Читать книгу The Wolf's Promise - Claire Thornton - Страница 8

Early March 1809

T he pale winter’s day was nearly over when Lady Angelica Lennard arrived at Holly House. She had been anxiously anticipating this moment for hours, but now she was here she was almost reluctant to climb down from the carriage.

‘I’ll knock on the door, my lady,’ said her coachman.

‘Thank you.’

As she waited for the door to open, Angelica glanced quickly around. It was too dark for her to see much, but she was acutely aware of how isolated the house was. It was situated a few miles south-west of Arundel, on the flat, windswept coastal plain of West Sussex. There wasn’t another house within half a mile. It was an ideal place for a master smuggler to set up his headquarters.

Angelica suppressed a shiver. She was used to the teeming bustle of London and, even without the possibility that she was walking into a smuggler’s lair, she would have found the absence of visible human life disturbing. There was not even a light showing from one of the windows to suggest the house was occupied.

It wasn’t raining but there were heavy clouds in the sky, and an icy wind wrapped her skirts around her legs and tugged at her bonnet. She did her best to ignore the discomforts of the weather. She was conscious of her maid’s dour presence beside her. Martha had made no secret of her disapproval of this errand. Angelica was equally determined not to reveal her own misgivings.

The front door opened and a maidservant looked cautiously out into the gloom, lit from behind by a pale light in the hallway. Angelica summoned up her courage and stepped briskly forward.

‘Good evening,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Am I correct in believing that this is the residence of Mr Benoît Faulkener?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl looked at her suspiciously.

‘Good! My name is Lady Angelica Lennard. I would like to speak to your master, if you please,’ said Angelica firmly.

‘The master’s not at home…’

‘Then perhaps you would be so kind as to allow me to wait for him?’ Angelica took another step towards the girl. She’d come this far; she was determined not to be turned away when she was so close to her goal.

‘Oh, I don’t know…’

‘What is it, Tilly?’ An older woman appeared behind the maid, and the girl gladly gave way to her.

‘Good evening, ma’am.’ Angelica introduced herself again. ‘I would be grateful if you would allow me to wait for Mr Faulkener.’

‘Is my son expecting you?’ The woman spoke with a hint of a French accent. She was in her early fifties, and her dark hair was greying, but she studied Angelica with shrewd brown eyes.

‘No, ma’am.’ Angelica replied steadily, although her heart was pounding a nervous tattoo within her chest. ‘He does not know me. I have come to deliver a letter to him from my father. It is very important.’

Mrs Faulkener looked thoughtfully at her visitor for a few more seconds.

The shadowy bulk of the carriage rose up behind Angelica, but the light from the hall illuminated her face and picked out gold highlights in her blonde hair. She was very pale, and her expression seemed strained, but her candid blue eyes met Mrs Faulkener’s gaze with an almost innocent steadfastness. The Frenchwoman nodded slightly.

‘It must be important to have brought you all this way,’ she said. ‘Come in, my lady. Tilly, direct the coachman to the stables.’

‘Thank you.’ Overwhelmed with relief that she had so far been successful in her mission, Angelica followed her hostess into a sitting room at the back of the house.

‘You must be cold, sit by the fire.’ Mrs Faulkener spoke in a brisk but not unwelcoming voice. ‘Would you like some tea?’ She tugged on the bell pull.

‘You are very kind,’ Angelica said awkwardly. Now that the first moment of confrontation and relief was over, she was feeling increasingly ill at ease.

The sitting room was comfortable but unpretentious. It contained two armchairs on either side of the fireplace, a small, well-polished sideboard, and an occasional table beside one of the armchairs. The chairs were upholstered in rich, russet brown, but they were slightly shabby and old-fashioned. It was a room for living in, not for show, and it offered a welcome contrast to the bleak, dark, lonely field outside.

All the same, Angelica could not feel entirely comfortable. It was clear from the neat pile of linen, the scissors and pin-cushion that she had interrupted Mrs Faulkener in the middle of doing her mending. It was an unexpectedly mundane scene to discover in a smuggler’s house, and Angelica was thrown off balance. It had never occurred to her when she set out to find Benoît Faulkener that anyone else would be involved in their meeting, or that she would be forced to engage in social niceties with a member of his family while awaiting his arrival.

