. Her lord refused to respond, but opened the door and ushered her in before him. Then stood back to test the waters.

Sarah walked forward to stand in the centre of the room. Then turned slowly in a full circle. Of course, she knew this room as well as any of the others. The wall paper was still the Chinese silk, a little worn but deliciously festooned with pale pink and blue cranes and chrysanthemums on a silver background. The tall windows let in what was left of the evening light, to warm the pale marble of the Grecian fireplace. All of this she knew. But as for the rest, it was all quite different and effectively robbed her of speech. The curtains and swags that had suffered from age and faded over the years from the heat of the sun had been replaced with splendid new drapes of cream and silver silk damask. All the dust sheets had been removed from the furniture—and that too had changed. Her eyes flew to her lord’s in astonishment.

‘Do you like it?’ He stepped forward to light a branch of candles at her side, the soft flames adding a further layer of charm to the little room.

Sarah’s mouth opened, but she could find nothing to say.

‘It is yours.’ Joshua found a need to explain. ‘Thea would call it a boudoir. It is a wedding gift to you. I…er…took advice…’ A moment of horror suddenly silenced him. ‘From Judith,’ he added quickly, in case she should think it might be Olivia Wexford.

Sarah laughed softly in appreciation, then turned again to survey the full magnificence of the gift. Small and decorative pieces of furniture suitable for a lady’s sitting room or boudoir had been collected from various rooms in the house, with the notable addition of some new pieces. Walnut, rosewood, all light and well polished, inlaid with various and decorative woods, they seduced her senses and beckoned her to enter and claim it as her own. Two bergère chairs with gilded sides and cushioned seats to match the drapes stood on either side of the fireplace to accommodate any guests Sarah might wish to entertain, between them a sofa with scrolled ends, upholstered in cream silk, perfect for a lady to take her ease. A side table rested beside the wall next to a beautiful writing desk with a tambour top, which had been shrouded in a dust sheet, unused, in the morning room when Sarah had first come to the house. On the walls were two of her own framed paintings of rural scenes, last seen in the schoolroom. A small bookcase stood beside the fireplace—she had never seen that before—with some favourite novels in marbled covers—which hinted at Thea’s influence. She saw an inlaid work table for her silks and embroideries, nothing like the old battered box she used in the schoolroom. All tastefully enhanced by a satinwood firescreen, a gilt-edged mirror above the fireplace, silver candlesticks, an extravagantly pale carpet and—oh, wonders!—a pianoforte beneath the window, of rosewood and satinwood inlay, its ivory notes gleaming softly and simply demanding to be played.

‘Well?’

Sarah walked to the pianoforte to stroke a few notes. They sounded soft and clear in the still room.

‘Sarah.’ Her silence was unnerving. ‘Will you put me out of my misery? I remember you once returned something so trivial as a coat that you thought I should not have given you. What will you do if this does not please you?’

‘Does not please me? How could it not?’ Now she turned to him. The smile on her face stopped his words. And the tears that coursed silently down her cheeks.

‘Sarah!’ His arms opened wide and she simply walked into them, to lay her forehead against his shoulder and weep. ‘Don’t weep, Scheherazade. We shall both be drowned. I will take it all back if that is your wish.’ But he knew there was no danger of that. He had seen the pure joy in her face. Everything was good. His heart clenched hard in a foolish beat of triumph as he pressed his lips against her hair.

‘No one has ever shown me such kindness. It is beyond anything I could imagine.’ She wiped away the tears with unsteady fingers. ‘I love it.’ She risked a glance at his face. ‘I suspect you had help here.’

‘Indeed I did!’ He waved his arm to encompass the room. ‘This is beyond me. But you have some good friends. And your children love you. The flowers are from Beth.’ They bloomed, waxy hellebores, in a little crystal vase on the side table.

‘It is beautiful. All of it. And the pianoforte… I cannot express how I feel. You have no idea how happy it has made me.’

And that, of course, was all that he desired to hear.

It put Sarah, being Sarah, into something of a difficulty.

A room of her own. A boudoir. How extravagant in the extreme. But it pricked her conscience. What could she possibly give Joshua in return? It behoved her to give him some symbol of her gratitude and—well—her love. But she could hardly spend his own money on a gift for him. It needed some serious thought. And eventually some skilful application of her talents. The result was a small package wrapped in silk, left on Joshua’s desk in the library with his name inscribed on a single sheet of paper.

Where Joshua duly found it. And that was so like Sarah, he thought, his smile a little sad. That she should leave it for him rather than present it personally, rather than risk his displeasure or disappointment. His constant dream was that one day she would find the courage to stand before him and speak her mind—and damn the consequences. Perhaps one day she would. But not yet. He unwrapped the silk to extract a small portrait, little more than a miniature, painted in water-colour on ivory. An image of a young girl, head and shoulders only, with dark eyes and dark hair released and allowed to curl onto her cheeks, ribbons in her hair. The edging of her dress, a soft blue, just visible, brought colour to her cheeks. She had a smile on her lips and looked out at him confidently.

Beth, of course.

And, more importantly, Sarah’s work.

It was a good likeness, painted with a free hand to give a sense of youth and energy. The Beth he was coming to know, in fact, rather than the stiff, formal child who had arrived so short a time ago. The frame, too, was of Sarah’s making, silk embroidered with tiny flowers stretched and pinned over a wooden frame. A pretty thing, guaranteed to please. It still lay before him on the desk when Beth came into the library to select a book. She came to stand beside him to look at what took his attention.

‘That is me,’ she stated with delightful self-importance.

His teeth glinted in a smile. ‘It looks like you. And very pretty.’

She preened just a little and moved closer so that he was able to draw her into the circle of his arm. Beth leaned against him and touched his hand where it held the portrait. ‘Mama painted it.’ It still gave him a little jolt of pleasure to hear the word on his daughter’s lips. ‘It is good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. She is very talented.’

‘Do you like it?’ Beth had the persistence of the young.

‘Yes.’ He touched the painted face gently with his fingertips. ‘I shall keep it here on my desk, perhaps, so that I can see it when you are not curled on that window seat. What do you think?’

Beth nodded, perfectly satisfied with the arrangement. ‘Mama is painting another of John. It will take her a long time.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He does not sit still. It sometimes makes Mama quite cross. She says John will be all of one and twenty before it is complete.’

Joshua grinned. ‘I can well imagine.’

* * *

Later in the day, he found Sarah on her way to the kitchen to speak on some domestic matter with Mrs Beddows.

‘Sarah…’ She came toward him with a light step, a smile.

‘Thank you, my lady. Your style, as always, is excellent.’ Joshua knew from the quick flush of colour in his wife’s face that he did not need to say more. He smoothed his knuckles over her cheek, soft and intimate, before lowering his head to kiss the corner of her mouth. Sarah returned the caress and then escaped before her inner delight overcame her.

So it would appear that some warm and blossoming depth of closeness and understanding would bless the marriage of Lord Joshua Faringdon and his new bride. But it was equally apparent to the two individuals concerned that this rapport was not to be replicated when his lordship came to his lady’s bed, something that Lord Joshua continued to be by no means averse to doing. But by this time Joshua was being forced to keep command of his patience. He had always considered himself to be a patient man, and one who was perfectly ready to indulge the whims of a pretty woman. But in these circumstances, with his own wife, he found himself completely at a loss.

They were making no progress. His wife was willing, welcoming. She never refused him intimacy. She accepted his kisses, his caresses, the demands of his body with perfect equanimity. But it ended there. She had effectively built a wall between them based on restraint and reserve and an inability—or at least a refusal—to communicate on the matter. She said what he would wish to hear, thanked him most politely when he asked if she was content. Reacted as he would wish her to react. But she never allowed her own control to slip for one moment. Never encouraged, never initiated. Never allowed him to take her over the slippery edge of delight to her own fulfilment. Never indicated what her own pleasure or preference might be.

It was, he decided, like making love to a lovely doll. She resisted any attempt to leave the candles burning as if she could only consent to his touch when her face and her responses were cloaked in darkness. She did not have a dislike of him, of that he was certain. Nor did she dislike his advances. But he was the one to take the initiative. He was the one to take his pleasure. As for hoping that she would talk about it… Well, he had had no success there. She smiled and complied with his every demand, but gave nothing of herself. He did not know what to do. If he were honest, he was aware of a creeping hint of despair as the weeks passed and Sarah grew no more responsive.

And Sarah? She yearned for her lord’s touch, his heated kisses, the slick heat of his body against hers. The sheer weight of him when he crushed her to the soft mattress in ultimate possession. But she could go no further than that. She feared any adverse reaction to her clumsy attempts to respond to his love making: his pity, his disapproval, his dissatisfaction, even his condemnation. How would she exist if he were to find her wanting, turned away to take his satisfaction elsewhere? And she feared even more to reveal her love for him, her delight in his arms, her desire to allow him to push those amazing sensations further, so that she might lose herself in the splendour of being held and caressed by him. So what was left for her if it were necessary to mask her emotions? A calm and restrained acceptance. When her heart yearned for more.

It was very strange, Sarah thought when they had been returned to Hanover Square a little over two weeks, considering her new lifestyle, which demanded that she now participate in the social world with balls and soirées and breakfasts, but she had the distinct impression that someone was watching her. That since they had taken up residence in London again, she was actually being followed. It crept up on her as the days passed. And Sarah could not deny it, however much she might argue against the sense of it, but she felt the force of invisible eyes focused on her. A presence that did not wish her well. The sensation touched her skin with a faint shiver of fear.

Considering that she was surrounded by people, she lectured herself, it was a ridiculous presumption. Her new family, the servants with whom she had once worked. The ton who noted the return of the Faringdons with interest and idle speculation at the sudden marriage. But still Sarah felt the brush of more than interested eyes when she took the children into the gardens in the Square, when she visited Hookham’s Lending Library, when she gazed in the windows in Bond Street or walked to Grosvenor Square to visit Judith or Thea. Even in the crowds of Hyde Park at the fashionable hour when Joshua drove her round in his curricle.

The tingle of being spied upon would not go away.

Foolish! She was quickly impatient with herself. Of course it could not be so. Yet she was still uneasy and sought for reasons why it might be, why someone might have an interest in her. There was certainly one possibility that came to mind with a terrible clarity. Was it Edward? Sir Edward Baxendale, her brother, who lived in genteel, resentful and bitter poverty and had proved his willingness to take any action, however disreputable, to increase the funds at his disposal. Now that she had married a man in possession of a fortune, Edward might see an opportunity to make new demands on her. If that were so, she could not possibly tell Joshua of her suspicions. She would do nothing to resurrect old memories.