‘I’m so sorry to intrude upon you like this,’ she said impulsively. ‘I really didn’t mean to. It’s just…’

‘I met your father once, several years ago when he was visiting Sir William,’ said Mrs Faulkener calmly. ‘My late husband was a doctor in Arundel. The Earl is a very fine gentleman. Ah, Tilly—’ she turned her head as the maid came into the room ‘—Lady Angelica will be spending the night with us. Please prepare a room for her. We would like some tea, and no doubt her maid is also hungry.’

‘Yes, m’m.’ Tilly glanced at Angelica curiously, and then retreated with appropriate discretion.

‘Oh, no!’ Angelica leapt to her feet in agitation. ‘I’m sure I needn’t put you to so much trouble. I only wish to speak to Mr Faulkener and then…’

‘You came down from London, did you not?’ Mrs Faulkener raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘And Benoît will not return home for several hours. You can hardly travel back in the middle of the night.’

‘But there must be an inn…’ said Angelica helplessly.

‘There are several,’ said Mrs Faulkener equably. ‘But you will be much more comfortable here.’

For a moment Angelica felt uncharacteristically daunted. She had been mistress of her father’s household for several years since the death of her mother, she was used to being in command; but there was something rather disconcerting about the Frenchwoman’s self-assurance.

Then Mrs Faulkener smiled, the expression softening the rather severe lines of her face.

‘I will be glad to have your company at dinner,’ she said. ‘I doubt if Benoît will be back in time, and I get so bored when I have to eat alone.’

It was after nine o’clock when Benoît Faulkener finally returned to Holly House.

Contrary to her expectations, Angelica had enjoyed a surprisingly relaxed meal with Mrs Faulkener. The Frenchwoman had been a pleasant, undemanding hostess and, much to Angelica’s relief, she had asked no awkward questions. But after dinner, when there was nothing to do but return to the sitting-room and wait for Benoît Faulkener, Angelica had become increasingly nervous.

She had to control a start when at last she heard a door bang and muffled voices in the hall. Mrs Faulkener nodded to her reassuringly and went quickly out of the room.

Angelica stood up instinctively and turned towards the door. Her mouth felt dry and she moistened her lower lip with her tongue before catching it nervously between her teeth.

Despite the cascading blonde curls, which had inspired her name as a baby, and which had never darkened as she grew older, there was nothing ethereal about her appearance. At the moment she was pale with anxiety, but under normal circumstances her cheeks were rosy and her blue eyes merry.

She was very well liked, but she had never been considered a classic beauty. Her personality was too forceful, her mouth was too wide and she laughed too readily. In addition, and most regretfully, her figure was considered a trifle too robust. It was true that she had a trim waist and long, slim legs, but she moved with an energy and determination which offered no concessions to the die-away airs fashionable among some of her contemporaries.

It was impossible to imagine that a zephyr of wind could carry her away like thistledown—or that she would find such an experience to her taste. Angelica preferred to keep her feet firmly on the ground.

She was dressed now in an elegant but suitably understated gown of soft blue silk which seemed unexpectedly vivid against the predominantly brown furnishings of the sitting-room. Martha had insisted on packing an adequate supply of clothes for her mistress’s foolhardy mission, and now Angelica was grateful.

The dress had a modest neckline, but it was gathered in beneath her full breasts by a narrow ribbon which hinted at the voluptuous figure hidden by the demure folds of her skirts. She had thrown a long, fringed stole over her shoulders, and her glowing blonde hair was pinned up in a classical chignon of curls. Although she didn’t know it, she shone like a candle in the shadows of the little room. All in all, she was as ready as she ever could be to confront a smuggler in his own home, but she felt uncharacteristically unsure of herself—and completely unprepared for the coming encounter.

She gasped as she remembered something, and snatched up her reticule. She dragged out two letters and cast the reticule aside, swinging hastily back to face the door as she heard footsteps approaching the room.

The door opened and the candles flickered in the sudden draught. Long dark shadows swooped up and down the walls as Benoît Faulkener entered the room. Angelica caught her breath, her hands gripping the letters painfully hard as she fixed all her attention on her host, trying desperately to divine what kind of man he was.

He closed the door quietly and returned her gaze with equal curiosity but considerably less intensity. He was tall, slightly over six foot, lean and sinewy, with a deceptive, whipcord strength. His hair was raven black and his skin tanned. He had high cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose. There were small creases at the corners of his eyes, as if from squinting through bright sunlight and seaspray. His mouth was firm yet sensitive, but it gave away few secrets.

Apart from his white cravat and the frill of his shirt sleeves beneath his cuffs, he was dressed entirely in black, which emphasised his lean height and corresponded well with Angelica’s somewhat exotic preconceptions of him. After her father’s description of their dramatic encounter on the seashore, she had never expected Benoît Faulkener to look like an average gentleman—though what she had been anticipating she would have been hard pressed to say.

In fact, he looked more like a pirate than a smuggler. Her first, confused thought was that she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been wearing a golden earring and a red kerchief, and carrying a cutlass. It was as if he had brought the briny expanse of the ocean into the small room with him. In his invigorating presence, the hitherto cosy chamber seemed to become claustrophobic and cramped.

Angelica’s full lips parted slightly in amazement. She stared at him as if transfixed, still clutching the letters against her breast.

A hint of amusement appeared in Benoît’s alert, watchful dark brown eyes. He had a mobile, intelligent face; his resemblance to his mother was elusive but unmistakable.

‘Good evening, Lady Angelica,’ he said politely, bowing slightly in her direction. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a long wait for me. Had I known you were here, I would have returned sooner.’

Angelica blinked. After an evening spent with the still very French Mrs Faulkener, she had somehow expected Benoît to sound equally exotic. In fact his voice was pleasantly deep, but unambiguously English.

‘I’ve brought you a letter from my father,’ she said baldly. It wasn’t what she’d intended to say, but her customary self-assurance had deserted her.

‘So my mother said. Please, sit down again.’ He gestured courteously towards a chair and then went over to the sideboard.

Angelica’s gaze followed him. She knew she ought not to stare at him quite so intently but she couldn’t help herself. Even if she hadn’t already been so curious about him she would have felt compelled to watch him. He moved with a controlled, crisp grace which she found unaccountably rewarding to see. He was certainly the most assured man she had ever met; yet she sensed that his self-confidence wasn’t founded on empty arrogance, but upon hard-won experience. Perhaps he really would be able to help her.

‘Would you care for some brandy?’ he asked courteously. ‘You’ve come a long way today, and I don’t imagine you are finding your errand an easy one.’

Angelica had been so preoccupied with her reflections on his potential character that, for a few moments, she barely understood what he’d just said to her. She glanced blankly at the decanter he was holding, and then a natural association of ideas popped unbidden into her mind.

‘Is it smuggled?’ she exclaimed, before she could stop herself.

He had been pouring the brandy, but at her comment he glanced sideways at her. There was a gleam in his dark eyes, and she saw a slow smile form on his lips. He was clearly amused by her gauche outburst. She blushed hotly, wondering furiously how she could have been so unsophisticated as to speak her thoughts aloud.

‘I doubt if much of the spirit drunk in this county has had duty paid on it,’ Benoît replied urbanely, completely unruffled by her question. ‘Except for that in Sir William Hopwood’s house, of course.’

‘Thank you.’ Angelica took the brandy he offered her, returning his gaze as calmly as she could.

She had already put herself at a disadvantage with him; she had no intention of allowing him to see the extent of her inner confusion.

‘Of course, you must know Sir William,’ said Benoît conversationally, as he sat down opposite Angelica and stretched out his long, black-clad legs across the hearth. ‘He’s one of your father’s friends. But I don’t believe you yourself have ever visited this part of the country before, have you?’

‘No,’ Angelica replied, more harshly than she realised. His words had conjured up an old, painful memory. ‘We were going to visit Sir William one spring—but then my mother died,’ she added.

She would not normally have said as much to a stranger, but she was thoroughly unsettled by the situation. Asking a favour from a man she didn’t know, even one who owed such an enormous debt to her father, was turning out to be even harder than she’d anticipated.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Benoît quietly.

Angelica glanced at him quickly and then looked away, gazing into the fire as she tried to get a grip on herself. She knew she was being completely ridiculous. She had come to perform a simple errand and she was turning the whole thing into a foolish melodrama. After a moment she put the brandy glass down on a hearth stone with a firm click and lifted her head to look squarely into her host’s eyes.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said briskly, sounding much more like her normal self. ‘But it happened several years ago, and I’m sure you are more interested in what I am doing here now.’