But if it were Edward, why did he need to have her followed? Why not simply write and demand money, a brother’s begging letter to his wealthy sister? It just did not make sense.

So it was all in her imagination. And she saw no need whatsoever to tell Joshua of her fears.

Until one afternoon when they were returning to Hanover Square with Beth and John in their landau, taking advantage of the mild sunshine after a week of rain. As they drew up before the steps, Sarah quickly turned her head, her attention caught by the smallest of movements. Was that a shadow of a man within the darker shadows of the trees and ornamental bushes behind the iron railings? Did he draw back to merge with the deeply dappled light as they came to a halt?

‘What is it?’ Joshua asked, aware of the sudden stiffening of her spine, her fixed gaze.

‘Nothing really. Just a…’ Her eyes continued to search the gardens.

‘Tell me.’ Was that the slightest edge to his voice?

‘I just had the sensation that someone was watching me…us.’ Her glance back again over her shoulder toward the garden could not but betray her anxiety. ‘Do you think it could be so?’

‘No.’ His hesitation was so slight as to be indiscernible. He smiled briefly, touched her hand fleetingly. ‘Just chance—there is nothing to hurt you here. Put it out of your mind, my dear.’ Joshua deliberately smoothed the crease from between his brows, intent on preserving an untroubled exterior. So Sarah was being followed, was she? There was only one man who might be involved in such an activity towards himself and his family. He would think about it and its implications when alone; they did not immediately spring to mind. But he would take steps to stop it if it became necessary.

‘Of course. How foolish I am.’ Sarah returned his smile in apology. Besides, she was wary of saying more for fear of sharp-eyed, sharp-eared Beth picking up the conversation. And Joshua, in truth, probably had the right of it.

The moment passed.

But as Sarah and Beth climbed the stairs together, Joshua having taken John with him to oversee the stabling of the horses, the little girl leaned close.

‘I saw him too, Mama. A man in a dark coat.’ Then ran on ahead.

Which consolidated all Sarah’s fears.

* * *

And then the rumours started.

Gently at first. Softly. Whispered in withdrawing rooms throughout fashionable London.

Then more loudly, insistently. Behind fans, sly hands, turned heads. In Hyde Park. At Almack’s. At private parties. Wherever the ton met. Eyes glinting in greedy interest, a delectable scandal to enliven the most tedious of gatherings. No one knew whence the information came, but everyone was prepared to discuss and speculate and claim that, of course, they knew it to be true beyond doubt. They had always known that there was room for suspicion when that name was spoken…

The details of the scandal were fairly complete from the very beginning. But embroidered with possibilities as the days passed. Until the nasty little rumours came perforce to the ears of Judith and Lady Beatrice, as such rumours must, when they attended a select little soirée at the home of one who might have been considered a friend. She was quick to acquaint them with the details. Horrified, Lady Beatrice Faringdon and the Countess of Painscastle held a council of war in Grosvenor Square on the following morning to compare notes and discuss their response. Considering the dangerous aspect of the content, and their close connection with the main target, the scandal could not be ignored.

The first Lady Joshua Faringdon, those in the know stated, a French lady of considerable charm and elegance, was dead. Nothing new or of moment here. Had died some years previously in France. But not of some virulent and fatal disease as all had been led to understand. Would you believe it? She had been murdered.

But who had committed the foul deed?

Well, who, of course? Did it need to be spelled out?

It had been heard on very good, but unnamed, authority that the lady was involved in a passionate love affair with an aristocrat at the Bourbon Court where she had been murdered in a fit of uncontrolled fury by her jealous husband. Lord Joshua Faringdon. A pistol shot to the heart, no less. Her husband had then summarily disposed of her body, leaving everyone in England to believe that she had sickened, been buried and grieved over in France.

‘I don’t believe it!’ stated Judith unequivocally after discussing the outrageous suggestion with her mama. For once the teacups sat neglected between them, the elegant little plate of macaroons abandoned.

‘No. Of course not.’ The far-from-doting mama might believe much of her son but not murder. ‘It is impossible to even contemplate so disgraceful a possibility.’

‘But where would such a rumour begin?’

‘I have no idea.’ Lady Beatrice fixed her daughter with an expression of deep concern. ‘And you must admit, Judith, there are some difficult areas here for the family.’

‘What? Surely, Mama, you will give no weight to this terrible accusation? You might suspect Sher of being too thoughtless with the family name and we know for a fact that he has had any number of mistresses under his protection—there is no need to frown at me! Everyone knows it—but murder!’

‘Of course not, Judith! Try not to be foolish. But think. A sudden disease to strike down a healthy young woman. We were not there. Have we ever seen the grave? No, we have not. Does Joshua ever talk about it? No, he does not. The whole affair gives me an uneasy feeling.’

‘Sher would never murder his wife. He would not murder anyone! I will accept no truth in it.’

‘Neither will I. But I wish your brother would not play his cards quite so close to his chest!’ Lady Beatrice could envisage her next meeting with some of her fashionable associates over a glass of ratafia and did not enjoy the prospect. ‘It is difficult to know what to say when one is as much in the dark as the town tabbies.’

‘A ridiculous suggestion!’ was the only opinion given by Nicholas when he and Theodora called at the Painscastle residence and were drawn into the discussion. ‘You cannot possibly give it any credence.’

‘Will you talk to Sher?’ Theodora asked of Judith. ‘It would seem to be the obvious next step.’

‘Not willingly,’ Judith admitted. ‘You could talk to him, Nick! But there is one person who must be told, if she has not heard it already.’

‘Sarah, of course.’ Thea’s mind ran along the same lines. Her lips curled in grim humour. ‘Better that she hear it from us that her husband is a murderer than from deliberate malice on the grapevine.’

So Thea and Judith immediately took themselves in the barouche to Hanover Square, where Sarah welcomed them with delight, no notion of their intent. Until she saw their concerned eyes, their obvious discomfort. And listened aghast to the lurid picture laid out before her. They spared her no details. She must know what was being said.

Murder!

Sarah would have denied that such damning and unjustifiable gossip was being spread through the fashionable haunts of London. But once knowing, she quickly became aware of the widespread comment. The hushed voices as she came into the room when paying an afternoon visit. The covert glances. Everyone seemed to be discussing Lord Joshua Faringdon’s implication in a deed as foul as any she could envisage. And as completely unbelievable. Of course she did not believe it. Dismissed the whole thing as nothing but malicious mischief-making. But why? And who had seen fit to plant the seeds?

And then, as is the nature of such things, it brushed her consciousness again that she was without doubt being followed. Joshua might have denied it unequivocally, but she knew in her heart that it was true. Were the two events connected? Her mind immediately began to consider and weave the possibilities.

Joshua might deny the existence of the shadow, but she was certain that it existed. The worries stayed with her and gnawed at her peace of mind. Who could possibly be expected to enjoy peace of mind and the unexpected delights of a new marriage when secretive eyes followed her, when her husband was accused of dispatching his first wife and hiding her body?

Well, there was only one solution to this. She would ask Joshua to tell her the truth.

She accosted him on his return from Brooks’s.

‘Sarah… ‘ He took her hand, would have saluted her cheek, but was brought to a halt by something in her demeanour. If he was surprised by the reserve in her response to him, he did not show it.

‘I need to speak with you.’ He saw her lips set in a firm line, little lines of strain—signs of concern that had now been absent for some little time—between her brows.

‘Of course.’ He led her into the library. Closed the door. Turned to face her.

‘What is it that disturbs you? Do you still see phantom followers?’ He tried for a light response to the tension that swirled around her.

‘Yes. And so does Beth.’ His brows rose, but before he could find suitable words, she continued. ‘But that is not it… ‘ She might as well ask outright. ‘Joshua—have you heard the rumours?’

‘Rumours?’ The epitome of innocence. She could not deny his lack of comprehension. Or could she? She suspected that Lord Faringdon’s ability to dissemble was supreme.

‘Obviously not. Perhaps the gentlemen at Brooks’s are less inclined to gossip than their wives. Or more discreet when their members are present. Thea and Judith warned me—and then I saw it, felt it, heard it for myself. The hush from those present when I walked into the withdrawing room, when I took tea with Lady Stoke. The conversation came to a remarkably abrupt end.’

A cold fear inched its way down his spine. So she had heard. Well, of course she had. Had he expected her to live in blissful ignorance when the whole town was talking? Yet he kept his composure. ‘What conversation?’

‘About you. And your first wife. About Marianne.’

He preserved all outward calm, his face bland, his gaze level. ‘And so, according to Thea and Judith, what are the gossip-mongers saying?’ He knew exactly what they were saying, in every salacious detail. But he must do all in his power to reassure.

Sarah kept her voice calm, as if discussing a matter of no moment that could easily be remedied. As if her heart were not thudding against her ribs. ‘They…they are saying that Marianne did not die a natural death. That you were responsible.’ Her fingers gripped the edge of a gilded bergère chair at her side. ‘That you murdered her, from jealousy over her taking a lover.’

‘And do you believe it?’ A hint of frost over the calm now.

‘No. Of course not. It is beyond belief.’ She lifted her hand, almost in a plea. ‘But I find it very uncomfortable to have the ton discussing my husband’s so-called crimes.’

‘Sarah—’

‘I don’t believe it,’ she repeated in a firm voice. And indeed she did not. But she would continue. ‘I should tell you that, whatever your denials, I am being followed.’

‘I see.’ He strode to the window, then whirled round to face her, fighting to keep a firm hand on the reins of temper as all his control came close to obliteration by a wave of sheer anger. At himself. At fate. At the perpetrator of the vicious scandal. He coated the fire in ice. ‘And you think that I am having you followed, to discover if you too have a lover, with the intent of murdering you also.’

‘I think no such thing!’ Never had she seen his self-control so compromised, but she stood her ground. And, no, I do not have a lover as you must know, so there would be little point to it. I would merely wish to know who would start so cruel a story if there is no truth in it. Do you know?’

Oh, yes. I know very well who will have created this particular pattern of pain and disgrace, to hurt both of us, to carve a rift between us that can never be mended. And I am so tightly woven into a web of deceit that I cannot tell you of it. Or extricate myself without untold repercussions. Oh, yes. I know without doubt who is responsible, driven by revenge and bitter hatred.

He walked toward her. Slowly and with deliberation. Until he stood close, his eyes searching her face. Whatever he saw there, he lifted his hand to touch her cheek with light fingers, the tender gesture at odds with the passion in his eyes. A passion that would burn and destroy if he allowed it.