‘I imagine you’ve come to reclaim my debt to your father,’ said Benoît matter-of-factly, crossing one black-booted ankle over the other and taking a sip of his brandy. Unlike Angelica, he was completely relaxed. ‘I confess I’m curious as to the exact nature of your request.’

‘You do intend to keep your promise, then?’ Angelica exclaimed, staring at him, her surprise audible in her voice. She had assumed he’d done no more than make a brash, boy’s declaration all those years ago. She’d been quite certain that she would have to struggle to persuade him to keep his promise—perhaps even obliquely to threaten him.

Benoît looked up and met her eyes. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but she was suddenly conscious of the immense force of his personality. Like a sleek black wolf slumbering by the winter fireside—he looked peaceful, but you roused him at your peril.

‘I always keep my word, my lady,’ he replied coldly. His voice was dangerously soft, and it contained an undercurrent of pure steel. ‘But I do not yet know what service the Earl requires of me. Perhaps you would be good enough to give me his letter.’

He moved suddenly, leaning forward and stretching out an imperative hand towards her. Her heart leapt in momentary fright at his unexpected gesture and she instinctively hugged the letters against her breast.

‘My lady,’ he said impatiently, a hard gleam in his eyes. ‘It would be foolish for you to come all this way and then refuse to give me the letter.’

Angelica hesitated, her gaze locked with his. She could see no apology in his eyes for having alarmed her—but neither did she have any intention of apologising for doubting his honour. She felt the same sense of apprehension, yet strange exhilaration, that sometimes gripped her at the sound of an approaching thunderstorm. The storm was unpredictable and uncontrollable, but after the endless silence that preceded it the noise and the lightning flashes could be so exciting.

‘I know what’s in it,’ she said suddenly, still making no move to give it to him. ‘Papa dictated it to me yesterday evening. It might be better if I try to explain.’ She stood up restlessly, and took a few hasty steps, but there wasn’t enough space in the small room to pace as she would have liked.

‘Dictated it?’ Benoît glanced at her, a slight frown in his eyes.

‘Papa has been blind for more than a year,’ she said curtly, the abruptness in her voice a measure of how painful she found it to make that admission.

‘I’m sorry. He was a fine man.’

‘He still is!’

Angelica spun around to confront Benoît in a swirl of flashing blue silk and dazzling, golden curls. Spots of colour glowed on her cheeks and her eyes burned like angry sapphires. Benoît’s quiet words of sympathy had touched a raw nerve, jolting a far more vehement response from her than she might have wished.

‘My father is a brave, noble man—not a common smuggler, a thief!’ she blazed furiously. ‘My God, he spared your life. How dare you speak of him as if he’s dead!’

She broke off abruptly and turned her head away, blinking back treacherous tears as she tried to regain control of her emotions. She could not possibly explain to a stranger the bitter, black despondency which had consumed the Earl from the instant he’d realised he would never see again.

Lord Ellewood had lost far more than his sight when his carriage had overturned—and so had all those who loved him. Sometimes Angelica wondered despairingly if he would ever again be the same man she had loved and admired for so much of her life.

For a few moments after her outburst there was silence in the sitting-room. The clock ticked steadily on, and a log collapsed with a shower of sparks in the fireplace, but neither Angelica nor Benoît paid any attention to their surroundings.

Benoît was watching her with slightly narrowed eyes. He didn’t seem to be particularly offended by her explosion of anger, but she had certainly succeeded in commanding his full attention.

He stood up almost lazily and went over to her, looking down at her thoughtfully. She glanced at him briefly, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She was too afraid he would see the pain behind her anger, and she was ashamed on her father’s behalf, as well as her own.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘I had no intention of insulting your father. I have no doubt that he is still a fine and noble man. But he was also a very active man—and the loss of his eyesight must have hurt him grievously.’

‘It has,’ she whispered.

Benoît’s unexpected understanding of her father’s plight disturbed her almost as much as his earlier words had upset and angered her. She found she was trembling with a mixture of confused emotions. She didn’t object when Benoît took her hand and led her back to her chair. He picked up her brandy glass and gave it to her, then sat down again himself.

‘I hate to disappoint you,’ he said lightly, once more sounding completely relaxed and at ease, ‘but I haven’t been actively involved in the smuggling trade for nearly fifteen years. I am now an entirely respectable and, I regret to admit it, unromantic businessman.’

Angelica choked on the brandy and began to cough, her eyes watering. She started to rummage in her reticule, and then found that Benoît was presenting her with a spotless linen handkerchief.

‘So I’m afraid you won’t hear any ponies trotting beneath your window tonight,’ he continued, as she dried her eyes, ‘or see any mysterious lights shining from the landing casement. In fact, you will probably find your stay here as uneventful as a night under Sir William’s roof.

‘Actually,’ he added reflectively, ‘you may find your stay here rather more restful than it would be with “Blunderbuss Billy”. I believe he has a habit of setting the whole household in an uproar whenever he goes out to chase my erstwhile companions in crime.’

Angelica smiled, in spite of herself.

‘I can imagine,’ she said, trying to summon up her usual good-humoured composure. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I had no right to speak to you so bitterly just now. Papa only told me about his meeting with you yesterday. I really wasn’t sure what to expect of you—but I assure you I will keep your secret as faithfully as Papa has always done.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Benoît gravely. ‘Is your father well in every other respect?’

‘Yes,’ said Angelica, biting her lip. ‘It was a carriage accident. The coach overturned and splinters of wood and glass went into his eyes,’ she added, almost as if she felt impelled to do so, though Benoît hadn’t asked for further details. ‘He broke his arm and suffered a raging fever for several days, but now everything is mended except his eyes.’

She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but she couldn’t disguise the bleakness in her voice. The Earl’s body might have healed, but his spirit was still sorely wounded. Benoît watched her shrewdly, but he didn’t comment.

Angelica glanced down, dragging her attention back to the business in hand, and was dimly surprised to realise that she was still holding the two letters. One of them had already been creased and stained; now they both looked the worse for wear. She tried to smooth them out in an instinctive, almost automatic gesture.

‘So what is it your father wants me to do for him that he is no longer able to do for himself?’ Benoît enquired, a trifle impatiently, as the silence lengthened.

Angelica looked up.

‘To rescue my brother from Bitche,’ she said simply.

Outside, the wind was growing stronger, and she could hear the patter of raindrops against the window. A storm was blowing up, isolating Holly House even further from the outside world. She had heard no movement from anyone else in the house for some time. It would be easy to imagine that she and Benoît were the only two people awake and breathing on the face of the earth. She certainly had the very real sense that he was the only person who could help her, and that this was the moment of truth.

‘I see,’ he said at last, his deep voice expressionless. ‘You want me to travel through more than two hundred miles of French-occupied territory and then rescue your brother from one of Bonaparte’s most notorious prisoner-of-war fortresses.’

‘Papa spared you—and your family. Now we’re asking for a life in return,’ said Angelica with breathless urgency.

She leant towards him, her golden curls dancing, unconsciously holding out her hand to him in a pleading gesture, trying with every fibre of her being to compel him to agree.

She was desperately anxious for her brother to come home. She was sure the Earl’s black moods were made worse by his unspoken fears for his son’s safety. And Harry had always been so cheerful and lively. Perhaps he would be able to find a way of helping Lord Ellewood to come to terms with what he had lost—all Angelica’s efforts had failed.

‘A dramatic rescue is hardly necessary,’ said Benoît dryly. He was still leaning back in his chair, dark and imperturbable, infuriatingly unresponsive to Angelica’s beseeching blue eyes. ‘All your brother—what’s his name…?’

‘Harry. He’s a midshipman.’

‘All Harry has to do is sit tight and behave himself, and he’ll be exchanged in due course,’ said Benoît. He took a sip of brandy, and watched Angelica over the rim of his glass. ‘There’s no need for all this melodrama over a perfectly straightforward situation.’

‘But it’s not straightforward!’ said Angelica passionately. ‘Maybe you haven’t realised, but the French have stopped making automatic exchanges of their prisoners. When the war broke out again in 1803 they even detained civilians—women and children. Many of them are still being kept prisoner at Verdun. Papa says such infamy is in breach of every civilised code of war!’

‘I’m sure many people think so,’ said Benoît softly, still intently studying Angelica, an enigmatic expression in his eyes. ‘But I also understand there is a school at Verdun, with several young midshipmen among its pupils. Why is Harry not one of them?’