‘I will never cause you harm, Sarah. I will never willingly hurt you. Do you believe that? I find that it is important to me that you do.’

‘Yes.’ Caught up in the moment, she closed her hand around his wrist. ‘I do.’ His blood throbbed beneath her hand, echoing the beat of her own pulse.

‘The rumours. I cannot say—simply ask that you trust me, even when it seems too hard to do so.’ He bent his head to touch her mouth with his, a mere brush of lips over lips, then suddenly fierce and demanding. He could not tell her the truth, but neither would he deliberately lie. He framed her face with his hands. ‘As for the shadows that follow you, they must not be allowed to disturb you. Neither can I tell you of them, but I will take steps to stop them.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I think it is possible.’

‘Will you not tell me who?’

‘No.’ He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her soft bottom lip. ‘It is best that you do not know. I know that is no answer—but I can give no other.’

‘Tell me the truth, Joshua.’ She held his gaze, more demand than plea.

But he shook his head. ‘It is not in my power to do so at this time.’

And with that she had to be content. But never content! Secrets, secrets! Sarah could do nothing but accept her lord’s word when all her instincts shrieked within her head to demand that he tell her the truth. Could do nothing but accept his kiss when once again he claimed her mouth, now with a deliberate tenderness. But her thoughts remained in turmoil. She had lived her life with lies and deceits. Now even her marriage was prey to them.

For Joshua, the only certainty was that he must not speak, no matter how forcefully his heart urged him to do so. Because to speak of the past and his relationship with Marianne would reveal a whole host of lies and untruths, enough to swamp their fragile relationship beyond hope. And mayhap put others in danger of their lives. All he could do was call on Sarah’s intrinsic fairness and loyalty, wrapping her round in soft trappings of consideration and care. Until, despite the nagging suspicions, she should never contemplate his involvement in so wicked an act as murder. With all his skill and finesse, he hoped that he would have the power to seduce her into giving him her trust. His hands clasped her shoulders, to draw her firmly against him. Bending, he pressed his lips against the soft, almost transparent skin at her temple and, as he felt her shiver beneath his hands, a bright flare of desire surged through him, to carry her off to his room and show her that he was not beyond redemption.

At the thought he lifted his head to smile down into her face—and froze as he caught the ghost of an emotion in her eyes, before she swiftly veiled it from him with her downswept lashes. Distrust, fear, despair? He could not guess. Even more, he dare not ask. And suddenly the notion of seduction, of submerging her misgivings beneath the pleasures of her body and his, drained from him. He could not. Not when she was being hurt through his own actions, his own inability to be honest. It would be a betrayal of everything he had hoped to offer to her in their marriage. A wicked destruction of her contentment and her peace of mind. What a cruel outcome it would be if his selfish actions wilfully led Sarah to give him her utmost trust. Perhaps even caused her to fall in love with him. Would that not make the hurt and pain the greater, when she finally learned the truth about his life, past and present? Because he had no doubt that it would be impossible for him to keep the truth from her for ever. How much less painful if he let her go now. Stepped back from her. It would make her unhappy. She would see it as a bitter rejection, all the more cruel since Sarah would find it difficult to accept rejection in so personal a matter. But at least it would not tear her emotions to shreds, bright silk rent by the sharpest of blades, as might happen if he allowed her to grow too close to him, to expect too much from him.

Joshua knew what he must do. He must distance himself from her so that the hurt should not be compounded. Until his own loyalties were no longer an issue to divide them. If that could ever be.

So Joshua’s fingers tightened on Sarah’s shoulders, but not to draw her close, rather to push her away. The smile died from his lips. He let his hands fall away. Stepped back. And again and again until the width of the room separated them. Despite the intense longing, it would be so wrong. And perhaps, after all, Sarah was only playing the role of obedient wife. How little he still knew of her. Did she hate and despise him for bringing this dark spectre of death and murder into her life, despite her protestations of belief and trust? So he must reject her, for both their sakes. He drank the bitter lees of the cup, of self-condemnation and contempt for his lack of choice.

‘Forgive me…’

‘Joshua… ‘ Disbelieving, Sarah held out her hands, aware of nothing but the distance that had suddenly opened between them and the cold weight of fear within her breast.

‘I have matters to attend to.’ Tall and straight, her lord continued to face her, face shuttered and cold, refusing to acknowledge her plea, resisting every need to close the space and enfold her once again into his arms. Better that she hate him, heap blame on his head, than that he take her to his bed with such issues between them.

‘Please.’ Soft, little more than a murmur, her voice reached him. ‘Don’t leave me like this. Do I mean so little to you?’ Never during their short marriage had she been so outspoken of her feelings, so uncertain of his response.

‘I must.’ He fought the temptation to rake his fingers in desolation through his hair, fought against the pain in his heart. How difficult it was to turn her away. But he would do it to protect her from further anguish. ‘Don’t look so tragic, my dear. Scandals always die a death when the next one surfaces to replace it. You will soon become used to the taint of scandal, now that your name is coupled with mine.’

The bitterness in his words scorched her. ‘No. I will not accept that.’

‘You were aware when you took my name that it was a tarnished commodity.’ He heard his cruel words, wincing at their power to hurt. But to fuel her anger would lessen her pain.

‘How can you do this? I do not believe it… ‘

‘You have no choice, my lady.’ He bowed his head, a curt cold gesture, and left her standing alone in the room.

Sarah was left to contemplate the cold ashes of the day, one thought following rapidly on the heels of the former. He had rejected her, with cruel barbs and harsh words. And why? What had he seen in her face to make him walk away? Whatever it was, he had misread it, for she trusted him with her life. One moment to hold and kiss her, passion firing his caresses, the next to walk away with such sneering disdain. Her fragile confidence, which had begun to blossom under his caring attentions, all but shattered. But she would not. She would not sink beneath spiteful gossip or bow to those who would destroy her happiness. She might not know the reason for his behaviour toward her, but of one fact she had total conviction—Joshua Faringdon was not capable of cold-blooded murder. It was not possible that she could have judged him so wrongly and given her heart to a man capable of such evil.

She allowed her mind to play over the tension-filled confrontation. When she had told him of the whispered accusations against him, a hard cold rage had touched his face. So much anger, yet not, she thought, directed at her. He knew more than he was saying, admitted it even, but she could not imagine what it could be.

Sarah walked to look out of the window at the darkening sky, watching the rain spatter on the glass and the trees bend before the icy wind. It exactly matched her mood, she thought as she wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. How was it possible that she could simply trust and love Joshua, accepting his silence, when he stood accused of murder? It was not reciprocated. She brushed tears from her lashes with the back of an impatient hand. He never talked of love to her. She did not expect that, accepted that he did not love her. But there were shadows all around them—so dark and impenetrable. Layer on layer, they invaded her mind. He was often absent, for lengthy periods in the day and without explanation. Letters were delivered to the house by elusive individuals who left no name or visiting card. It would seem that he had another life quite separate from her. Well, that should not surprise her. Of course he had business dealings of which she knew nothing. But what was it that he was not telling her? Did he not respect her enough to trust her with the truth, whatever it might be? Her mind returned again and again to that one concern. The fears would not leave her.

And she was being followed!

Sarah retreated from the drear outlook to sit on the little stool before her dressing table, her heart sore. She rarely wept—it did no good, solved no difficulties—but she wept long into the night for the man who now appeared, through his own choice, to be as far distant from her as the stars that shone with such icy indifference.

* * *

But when Sarah rose from her bed the following morning, it was to a new inner strength, a new resolution. She would not accept his rejection. She would destroy the distance of his making. If trust was to be an issue between them, she would show that it was not lacking from her side.

Her lord was in no better frame of mind. Joshua was left to contemplate the fact that his relationship with Sarah, still so new and untried, had been put in jeopardy by the impossibility of laying all before her. How could a marriage survive and bloom on lies and deceit? In truth he could not take her to his bed. Not with the weight of guilt on him. The rumours, as clearly intended, would blacken his name even more with the Polite World, from rake to murderer in one discreetly whispered on dit. Why should Sarah believe any good of him? He found himself confronted by a growing need to tell her the truth, to strip his soul bare and to appear a man of integrity and principle in her eyes. Little chance of that! Morosely he studied the blank sheet of paper on the desk before him.

Why should it matter what she believed? Why should it matter to him if he simply covered his tracks with a few well-chosen lies to prevent her from questioning him further?

Because you are falling in love with her, you fool. You need her to believe in you, see the best in you. As simple…and as complicated as that.

The little voice spoke insistently to take him completely by surprise. He recalled her standing there, offering her lips, the warmth and shelter of her arms, Sarah who rarely offered anything of her own volition, whilst he deliberately, coldly, distanced himself from her, holding her at arm’s length. Love? It was not so, of course. He cared for her, felt a strong urge to protect her. Without doubt desired her physically. But love? He would never in his life love another woman. Marianne had taught him that much. To allow one’s heart to be held by the slender, elegant fingers of a beautiful woman—of any woman—was inarguably a recipe for pain and disillusion. No—he did not love Sarah. He would not love her.

Even though he regretted his callous treatment of her from the bottom of his heart.

Having disposed of that little problem to his liking, Lord Faringdon was still faced with the prospect of the damaging rumours destroying any hope of a calm and satisfactory marriage. He doubted that anything could be done to smooth over the immediate damage. It was simply a matter of riding out the storm, taking his own advice, which he had so cavalierly flung at his unsuspecting wife. A subtle flash of colour tinted his cheekbones at the memory. He was not proud of that moment.

There was, however, one conversation that he was determined to have, and as soon as might be. Anger returned in good measure, causing him to place his pen carefully on the desk before he snapped it in two. He knew where these rumours had begun. He would wager his best hunter on it. And he knew damn well who was responsible for Sarah being shadowed. He could most certainly put a stop to that. Picking up the pen again, he scrawled a few terse lines. Between them, Olivia Wexford and Wycliffe were threatening to undermine Sarah’s new-found happiness and contentment and create a bottomless abyss between them. He could not tolerate that. He could do that quite well enough on his own, it seemed! His lips curled at his own clumsy attempts to spare her further pain, where he had signally failed. But Wycliffe was resident in England for a few months, his sources suggested. It was time for Lord Faringdon to have some plain words with this elusive gentleman.

Sarah rose early, dressed, drank her chocolate in an abstracted manner and listened unashamedly at the door of her lord’s dressing room. He, too, was up betimes. Perhaps he, too, had not slept well. She paced her bedchamber for half an hour until she heard his valet leave the room and walk past her own door. She walked through the dressing room, knocked briskly on the door of her husband’s room and entered without waiting for a reply. Then she stood and watched her husband, dispassionately, she hoped.

Joshua looked up from the diamond pin that he was about to secure in his cravat. Still in his shirtsleeves, a little pale, heavy eyed, he was still outrageously attractive and Sarah’s heart performed its usual breath-stopping leap of awareness. But she gave no indication of her emotion or of the residual ache caused by his cold retreat from her. She hoped that he had slept as badly as she. He deserved it. She was, she realised, not dispassionate at all.

‘Sarah—’

‘I have something to say.’

Lord Joshua made no move toward her, but shrugged into his coat. For once he could not meet her eyes, which held the bright light of imminent conflict.

‘When Eleanor felt most under threat from the Baxendale scandal,’ she spoke of it without a tremor, ‘when my brother seemed likely to succeed and the haut ton turned against her, when she was not invited to the homes of those whom she would have once called friends, do you know what she did?’ Sarah did not wait for an answer. Not that her lord was capable of giving one. ‘She went to the opera at Covent Garden. She insisted that Henry take her, to show the world that she believed in her own innocence and she did not care that others would question the legality of her marriage to your cousin Thomas. She sat there throughout the whole performance, with every lorgnette raised in her direction. She smiled, she flirted a little, she conversed. And hid from the world how much she suffered. Henry sat beside her, to shield her and support her with his presence because he could do no other. I admire them more than I can say.’

Sarah stopped to draw breath, then continued.

‘We should do the same. You claim your innocence. Then we should show a united front against those who would disbelieve. There is an Exhibition today at the Royal Academy. I forget whose paintings. It is not important. We should attend. With Thea and Nicholas. And Judith and Simon too, if they will come. And I will stand with you because it is the only thing I can do to show the world that I do not believe what is being said.’

‘Sarah…’ He was for the moment speechless, astounded at her courage to embark on so public a display. Swamped with guilt that she should choose to have anything to do with him after the events of the previous day. ‘I do not know what to say… ‘

‘You do not have to say anything. I will arrange it with Thea. If you would be pleased to escort me, at seven-thirty, I think.’

Without waiting for another word or a response from her lord, Sarah turned on her heel, closing the door behind her with a very positive click. And made sure that for the rest of the day she was so busy that should anyone—should Lord Joshua Faringdon—desire communication of any nature with her she would be quite unobtainable.

The Faringdon party attended the Exhibition in strength. Lord Joshua Faringdon discovered that, despite the strength of the temptation, he dare not cry off. The involvement of the little party and knowledge of the paintings was to be fairly minimal, but that was not the object of the exercise. They displayed considerable if not amazing interest in the hanging. The joint subjects of murder and Marianne were understood by all to be taboo. A brief but detailed conversation between the three ladies ensured that all rose superbly to the occasion. Thea and Judith both instructed their husbands on the purpose of this unprecedented outing, which neither gentleman would have chosen over a quiet evening with cards and brandy at Brooks’s.

They talked, smiled, admired, sampled the refreshments. Whatever they felt, they hid behind gracious exteriors. There was a need for Faringdon family unity, which they all recognised and supported. They surrounded their notorious black sheep with firm support and unquestioning loyalty.

A very public statement of trust.

Sarah cast off all her misgivings, her reserve, her lack of confidence, her dislike of attention. Not once did she turn away from interested glances, not once did she fail to meet a speculative eye. Bright, lively, engaging, she stood beside Joshua and dared anyone to believe him capable of violent death. When he offered his arm to lead her round the exhibits, she laid her hand there with perfect composure, smiling up into his face with great charm. What it cost her to put on this performance, her lord had no idea. She bowed, nodded, conversed with acquaintances, flirted a little with her painted fan when Simon engaged her in conversation, as if there was no problem on this earth to trouble her. She had dressed with particular care in—for Sarah—an eye-catching gown in a deep rose pink silk overlaid with silver lace, a pretty string of diamonds and opals clasped around her neck with drop earrings to match. Her naturally pale cheeks benefited from skilfully applied Liquid Bloom of Roses; it required no application of Olympian Dew to bring a sparkle to her eyes. Lady Joshua Faringdon, in her quiet way, had declared war.

No one would accuse her husband of murder and think that she gave it any serious consideration. No one would divide them, whoever it might be who had first dropped the poisonous words into the willing ear of the Polite World. And her family would support her. She felt a warmth spread around her heart as she watched them: Thea, using all her lively charm and diplomatic experience of foreign receptions, Judith calling on her wide acquaintance. The gentlemen relaxed and talked horses and sport when they could escape their wives’ eagle eye. Whatever the outcome of this night, Sarah knew that she had made the right decision.

No one could question or intimidate the united Faringdons. With a little crow of success, Sarah wished that Eleanor and Henry were present to appreciate the outcome of her plotting.

* * *

They returned home, exhausted from the constant strain to remain cheerful, but Sarah was content. She had done all that she could. Not least to show her husband, who had tried to distance himself from her because he could not speak the truth, that she would not accept his decision. She would stand at his side whether he wished it or not.

The trial of the evening at the Exhibition left Lord Joshua Faringdon feeling utterly wretched. He had gone along with it because he could think of no good reason not to. Sarah’s determination, her refusal to discuss it, had carried him along, a leaf in the current of a millstream. And now he was swamped with shame. His gentle Sarah had walked into the lion’s den for him. Such faith, such strength. She had stood by him in glory and splendour to face the gossips. His intention had been to step back from her, to allow her to believe the scandal if she wished, to hate him if she wished. To build a barrier between her and the deceit that was his to bear. To replace any suffering she might feel with contempt, because he simply did not deserve her sympathy. He could not use her innocence and her loyalty in his own interests. But Sarah, with astonishing strength of will, had torn his plan to rags, by standing beside him before the interested eyes of the Polite World.

How had it all become so complicated?

The simplicity of it was that he could not remain apart from her. He did not wish to remain apart. He felt the meanest worm in the face of such loyalty. He must put some of it right with her—she deserved no less.

So Joshua knocked on her door and waited for a reply. Sarah had gone straight to her bedchamber without any attempt at conversation, which was signal enough that he would have to be willing to make amends.

She answered, he entered. She was sitting at her dressing table.

‘I thought you would go on to one of your clubs with Nicholas.’ She did not look at him, but kept her hands busy.

Took off her jewels and replaced them in their case. Began to take the pins from her hair.

‘No.’

‘I think we made a point tonight.’ She continued to place the pins in a cut-glass bowl. ‘I think that Eleanor would have been proud of me.’

‘Sarah—’

‘There is no need to say anything. I know that you cannot. But we have done what we can.’

She stood to move across the room to find a home in a little bow-fronted cabinet for her gloves and fan. But now he strode forward to take her wrist in a light clasp and pull her to a halt. Yet still she did not turn toward him. Nevertheless he would say what he had to say and try to bridge the yawning chasm.

‘You do not realise the debt I owe you tonight, Sarah. I think no man could ask more of his wife than that she stand at his side when any remaining honour attached to his name is destroyed. Yet you did exactly that. With such grace and dignity as I have never seen. I don’t know whether you believe me or trust me, but you made so public a gesture in my support…’ With firmer pressure, he turned her toward him. ‘I need to ask your forgiveness. I treated you abominably.’

‘I know you did. I suppose you had your reasons, even if I can neither understand nor accept them.’ She would not make it easy for him. Her eyes were accusing. ‘It would help if you told me the truth, but we have been through all that, have we not?’

‘Sarah… ‘ Never had he seen such a chill in her eyes, so stern a line to her lips. And it hurt to know that he deserved it, and far more.

‘I know. You cannot. Let us leave it at that.’ She made to pull away, but he dare not allow it. He took her hands in his so that he could face her squarely.

‘Then let me say this. I admire you, Sarah. My respect for you is beyond measure. Never more so than this night. Your bravery, your strength, your willingness to put yourself on the line for me. I tried to push you away. To keep the scandal from hurting you more. I find that I cannot do that.’

Sarah waited. Admired, respected, he had said.

Loved? Ah, no.

‘I need you tonight, Sarah.’ He hesitated, so unusual in this dynamic man. ‘I will not force my presence on you if it is distasteful. And in God’s name it must be. I would ask for your tolerance, Sarah, until I can put matters right between us.’

‘Will it ever be possible?’

‘Yes. I promise you.’

She watched, waited, thought of the weight of his words. Read the sincerity in his eyes, which gleamed true silver tonight. Sincerity, yes, but also a terrible uncertainty, which smote at her senses. A vulnerability that had shaken him to the core. It shocked her to see the rare emotion race across his face with vivid intensity. Her heart stuttered. However foolish, however naïve it might be, she trusted him. And would trust him whatever the world might say against him. She allowed her lips to soften, her cold face to warm into a smile. And allowed her woman’s heart to dictate her response. She could not refuse him if he had a need of her.

She opened her arms at her sides, almost a gesture of submission. Or was it invitation. For if she trusted him to have committed no evil act, she must surely trust him with the safekeeping of her body and her clamouring emotions. It was time that she had the courage to respond to his love making, to claim her own needs. It was more than time. She forced herself to continue to hold his gaze

‘Then come.’ Her voice was soft, full of feminine allure. ‘If you want me tonight I will not deny you, but it is necessary for you to play the role of lady’s maid. You would not imagine the intricacy of buttons and ribbons.’ Then he caught the gleam in her eye and was able to breathe more easily. ‘But perhaps you are intimately acquainted with them. If so, it will on this occasion be to my advantage.’

Sarah’s deliberate humour sliced through the wall of tension between them so that he could step forward with a soft laugh and apply himself to the task. He was, she was forced to admit as she watched his bent head, remarkably skilled. Tiny buttons, delicate ribbons, they posed no problem for his clever fingers. Gown, petticoats, shoes, stockings, all quickly dealt with to give her no room for embarrassment, to be disposed carefully over the daybed. Until she stood in her chemise. He made to blow out the candles, as he thought she would wish, but Sarah had made her decision and now she stretched out a hand.

‘No. Leave one burning.’

‘Are you sure? If you are more comfortable without… ‘

Nerves touched her skin with delicate tremors. ‘No. Leave it. That is what I want tonight.’

So. A new Sarah, he realised. One who had thrown down the gauntlet in public and exerted her will this night. And one, it would appear, intent on continuing to surprise him. So he complied. She would have turned from him to walk to the bed, a chilly little action in itself if of no real moment, but this night he would not allow it. To turn from him, if only for a matter of seconds, was going beyond what he desired for himself, desired for her. He stepped after her and before she could slide between the sheets he took her arm in a gentle hold, drawing her around to face him.

Fingers brushed over her cheekbone and down, to the fine curve of her throat, then to cup the back of her neck beneath her hair. ‘You are a woman of many facets, Sarah. And a woman of outstanding valour tonight. If you will trust me with your reputation, don’t hold yourself back from me now. Let me show you what can exist between a man and a woman, without shyness, without restraint, without self-consciousness. Don’t retreat from me but let me pleasure you,’ he added as her lashes fluttered over her eyes in a moment’s insecurity as she felt the beginning of a deep blush at his seductive words.

The lashes lifted, the gaze now direct and steady, more than he could ever have desired when she had hidden her dreams from him. Sarah lifted her hands to place them flat against his chest and spoke, as he was quick to recognise, from her heart. ‘Very well. Show me the delights that can exist between a man and a woman. For my experience is shallow and my confidence low. So show me. But do not condemn me, I beg of you, if you find me less than skilful.’ And that was as honest as he could ever hope for.

‘Sarah. You still do not realise. I could never find you wanting. All I ask is that you will respond as your heart dictates.’

‘I promise.’

With a swift movement he loosened the chemise to let it drop to the floor, stepping back so that he might see her in the soft candlelight. It lit her slender, graceful figure in warm tones and deep shadow, first gilding her hair to rim her head and shoulders in pure gold, then the flame flickering to highlight curves, deepen shadows, hinting at dark and glorious secrets that slapped at his senses. It was difficult in that moment to remember that she was not a young girl, but a woman who had married and borne a child. Had he ever told her how beautiful she was during the act of love? He should have done so. She needed to be told.

‘You are beautiful, Sarah.’ His body tightened to his discomfort in immediate response. Even more when her lips curved in a smile of quivering nerves. Then, because he sensed her considered denial of his words, he covered the space between them and effectively silenced her by framing her face in his hands and taking her mouth with his own.

‘You are beautiful,’ he repeated against her lips before allowing the hunger to rule and heat the kiss, winding his fingers into the silk of her hair. And Sarah—her reaction was everything he could have hoped for, stretching his command over his response to her to near-snapping point. She moulded her deliciously naked body against his, stretching her arms to clasp around his neck, the sigh of pleasure deep in her throat as she encouraged him to deepen the kiss and allowed his tongue to take possession.

So that necessity soon dictated that he push her away, breathing compromised, but staying only to divest himself of his own clothes before he would tumble her on to the pillows. Sarah watched him with growing anticipation. The glimmer of his white shirt, the dark satin of his evening clothes, all discarded. Until he stood naked before her, back-lit by the moon, which had risen to shine through the windows, outdoing the single candle whose light was now superfluous in the silvered brightness. The shadows were stark, the contours ice-edged. He stood and let her look her fill. Only reacting when she drew in a sharp breath.

‘What is it?’ A sudden concern.

But she shook her head. She would not tell him that he was beautiful, far more beautiful that she. But she raised her hand, palm up, held it out as in an offering, even though entirely shocked by her own behaviour. She felt, she decided, like Scheherazade as he sometimes called her, a seductive nymph of paradise, awaiting her lover in some exotic harem from tales of Arabian Nights. Out of character it most certainly was, but this night she felt she could play any part demanded of her. Had she not played a role all evening before the eyes of those who would spurn and condemn? This role would be no more difficult, and to her ultimate delight and satisfaction.

So Sarah waited for her lord to join her, her heart beating so loudly that she was sure he must hear it, but aware only of his magnificent body. And welcomed him when he pushed her back, slid beside her and took her into his arms.

His habitual tenderness, his consideration for her, were still discernible, must always be so, but this night his control was threatened beneath a fierce blooming of raw passion that took him by surprise. Or perhaps it did not, because Sarah, his reserved and distant Sarah, stoked the flames in his body with terrible, miraculous skill. This was the woman he had dreamed of, this the true Sarah, desire smouldering, hidden under the soft and fragile exterior. This was the lover who touched him with slender fingers, returned his kisses eagerly, along his shoulders, the expanse of his chest. Discovering with sure instinct where his pulses leapt with desire, throbbed in desperate need.

And Sarah trembled at her own temerity. Where had this courage come from? Don’t dissemble. Don’t freeze with fear. The thoughts ran through her head. Touch him. He will not reject you, did he not promise? This is Joshua, whom you love to the marrow of your bones. Have you not always dreamed of touching him, longed to feel the strength of him beneath your palms? So firm, so hard, so powerful. So thoughtful a lover.

With deliberate intent at her own urging, her hands drifted over his shoulders and chest, to waist and flat belly. Outlining the powerful flow of muscled thighs. And, with an intake of breath—oh courage! oh glory!—she curled her fingers around his strong erection.

Joshua groaned, turned his face into her hair, his blood engulfed with fire at the unexpected from this reticent lady. His breath shuddered in his lungs as he clung to sanity. Or were the shudders from Sarah? He could no longer separate the two.

‘Shall I stop?’ she whispered against his throat, instantly unsure.

‘No. No.’ He suppressed another groan. ‘I can think of no better way to die.’

‘Are you thinking of death?’ The tremor of a laugh shivered against his flesh.

‘Never death!’

So she stroked with a gurgle of delight and a thrill at his immediate response beneath her hand. But now he carried Sarah with him, for her into unchartered territory. And she joined him, answered every demand, returned every caress. How hot his skin, how demanding his hands and mouth, how incredible that she should feel like this. Then she forgot to think any more, aware only of the ripples of intense sensation that he awoke and stirred into flame everywhere he touched. Aware only of her own need to offer and give, to arch and entwine as he took over every sense in her body. Confidence swam through her veins like the most intoxicating of red wine. Until the heat scorched her, wrecked her breathing, blinded her to everything but this room, this bed, this man.

Whilst her lord used every vestige of self-control to force himself to be gentle. Force himself to move slowly, carefully. His instinct was to possess, to ravish, now when the hunger surged though his blood. Ravish as he had once promised that he would not. So he set himself to hold back, to entice and persuade, but it was a difficult task indeed when faced with her complete surrender, her generous response, her deliberate provocation.

Be patient. Give her time. Let her come to you. Let her dictate the pace.

But he burned and the needs that crawled through him became almost too great to deny. Yet he would pleasure her, raise her to such heights that she could not resist, could not deny her own needs. With assurance and skill of hands and mouth, lips and tongue, he waged his campaign with fierce dedication. No, Sarah was not mildly compliant tonight. He doubted, in one moment of heart-stopping clarity, that she would ever be so again.

Joshua pressed his lips in open-mouthed caress along the shallow valley between her breasts, diverted with sly ease to tease her nipples. Refusing to halt when she drew in her breath and stiffened beneath the onslaught of his mouth. Pushed on the assault when she sighed his name against his throat and melted in his arms. Lovely. Impossibly lovely. Soft as silk. A little murmur of delight when his fingers brushed low, lower yet to touch, slide and discover, taking for his own her most intimate secrets. Her thighs parted willingly, hips arched now in blatant invitation. Hot and wet, satin-soft, compromising his banked desire. When she pressed against the heel of his hand in convulsive response, his control came close to destruction.

Yet still, as he knew she would, she resisted the demands of her own body, afraid of the flames which grew and leapt and threatened to consume.

‘Do you trust me?’ He stilled his hand.

‘Yes.’ The merest sigh.

‘Then don’t think. Just feel. Let your mind go.’

Aware that the pressure was building within her from the shivers that ran along her limbs in his embrace, the thud of her heart beneath his lips, he harnessed all his own needs to capture her mouth in a kiss of blazing desire, pushing her to the very edge, to give her that ultimate release. Until she struggled against his body and would have pushed him away in a sudden moment of panic and fear of the unknown.

‘No.’ He gentled his hold, but would not retreat. ‘Take what I can give you.’

He drove her on, ruthless now with determination to give her that intimate experience of her own body, until she cried out, sharp, shocked. He crushed his lips to hers to swallow her cries as she shivered uncontrollably against him, clung to him with gasps of astonished pleasure. Exactly as he had hoped. And triumph swamped his veins in a floodtide, as she quivered from the aftershock, face buried against his chest.

‘Look at me.’

Sarah saw herself in his eyes, dark with passion, unfathomable as the waters of a bottomless lake, as he wiped the spangle of tears from her cheeks, tears that she had not been aware of shedding. ‘I want to see you when I slip inside you. And you to see me. There is no danger here for you, darling Sarah.’ He watched her, at that moment completely enslaved, yet unaware of the endearment.

‘Yes.’ As was she. She raised a hand that trembled to his lips. ‘Now.’ It was so simple a word, and all the invitation he needed.

‘It must be so. For you are too alluring to resist any longer.’

With sure and elegant strength he moved to pin her body with his own and thrust hard and deep. Held himself there to prolong the pleasure for her, for himself. So intimate an invasion that enclosed him, filled her, overturning the mind of both except for their joy in each other. Slick skin against slick skin, her legs entangled with his, his body owning hers. She watched him, eyes caught and held, emotions naked to his gaze. For a moment he thought that she might have more than an affection for him. Then the fleeting shadow was gone. Hunger and desire, potent and dark, swept over him as Sarah bit her lip to prevent her expressing her love in words that might still return to haunt her. But now she could show him in other ways. So he began to move within her and she mirrored the thrust with innate delight. Until he pushed them both to that precipitate edge. To fly and fall, taking her with him, feeling her shudder again as his own control shattered.

‘What was that?’ Still pinned beneath him, Sarah could only glory in his power and weight. It seemed to her that any sensible thoughts she might have were still scattered through the heavens, as her limbs were heavy with splendidly overwhelming exhaustion. It was outside anything in her experience. She did not think that her heart would ever again settle into its old pattern.

Joshua raised his head, lifted his weight on his arm, brushed back the fall of hair from her face so that he could kiss her lips with exquisite tenderness. A tenderness that made her heart tremble.

‘A miracle, I think. A miracle.’

‘Yes. So I think.’ And after a little pause: ‘I do not know what came over me, Joshua.’

‘Thank God for it.’ She caught the glint of his smile in the moon’s brightness. The candle had long since burned out. And she sighed in an unexpected and strangely moving happiness.

Joshua felt her smile against his shoulder, and his heart rejoiced. She trusted him. He could ask for nothing more. Because, as he slid into sleep with her, it mattered more than anything other in his previously selfish and wilful life that she did.

* * *

‘My Lord Faringdon. I did not expect to see you here.’ Wycliffe rose from his seat in his unremarkable office in the City, his face set in deep lines of disapproval. Nothing in the austere surroundings, in the inconspicuous building off Fleet Street, would point to the importance of this man to national security.

Lord Faringdon was not in a mood to be impressed by the standing of his host or his efforts to remain invisible. ‘I am sure you did not.’ He bowed with controlled grace.

‘Perhaps it would have been better, my lord, if you had not sought to draw attention to yourself or to me.’

‘So you might think, sir. On this occasion, I do not.’

If Wycliffe was critical, his lordship was icily correct.

‘You look in the best of health again, my lord. I trust your bones have knit well.’ For a compassionate enquiry, it was delivered in a distinctly unfriendly tone.

‘Yes.’

‘If I might be permitted to say—’ the two men still faced each other, standing, across Wycliffe’s desk ‘—you should not have found it necessary to make contact with me other than by discreet channels. You must be well aware of this, my lord.’ Wycliffe’s lips thinned with displeasure.

‘I understand you perfectly, sir.’ Joshua’s jaw was rigid with suppressed anger. ‘In fact, I wrote you a letter—but decided to come in person, so that I might express myself more effectively. And be assured that you did not simply consign my complaint to your fire-grate and continue to issue instructions against the well-being of my wife.’

‘So it is a matter of some importance?’ Wycliffe’s voice rose sufficiently as to make it just a question. His hard eyes expressed no acceptance, but they failed to intimidate.

‘I find it so. My wife is being followed by an individual who looks suspiciously like Felton. I wager that it is your doing. Felton was always a favoured employee of yours in such surveillance work.’

‘Of course. Felton is very good.’ There was no guilt here.

‘May I ask why?’ Lord Faringdon remained remarkably calm when faced with this clear admission of Wycliffe’s involvement.

‘We were not informed of your intention to marry again.’

‘I was not aware that I must inform you on a matter of so intimate a nature.’

‘Of course you should have informed us. Your previous marriage was a disaster of the first order.’ There was an edge to Wycliffe’s patience. ‘We learned a hard lesson with Marianne de Colville. It could have destroyed our whole espionage network, here and in France. It was pure chance that one of her letters was intercepted before any further damage could be inflicted. I would not wish for history to repeat itself with the lady who is now Lady Faringdon. It surprises me, my lord, that you need to ask or question the matter of my… my concern.’

‘Damnation, Wycliffe! Of course I need to—’ He drew in a breath. ‘Sarah is not Marianne. She is nothing like Marianne! There is no similarity in the situation.’

‘Perhaps not—on the surface. But how well do you know the lady? Do you trust her—absolutely and implicitly? It is my understanding that you have not had a long acquaintance. She has lived in New York. Why did she suddenly return to England? Have you ever considered that she might be in the pay of some foreign interest and saw marriage to you as the perfect entrée into government circles? America is not totally disinterested in European events.’

‘What? Sarah a spy?’ Joshua laughed in harsh incredulity. ‘It takes my breath away that you should even consider it. How can you suggest something so patently ridiculous?’

‘Mrs Russell…Lady Faringdon…spent some considerable time in New York. You cannot possibly know what her contacts were there.’

‘My wife went to New York to accompany Eleanor, widow of my cousin Thomas. She remained there with her and my cousin Henry.’ There was now a dangerous calm in Lord Faringdon’s reply.

‘And your cousin, Henry Faringdon, my lord, is well known to have republican leanings. He would have no reason to love the British monarchy—or any attempt on our part to support the democratic monarchies in Europe. He is not above suspicion.’

Joshua’s brows snapped together, all pretence at equanimity abandoned. ‘My cousin might respect republican views, but Henry is hardly likely to be involved in a plot.’

Wycliffe made no reply, but cynicism deepened the lines engraved around his mouth.

‘My wife,’ Lord Joshua continued, ‘is sister to Theodora Wooton-Devereux. Daughter of Sir Hector, who has been British Ambassador to Paris as well as Constantinople and any variety of such places. At present he is in St Petersburg. You must have some acquaintance with him. Hardly the background for an enemy spy.’

Wycliffe was implacable. ‘But your wife was not brought up with her sister, was she? The Wooton-Devereux interest would have no influence whatsoever on your wife’s sympathies.’

‘You have been very busy, sir.’ Joshua suddenly found it very difficult to prevent his hands from curling into fists, and making use of them against this man who could so calmly accuse his wife of such devious plotting. He gripped hard on the reins of temper. ‘You are remarkably well informed of me and my family.’

‘It pays to be so.’

‘I find, sir, that I resent it more than I could have believed possible. It is insulting to a lady of supreme honesty and integrity. If you knew my wife, we would not be having this conversation.’

But Wycliffe remained unmoved in the face of such anger. ‘There are no guarantees in this profession, my lord, as you are aware.’

‘My wife is no spy.’ All Joshua could do was resort to denial of a situation so outrageous as to be unthinkable.

‘It is not beyond the realms of possibility! Sit down, my lord. Sit down.’ Wycliffe waved towards a chair as he himself took his seat behind his desk. ‘Nothing is to be gained by us facing each other in this manner.’

Joshua sat, but was in no way mollified. ‘What right do you have to set one of your minions to follow my wife whenever she sets foot outside the house, and to loiter outside my London address?’

‘I have every right, as you well know if you will consider the matter calmly. My duty is to British security. You are, have been and will be again an important link within my information network. Your recent marriage was very—ah, precipitous—and the lady is unknown to us. Given your connections to myself, you should not have entered into this marriage without my knowledge.’

The air between them remained positively charged with hostility. It was clearly a stand-off. Lord Faringdon continued to fix his employer with a narrowed stare as he diverted to the other problematic issue. ‘I suppose you have not heard the rumours. Unless Felton has also seen fit to feed you the vicious content of London gossip.’

A bland look was the only response he got.

‘A nasty little rumour. Started, I wager, by Olivia Wexford out of a fit of pique when I dispensed with her… her services, shall we say. Another one of your ideas, to disguise the reason for my return to England and paint my character a particular shade of grey, if not midnight black! Another one of your plot-tings that has landed me in serious difficulties. Olivia threatened to get even.’ His laugh was without humour. ‘She is a lady of considerable, although dubious, talent. I can safely say that she has achieved her ambition.’

‘I know little of such matters. I do not move in the same exalted circles as you, my lord.’ Wycliffe watched his noble employee with keen eyes. They were beginning to walk on dangerous waters here.

‘Don’t tell me that you have no knowledge of the accusations—I would not believe it! Your ear is always close to the ground. Olivia has confided to the Polite World that I murdered Marianne in a crime of passion. The whole town is discussing the methods I might have used before consigning her body to some secret grave in the forests around Versailles. My wife now looks at me askance—she thinks that I am having her followed with the prime motive of having her done away with.’

Barely visible, Wycliffe’s whole body had stiffened. ‘You will not comment publicly on such matters. I do not want the Marianne affair to be discussed.’

‘No. I will not.’ The reply was sharp, immediate. ‘But the accusations do not sit well with me.’

‘The rumours are not our problem.’ Wycliffe shrugged. ‘They will soon die a death when a new scandal breaks.’

‘Perhaps. But you are not blameless in the whole unfortunate episode.’

Wycliffe hesitated. ‘Your marriage to Marianne was a terrible mistake.’ It was the only admission that Mr Wycliffe would make.

‘That may be so, but why should I have to continue to pay the price?’

Wycliffe swept the papers on his desk together with a wide gesture of impatience at the direction of the whole conversation. He tried for a softer approach, unwilling to antagonise one of his most gifted informants any further than he had already achieved. He would try for a deflection. ‘Do you want my advice, Joshua?’

‘Advice, is it? Or a demand?’ There was no softening here.

‘Whichever way you wish to see it! You are fit again. Go back to Paris for us. We need information.’

‘So you wish to make use of my talents again. You amaze me. I thought my cover had been effectively infiltrated and I was of no further value in that area. That The Chameleon had outlived his usefulness.’ The arrogance should have warned Wycliffe that his lordship was not to be won over.

‘Perhaps—but I think you still have much to offer. You have innumerable valuable contacts in Paris and at the Bourbon Court. You will be made welcome, invited everywhere. It will not be difficult for you to listen and report back. We need you, Joshua. I never foresee a time when The Chameleon has no value to my plans.’ The gentleman leaned forward, all persuasion. ‘We could be facing a major crisis here.’

‘Listen to what? Still the plot to restore Napoleon—unless he dies first?’ Lord Faringdon’s lip curled. ‘I cannot see there is much of a realistic threat there. The Emperor was fading by the day, as I last heard. The Bonapartists will have to accept failure without any intervention from us.’

‘I agree. But we have received warning, the merest whisper, of a planned assassination. Against whom we are unsure. Or when. Or even the perpetrators. Yet the whispers continue. If it is against one of the royal family, it would not be in our interests. Think of the upheaval if it was a success, encouraging all the dissonant groups to rise against the Bourbons. Their popularity is on shaky ground as it is and they are hardly blessed with a handful of heirs to secure the throne into the future. After Louis XVIII, his brother Charles and his nephew, the Bourbon line stops. An assassination could be highly damaging to stability in France. We need to know more, Joshua. And prevent it coming to fruition, of course.’

‘I see.’

‘We need information that you would be in the perfect position to obtain with an entrée to all the best houses.’ A sly smile coloured Wycliffe’s face. ‘It could also be in your own interests, my lord.’

A raised brow.

‘If you go to Paris, you will escape all the gossip here. When you return,’ Wycliffe snapped his fingers, ‘it will all have dissipated and the haut ton will have forgotten Marianne.’

‘And my wife? What are your plans for her?’

‘Leave her in London. We will continue our surveillance of her until we are certain that she is uninvolved—or until we have proof that she is in the pay of others.’

‘And if I object?’

‘Where government security and policies are concerned you have no right to object. You do not know Sarah Russell. You do not know that you can trust her. We need you and your expertise in Paris.’

He did not like Wycliffe’s reply, but was forced to acknowledge the truth of the man’s assessment of French politics. Even as he damned the man’s callous disregard for any matter other than national security.

‘And the Countess of Wexford?’ he asked. ‘What are your plans for her?’

‘She is not your concern. Forget her. Will you go to Paris?’

‘I will consider it.’

‘Do so quickly, my lord. It is approaching the time of Carnival in Paris. When all the world and his wife celebrates.’ Wycliffe sniffed in distaste of such excess and the openings it provided for those who would destroy the restored government. ‘What better opportunity to carry out a coup d’état against the royal family when no one is prepared to consider anything other than his own pleasure?’

Lord Joshua Faringdon made no response, but slammed out of the room, no more satisfied with the situation than when he had entered the premises half an hour previously.

‘Going somewhere?’ Lord Nicholas Faringdon refused the services of Millington and announced himself in Hanover Square that same afternoon. He found Joshua in the library, folding documents into a well-worn leather case.

‘To Paris.’ Joshua barely looked up, but Nicholas could see the hard-held temper on his face, in every line of his body. Every movement was an essay in simmering fury. A brief, authoritative note from Wycliffe had followed hard on his earlier visit to and conversation with that gentleman, delivered by hand. Lord Faringdon was expected in Paris within the week and should make contact with Sir Charles Stuart, British Ambassador to the Bourbon Court. Further instructions would follow. Thus Lord Faringdon was not in a mellow frame of mind.

‘Oh.’ In no way put out, intimately acquainted with his cousin’s moods, Nicholas helped himself to a glass of brandy and cast himself into a chair to await repercussions. ‘A sudden decision?’

‘Yes.’

Nicholas crossed one booted leg over the other, a study in patience. ‘Is this in the way of a rout by overwhelming odds?’ he enquired, knowing that the outcome might be similar to that of applying a match to a trail of gunpowder.

‘No.’

‘So?’

‘If you must know—’ the leather satchel was flung onto the desk with little vestige of control ‘—it is a tactical retreat before superior forces.’

Silence.

Until Joshua faced his cousin, hands fisted on hips. ‘What is your next question? Are you perhaps going to ask me if I murdered my wife?’ he snarled. ‘You have been remarkably restrained with regard to the fraught topic of Marianne.’ It had been a long and frustrating day. He had not enjoyed the confrontation with Wycliffe or its outcome.

‘I have, haven’t I? But it was not my intent. Not unless I wanted a sharp left to the jaw.’ Nicholas raised his brows, waited a heartbeat. ‘But since you broached the issue… Did you? The gossips sound very sure.’

‘No. I did not.’ Joshua’s face was cold and bleak, in contrast to his eyes, which blazed with molten fire.

‘So where did the tale arise?’

‘A slighted woman, is my guess.’ He flung himself into a chair and picked up the glass that Nicholas had thoughtfully poured for him.

‘Ah. The Countess of Wexford? I thought as much. Beware a woman scorned, particularly one as self-seeking as the fair Countess. I doubt that she enjoyed being evicted from her role in this household.’

‘She had no role in this household.’

‘Well… I expect that she wished she had.’ Nicholas grinned in appreciation. ‘The lady has certainly sharpened her claws and is now intent on sinking them into your tender flesh. The scandal has taken the town by storm.’

‘As I know to my cost!’ Joshua put down the glass with a force that threatened the perfection of the faceted crystal. ‘But I am innocent of this, Nick. I did not murder my wife! Marianne…she is…was…!’ Aware of Wycliffe’s warning and the crevasse opening before the unwary, Joshua bit down on any further incriminating words.

Nicholas choked on his brandy.

‘She’s what? I thought she was dead.’

‘Nothing! She is.’

‘Sher…perhaps you need to tell me just what is going on. Of course you did not murder your wife. No one with any sense believes that you did. But something is afoot. What is it?’

Joshua gritted his teeth, the muscles of his jaw hardening. ‘That, Nick, is the whole problem. I must keep a still tongue in my head.’

‘Does Sarah know?’

‘No, she does not.’

‘Will you take her to Paris with you?’

Oh, God! ‘Yes…no. I haven’t decided. It is none of your affair!’

‘I just thought…’

‘What did you just think?’ Joshua glared at him.

‘That it would be better for Sarah if you took her with you.’

Joshua sighed. Of course he should take her with him. She would be devastated if he left her in London. He knew enough of Sarah’s state of mind to know that she would see it as a personal slight. But there was her safety to consider if death and violence were to be the order of the day in Paris.

‘It might,’ he said quietly, ‘be in the interest of Sarah’s safety if I left her here.’

Nicholas placed his glass carefully on the desk before raising keen eyes to pin his cousin down. ‘Sher—you can tell me to go to the devil, of course, but—are you involved in government work—something conspiratorial, perhaps—which necessitates your silence? Something which is not without its dangers?’

‘Why do you say that?’ The silver eyes narrowed with suspicion, but did not waver.

‘No reason. It is just that—’

‘You have a fertile imagination.’ Joshua was increasingly aware of a compulsion to unburden himself to his cousin. To lay before him the whole intricate web of plots and devious scheming that could undermine the peace achieved after Waterloo. To admit to the identity of The Chameleon. And knew he must not. He closed his eyes momentarily against it.

‘Perhaps I have. So you have no intention of unburdening yourself.’ It was as if Nicholas had sensed the internal battle, impulse waging war against necessity.

‘No.’

‘Very well. If that is what you truly wish.’ Nicholas pushed himself to his feet. ‘I cannot force you. But remember, if you ever need a sympathetic ear… ‘

‘Forgive me, Nick.’ Joshua also stood forcing his muscles to relax, managing a wry smile. ‘It is not my intention to appear churlish.’

‘But you do!’

‘All I can say is that the decision to unburden myself—as you put it so aptly—is not mine to make.’

Nicholas began to make his way to the door. Then, on a thought, looked back. ‘Do I surmise that your…er…colourful reputation is not as dire as you would have us believe? That it has all been a disguise for some undercover project?’

‘Surmise what you will.’ Nicholas could read nothing in Joshua’s expression. ‘But don’t discuss such an idea with Thea. Because she will surely talk to Sarah. And then where shall we all be!’

‘What an interesting life you lead, Sher!’ Now Nicholas laughed. ‘I never could accept that you were such a black sheep in the family as you would have us believe.’

‘Ha! I fear that my interesting life, as you put it, is about to call in its debts.’ For a moment Joshua hesitated, wondering if he were about to make a mistake, but was encouraged by the understanding smile on his cousin’s face. ‘You could do one thing for me.’

‘And that is?’

‘Come to Paris with me. I have the strangest feeling that I might just need your support.’

‘Will the Countess of Wexford be there?’

‘Highly likely. Now that she has done all the damage she can in London.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Thea will love it. She is not unacquainted with the city. Sir Hector was ambassador there for some months.’

‘I did not mean that Thea should… But of course she would accompany you.’ Joshua looked dubious at the prospect.

‘What—me go Paris with you—and leave Thea at home?’ Nicholas laughed aloud. ‘Have your wits entirely gone begging, man? When did any fashionable woman refuse a chance to go to Paris?’

‘Forgive me, Nick—I seem to have said that more than once this afternoon!’ Joshua bared his teeth in a passable smile and now, for the first time, there was some warmth there. ‘How crass of me! Perhaps both you and your formidable wife can give my fast-disintegrating reputation some much-needed support.’

That same night Joshua had intended to dine early at home before escorting Sarah to the theatre at Covent Garden. To hell with the gossips! And the devil take Wycliffe with his insinuations concerning Sarah’s loyalties! He would not turn and run from public gaze. Had they not flung down a challenge at the Exhibition and survived the ordeal? But at the eleventh hour he could not face running the gauntlet of the tiers of boxes with their avid eyes and raised lorgnettes, pretending ignorance of the knowing looks and speculation on his relationship with Marianne. The discussion of his sins both in general and in wicked particular. His respect for Eleanor and Henry, who had done exactly that, multiplied. But he guessed, rightly, that Sarah would find no enjoyment in the performance if they were providing the audience with more entertainment than the actors on the stage.

Wycliffe’s lack of sympathy and insistence that it was Joshua’s duty to return to Paris had seriously ruffled the Faringdon feathers.

So Lord and Lady Faringdon dined à deux at home with a reasonable show of unity, finding enough food for conversation to carry them through the various dishes in the first and second courses. Perhaps with no real appetite, but with no serious conflict, or even a need to discuss the little matter of murder. Sarah was perfectly willing to follow her lord’s lead. What would be the value in their discussing so contentious an issue when there was nothing further to be said, when Joshua was as tight-lipped as one of the oysters on her plate? Until, that is, they reached the dessert, a marvellous confection of peaches in heavy syrup and spun sugar.

Lord Joshua found that he had no appetite; he did not pick up his spoon.

‘Sarah—I find a need to go to Paris.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes immediately flew from her plate to his face, her enjoyment of the sweetness effectively destroyed by that one short statement. ‘When?’

‘In two days.’

If he saw a flicker of disappointment, a deepening of the little lines of concern that marked the fair skin beside her eyes when she was troubled, he thought he might have been mistaken. Or perhaps not. He was now intimately acquainted with Sarah’s ability to hide her thoughts.

‘Some business that has come up.’ I know it is a lame excuse, but it is the best I can do.

‘Of course.’ What business? Has the Countess of Wexford gone back to Paris? Surely he has not arranged an assignation! But I asked that I should not be required to meet and acknowledge his mistress. This would be an ideal solution to the problem. To continue the affair in Paris when I am far away! Her heart fell to the level of her satin shoes. She too put down her spoon.

‘Will it be a short visit?’ She kept her voice admirably calm, tried for a smile, which was not as successful, so skilfully raised her napkin to her lips to cover it.

‘I do not know. A week or two, perhaps longer.’

‘Very well.’ Even worse! Some would say that he is also going to ensure that there is no evidence to be discovered of the murder of poor Marianne. Many would say that. But I cannot—I will not—accept that. The possibilities rushed into her mind, rendering her almost light-headed.

Joshua watched his wife as she licked the sugar from one finger, her skin suddenly very pale. She would never ask him what he intended to do in Paris. Of course she would not. As a partner in a marriage of convenience he knew that she would be very careful of her status, ask nothing of him other than he was prepared to give on his own initiative. The thought touched his heart with compassion. And as at Richmond when she had so desperately wanted to ride with him, a desire to give her more than she was prepared to ask. So he made his decision in the blink of an eye. What was there to decide, after all? He knew what he wanted—he would not think about his reasons for it—but he also knew what would be the best for Sarah at this crucial time in their marriage. He had tried to distance himself. That had been a disaster and he could not do it again. It would be cruelty itself to leave her here alone to face the accusations, even more for her to have to tolerate Felton’s intrusive shadowing in his absence. She would assuredly think the worst of her absent husband if he abandoned her in cold blood.

He could not leave her. Had known it as soon as Nicholas had challenged him over it.

So he abandoned any attempt to eat Mrs Beddows’s masterpiece with some relief and cast his napkin on the table.

‘Sarah. Yes, I am going to Paris. But you are coming with me. Go and instruct your maid to pack some clothes. Not many, mind. You can enjoy the glories of Parisian fashion when you get there.’

‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak. She pushed aside her spoon with a clatter. ‘You will take me to Paris?’ Whatever she had expected, it was not this.

‘You, my dear wife. I have arranged for the children to stay with Judith.’ Well, he would do so first thing in the morning. ‘Don’t argue!’ as he saw her lips part. ‘Beth and John will enjoy it. Judith will spoil them inordinately. I need some time alone with you, away from the wagging tongues. Let us call it a late wedding visit, if you wish.’ He built his case skilfully unless she would still refuse. But what woman would? ‘I need to introduce you to Paris and you need to inspect our property there. It is Carnival, with much to entertain and amuse.’

‘Well… If you think… ‘

‘And I have suggested that Nick and Thea join us for a short time. That will be company for you when I need to be elsewhere.’ He applied the layers with sly expertise.

‘Yes…’

‘You will spend a considerable amount of my money and enjoy it.’ And before she could deny it: ‘It is in our contract, so I insist.’

‘But I—’

‘Sarah! I think I should also have included in that damned document that you would not argue with me at every step. There is nothing for you to do but be ready to go to France within the week. I have a yacht, which is awaiting us in Dover harbour. Can you be ready?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ A glow of colour suffused her cheeks. He could not resist, but leaned over and kissed her tinted cheek, the most gentle of caresses. And then, because the temptation was too great, and she was so close, her soft lips. They were warm and offered everything he could ask. But he drew back.

And laughed aloud as the look of startled surprise on her face struck at his senses. The likelihood of Sarah being a spy for any foreign power roused his appreciation of the ridiculous. She might mask her thoughts, but she was not that good at hiding her feelings. Wycliffe must be a fool indeed to suspect her of double-dealing! She was as transparent as the sparkling crystal on the table when jolted into happiness.

‘What is it?’ Her glance was one of sudden concern, of suspicion that her husband had manoeuvred her into this position, which he had, of course.

‘Nothing at all, dear Sarah! You are a delight to me.’

She frowned at him, but said no more. There was no accounting for the strange whims of gentlemen, after all. So she took herself off, to organise herself for the forthcoming and entirely unexpected treat. Surely if he intended to pursue the Countess of Wexford, he would not take his wife with him. It was inconceivable! The bubble of excitement within her chest could not be quelled.

Joshua smiled at her retreating figure. It pleased him to give her pleasure. Not from love exactly—he had already made that decision, had he not? But she was enchanting when taken by surprise.

And he felt a smug satisfaction at thwarting Wycliffe’s attempts to separate them, to keep Sarah alone and under surveillance in London.

Then there was only one more step for Lord Joshua Faringdon to take.

His decision to act on Wycliffe’s suggestion—if suggestion were not too mild a word for that gentleman’s plain speaking—and return to Paris as the British government’s eyes and ears gave his lordship pause for thought in the following days. It had never been an issue for him before. He had embarked on any number of chancy escapades with little concern for his own safety or the outcome of the mission. A thoughtless belief in his own immortality, he supposed. Now, with Sarah as his wife, he must give the inherent dangers some serious consideration. It had struck him with unpleasant force on the night when he had insisted that Sarah accompany him. There should be no danger for her in Paris, yet he must still contemplate the worst scenario. So he had some rapid plans to make.

He spent a day in careful thought and planning, partly in communication with Mr Hoskins, the lawyer who oversaw all the Faringdon legal matters, and finally the withdrawal of a large sum of money from his lordship’s bank. In return he acquired a deed of property, the outcome all quickly tied up and entirely to his satisfaction.

All that remained was to present the final conclusion to Sarah. He prowled the library, awaiting her return from an outing with Theodora. And brooded over the unpredictability of women who were too independent and self-sufficient for their own good, particularly those whose well-being was fast becoming a fixation with him. However enchanting they might be, however much they might have come to fill his thoughts from one hour to the next, they were still unpredictable.

At last he heard her light footsteps in the hall and emerged to meet her, all suave elegance and composure. No one would ever question his assurance. Still in her outdoor wear, she was in process of removing her beribboned and flowered straw bonnet. The soft light through the tall windows touched her hair with pale gold. She turned to him with a quick smile.

‘Joshua.’ Her eyes picked up colour in the sunbeams. ‘I did not know that you were home.’ Her impromptu greeting and genuine warmth filled his veins with a sudden heat.

‘I was waiting for you, lady.’

She blushed deliciously. Made no attempt to walk away, as the old Sarah might have done.

‘Sarah. Have you a moment?’

‘Of course.’

She must have no notion of how uncertain he felt, nor would she. He would carry it off with his habitual confidence as if the outcome of the next few moments were of no real importance to him, when they concerned him very much. He opened the door into the withdrawing room, a deliberate choice, being less formal and business-like than the library. It was important to keep her at her ease, unaware.

Waiting by the window as she laid aside her gloves and her parasol, he stood and watched, then without a word he handed her an envelope. Thick. Official, with her name on the outer cover.

‘What is it?’ Her brows rose in typical and instant suspicion, her eyes flying to his face.

He shook his head and smiled. ‘Open it.’ He would not say more.

‘A gift?’

‘Not really. More in the way of a security.’ He refused to be defensive, but saw the little line grow between her brows.

‘You should not, Joshua. You have given me so much. You do not need to give me more.’ But she still opened it with a very feminine curiosity.

‘I know.’ He watched her. ‘But I thought that perhaps this was necessary for you. You will understand.’

She raised her brows at his enigmatic words, but he would say no more until she had seen for herself. So Sarah extracted a sheaf of pages. Her eyes ran down one, then the next, widened with shock. Then she began to read again, colour fluctuating in her cheeks, lips parted in amazement.

‘Joshua… ‘ At first she could not find the words.

‘Sarah!’ He allowed himself a smile.

‘You cannot do this. You must not.’

‘Of course I can. It is my right and my pleasure. You are my wife.’ Perhaps for the first time, the force of the words struck home. You are my wife and I alone am responsible for your happiness and your safety. Your peace of mind.

‘Joshua… it is too much.’

‘It pleases me. You must allow me to be pleased.’

‘But a house! My very own house… ‘

She sank to the seat beside her as if her legs had not the strength to hold her.

‘It is for yourself and John. Whatever happens in the future, you will have your own home in your own name, independent of the estate. To live in or to sell, as you see fit.’

Sarah promptly shocked both of them by abandoning the document in her lap and covering her face with her hands.

‘Oh, Sarah.’ He sighed. What did he have to do to bring her troubled soul some degree of happiness and contentment? ‘It is not worth your tears. I had hoped that it would please you and give you some security.’

Your future will no longer be entirely dependent on me.

But he could not say that, could not even admit it to himself, when his impulse was to tighten the bonds rather than loosen them.

But his instinct at this moment was to take her into his arms and dry her tears with his lips. To tell her again that she need not fear the future, or his reputation, or the terrible scandal that hedged them in—whatever it was that robbed her of comfort. He wanted her to smile at him again as she had when she had walked into the hall, a smile of sheer delight. But he held back from her, aware of his own vulnerability for perhaps the first time. If she refused this gift, it would be like a slap in the face. He did not wish to contemplate that. She might fear her dependence on him. But he was beginning to realise that his happiness was fast becoming dependent on her. And he dare not approach her, for fear that she reject him as well as his gift.

‘Sarah. Please do not cry.’ He raked his fingers through his hair in a typically Faringdon gesture. ‘I did this to make you happy, not to deluge you in grief. You can refuse it if you wish. But, indeed, I hope that you will not.’

‘Yes… no! I know why you have done it. I am so overcome.’ She looked up, a wavering smile on her lips, her lashes spangled with tears as she wiped them away her hands.

What an amazing man. He had given her a house of her own. Her own house—her mind repeated it again and again. A little town house in one of the streets off the Park. Bought by him in her name. Not part of the Faringdon estate. With the tip of one finger she traced where her name was written on the deed of ownership, breathless with astonishment that he should do this for her, aware of her innermost fears. How could she not weep? She had never experienced such generosity in the whole of her life. Such willingness to give her her freedom if she wished to take it. Making himself vulnerable to her own choice.

He had put her future here into her own hands. What did he deserve from her? It was time that she grew up, that she stepped outside her fears and foolish insecurities.

So Sarah rose to her feet, pressing the document to her heart for a moment before laying it aside on the table. Wiped the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. Then walked toward him quite deliberately. Stood before him. Watched the uncertainty on his face. Raised her hands, again quite deliberately with no tremor, to frame his face, aware of the flash of surprise in his eyes as she did so. Then placed her lips on his. Very gently, the merest breath.

‘Thank you, Joshua. What a marvellous gift. How could I ask for better? I could not possibly refuse it.’ She kissed him again, astonished anew at her courage in making so personal a gesture. In the cold light of day. In the withdrawing room.

The tension eased from his face, the harsh lines softened. His smile reflected hers. It was all the encouragement she needed. She kissed him one more.

‘Sarah.’ His voice was low, a little rough with emotion. ‘Do you realise that you have kissed me three times of your own volition?’

‘I know.’ Her smile deepened. ‘And I can make it four.’

And she did.

Later Joshua was free to heave a sigh of relief that his plan had come to a satisfactory fulfilment. Whatever happened in the future, Sarah would have her own home, over and above the settlement made for her in the legal jointure at the time of their marriage. Because it had to be faced. Sarah was unaware of the dangers, and it was his intention that she remain so, but dangers there undoubtedly were. If Wycliffe was talking of assassinations, political murder… Joshua thought about his last visit to Paris, his expression grim. It had ended in his ignominious sprawl over a balustrade with immediate pain and inconvenience, but no lasting damage. It could have ended quite differently if his assailant had been intent on taking his life. He had been careless, thoughtless of his safety. Next time—if there was to be a next time—he would be prepared against so overt an attack, but he might not be so fortunate in the outcome. It was the price he might be called upon to pay, becoming involved with those who would destroy the peace and stability of Europe. He had always accepted that. If death awaited him in the sumptuous rooms and clipped gardens of Paris and the Tuileries, so be it. But Sarah would not suffer. A grim tension settled about his mouth.

And Sarah must not know.