‘He wouldn’t give his parole,’ said Angelica flatly. ‘He has already tried—and failed—to escape once. That’s why they’ve sent him to Bitche. It’s a punishment depot, isn’t it? You seem to know all about it.’

‘Only what I hear,’ said Benoît mildly.

His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he was frowning slightly and Angelica at least had the satisfaction of knowing that he was giving the problem his full attention.

‘The fortress was built by Vauban, I believe,’ he said after a moment’s reflection. ‘It’s situated on the summit of a great outcrop of rock. Not an easy place to escape from.’

‘Harry’s done it once already,’ said Angelica proudly. ‘Look!’ She passed him the older of the two letters. ‘We received this only yesterday from one of the détenus at Verdun.’

‘Thank you.’ Benoît put down his brandy glass, unfolded the crumpled paper and began to read.

‘This paragraph here!’ said Angelica impatiently, dropping onto her knees beside his chair, so that she could see the letter too.

Harry and his friends were at liberty for nearly three months. After many difficulties they reached the coast in safety, but they could not find a vessel to take them across the Channel. The French are strict in their surveillance of all boats at night; Harry was recaptured near Étaples and marched back to Verdun in shackles…

‘You see, the main problem was finding a boat to get to England—that is why Papa thought of you!’ Angelica exclaimed eagerly, her golden curls bouncing in her excitement. ‘According to Sir William, the war hasn’t made any difference to the smugglers.’

‘But I’m not a smuggler any more,’ Benoît reminded her, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes as he looked into her ardent face. ‘Hush! Let me finish the letter,’ he admonished her, as she opened her mouth to make a hasty retort.

She bit her lip in vexation and sat back on her heels in a rustle of impatient silk. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, but she didn’t want to alienate him if he might be able to help.

He smiled faintly, as if aware of her impatience, and carried on reading.

She watched him anxiously. If it was true he was no longer a smuggler, perhaps he couldn’t help her. But he must still have relatives in France, and she retained the deep conviction that if he wanted to do something he could find a way.

The Earl’s correspondent continued:

I saw Harry when he arrived here at Verdun, but I was only able to snatch a few words with him. Following his failed escape attempt he is regarded by the French as a mauvais sujet, criminal and the worst possible escape risk. He has been sent back to the fortress in Bitche, a punishment depot, but I am sure he will try to escape again as soon as the opportunity arises.

It is ironic, is it not, that if the French had offered him parole his own sense of honour would have held him more surely than any shackles? But the French don’t really understand where midshipmen fit into the naval hierarchy. They often don’t offer them the same privileges they allow commissioned officers. Of course, it might be different if they realised he was your son, but so far they don’t seem to have discovered the connection. I remain your humble servant, James Corbett.

‘You see!’ Angelica declared, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘It is a matter of life and death. Harry will surely try again, and next time he may be killed. I know that some of the prisoners have been killed trying to escape. All he needs is a little help. One small boat in the right place.’

She knelt up, gripping the arm of Benoît’s chair in both hands.

‘You don’t even need to go to France,’ she said earnestly, her lucid blue eyes fixed on Benoît’s face as she concentrated all her powers of persuasion onto him. ‘James Corbett sent his mistress over to England to carry out some business for him and she smuggled the letter out in her clothes—the French seem to be very lax in some respects—and she will be returning soon to Verdun.

‘All we need is the name of someone Harry can safely approach to give him passage over the Channel. Fanny can take the information back to James Corbett.’

‘And how will Corbett get a message through to Harry?’ Benoît asked sceptically, raising one black eyebrow. ‘And what happens if the name of the “safe person” falls into the wrong hands? What kind of tragedy would I be responsible for then, if I did as you suggest?’

Angelica bit back an angry retort. She knew Benoît’s objections were valid; in her frustration and anxiety she wasn’t thinking clearly. But his lack of a positive response to the problem aggravated her almost beyond bearing.

‘There must be a way!’ She struck the arm of his chair in her exasperation. If you won’t go to France yourself—’

‘Did I say I wouldn’t?’ Benoît covered her hand with his, and Angelica gasped as she suddenly realised how informally she had been behaving with him.

He was still sitting in the armchair, and she was kneeling on the floor beside him in a position which was neither dignified nor ladylike. In her wildest imagining she had never expected their interview would end up like this.

His hand was tanned, with strong but elegant fingers. She was instantly conscious of the warmth and potential power in his grip, and felt an answering spark at his touch which no other man had aroused within her.

She had been drilled in habits of strict decorum, but she also lived in a fashionable, glittering world in which flattery and flirtation were commonplace. She had received thousands of compliments during her few Seasons, and many eligible and not so eligible gentlemen had kissed her hand—but none of them had produced such an immediate response in her.

She hesitated, unable to look away from his face. His gaze was strangely compelling, though she still couldn’t decipher the expression in his guarded brown eyes. She was torn between a desire to snatch her hand away and a fugitive wish to prolong the moment. Then she remembered it was her duty to Harry—and her father—to do everything she could to persuade Benoît to help.

She smiled a trifle uncertainly at him, her anxiety and hope apparent in her candid blue eyes.

‘You mean you will go to France?’ she said, almost pleadingly.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps!’ she exclaimed, drawing her hand away, consternation in her expression. ‘But…’

‘Let me have your father’s letter,’ said Benoît briskly.

‘Why? I’ve told you everything it contains,’ she said rebelliously.

‘Nevertheless, I’d like to see it,’ he replied equably. ‘This one belongs to you.’ He handed back James Corbett’s letter and stood up.

Angelica was taken by surprise by his sudden action. She tried to stand up too, but she’d been sitting on her legs, and she was already stiff from the long hours in the coach. A flurry of pins and needles made her gasp and sink back to the floor.

Benoît reached down and took both of her hands in his, drawing her easily to her feet. She winced slightly as the tingling in her left leg made it extremely uncomfortable to put her full weight on her foot, and he steadied her with a light hand on her waist as she took an involuntary step sideways.

She looked up at him, very conscious of how close together they were standing, and the almost casual intimacy of their actions, which nevertheless did not seem entirely unnatural.

His brown eyes were as watchful as ever, but they didn’t lack warmth.

‘You’re right,’ he said, and he was so close his deep voice seemed to reverberate through her. ‘I do owe your father a life—and that life would appear to be your brother’s. But it will be best if you leave it up to me as to how I rescue him. I will write a reply to your father’s letter and you may take it to him tomorrow.’

‘But what are you going to do?’ Angelica demanded. ‘And when are you going to start?’

‘That’s my business,’ Benoît retorted firmly. ‘Does your father know you’re here, by the way? He must have changed a great deal since my brief meeting with him if he allowed you to beard me in my den without a murmur.’

‘Of course he knows!’ Angelica exclaimed indignantly, stifling the uneasy awareness that she had informed the Earl of her intentions by the cowardly expedient of leaving him a note.

The Earl had wanted his secretary to bring his letter to Benoît, but Angelica had been deeply suspicious of asking a smuggler to rescue Harry. She hated doubting the Earl’s judgement, but since his accident his decisions had often been erratic and even unreasonable. Harry’s life was too important to entrust to a stranger on the strength of one brief meeting, sixteen years in the past. Angelica had been determined to discover what Benoît Faulkener was like for herself.

Benoît smiled. His dark face hung dizzyingly above Angelica’s and she closed her eyes. The candle flames had begun to merge together in a glowing, misty haze. Now that she had finally put her case to Benoît—and he had apparently agreed to help—she was suddenly overwhelmed with weariness.

She was dimly aware of an almost imperceptible touch on her hair, so light that she couldn’t be sure it hadn’t been a draught from the window disturbing her curls, then Benoît put his hand on her shoulder.

‘You’re swaying like an aspen tree in a summer gale,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘You’ve had a tiring day. I suggest you go to bed. You’ve done your part. Tomorrow you can safely return to your father.’

Angelica opened her eyes, insulted by the idea that she could be worn out by the carriage ride from London and irritated by Benoît’s calmly amused dismissal of her.

‘Don’t patronise me, sir,’ she said coldly. ‘I am a little weary, but I am quite equal to my responsibilities. If your inordinately secretive disposition means that you prefer not to discuss you plans with me, so be it—but don’t pretend it’s because I’m not capable of understanding their complexities!’

Benoît stepped back and inclined his head in acknowledgement of her comment, but he didn’t trouble to retaliate.

‘After you, my lady,’ he said, opening the door for her. ‘I am sure we will all see things more clearly after a good night’s sleep.’

Angelica gritted her teeth and walked out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster.