Читать книгу The Wolf's Promise - Claire Thornton - Страница 9

‘W e’ll be going back to London today, my lady?’ said Martha grimly as she brushed Angelica’s hair.

She wasn’t much more than thirty, but she’d cultivated an air of old-maidish disapproval from an early age.

‘I expect so,’ Angelica replied distractedly.

She had fallen asleep almost the moment she had climbed into bed the previous night. She’d had no time to reflect on her meeting with Benoît. She knew so little about him, and she wanted to be sure she was doing the right thing in entrusting Harry’s safety to him.

Martha sniffed disparagingly.

‘Nasty, damp, miserable, unfriendly place,’ she said sourly. ‘I don’t know why we came here at all.’

That was, quite literally, true. Angelica hadn’t thought it prudent to explain the whole story to her maid. She had simply said that Benoît Faulkener was an old acquaintance of the Earl, and that he might be able to help Harry.

‘I came to deliver Papa’s letter,’ said Angelica calmly.

‘No good will come of it,’ said Martha grimly. ‘It’s an ungodly household. Comings and goings at all hours. Secretive servants… You mark my words, Sir William was right when he told the Earl Sussex was nothing but a nest of villainous—’

‘What are you talking about?’ Angelica interrupted quickly. ‘What do you mean, comings and goings at all hours?’

‘Far be it from me to talk ill of strangers,’ said Martha, looking down her nose disdainfully, although her shrewd eyes watched Angelica closely in the mirror. Her mistress might not have told her everything, but Martha was quite capable of making her own deductions about the situation.

Angelica returned her maid’s gaze suspiciously.

‘What have you found out?’ she demanded imperatively.

‘They gave me a little attic room, overlooking the back of the house,’ said Martha, her lips pursed with, for once, genuine distaste. ‘The wind rattles through the casement something shocking—and the draught under the door…I got up to see if I could fix it and then I heard voices. Someone came to the house late last night, but they didn’t come openly. There were no lights, just low voices.

‘Then the Master himself went out. I saw him, and I heard the horses. You can be sure I didn’t go to sleep after that. I waited for him to return, which he did. Two or three hours later, and on his own. But I’m asking you—what kind of a carry-on is that for a respectable household?’

‘There might be a perfectly innocent explanation,’ said Angelica slowly, not sure whether what she was hearing was good or bad news from her point of view.

‘Oh, yes, and I’m a Chinaman,’ said the maid scornfully. ‘If it was all so innocent, why did they look at me as if I was mad this morning when I mentioned I’d heard visitors last night? “Oh, no,” said the cook. “It must have been the sound of the wind you mistook, Miss Farley. You being more used to city life than the sounds of the countryside. No one came to the house last night.’”

‘I see,’ said Angelica. ‘I admit, it does sound suspicious.’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling you!’ Martha exclaimed triumphantly, momentarily forgetting to be disapproving.

‘But it may not be altogether a bad thing if what you suspect is true…’

‘What?’

‘Think! Martha!’ Angelica twisted round in her chair to face the maid, seizing both the woman’s hands in her eagerness. ‘The reason Harry’s escape failed was because he couldn’t find a boat to bring him across the Channel. Who better than a smuggler…?’

Martha stared at her mistress for a moment, then she nodded grimly as if she wasn’t entirely surprised.

‘I guessed it might be something like that,’ she said heavily. ‘But how do you know they won’t take your gold and then betray Lord Lennard to the French to make an extra profit on the deal?’

‘I don’t—yet,’ Angelica replied. ‘But it may be the best chance Harry has. I have to do everything I can…for Papa’s sake…’

Martha pressed her lips together, accepting Angelica’s argument, although she didn’t like it very much. But she knew better than anyone how hard the past eighteen months had been for her mistress. No one had been able to break through Lord Ellewood’s morose mood. He had shut himself up in his Town house and refused to receive old friends.

For months Angelica had done little but read to her father and try to persuade him to take up his life again—but nothing had helped. If Lord Lennard’s return could change all that, then Martha as well as her mistress would do anything to hasten it.

‘Very well, my lady,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you want me to do.’

‘Just keep listening for the moment, I think,’ said Angelica, smiling ruefully. ‘You’ve been more alert than I, so far.’

Martha sniffed disparagingly.

‘Only because they put me in a room with half rotten window-frames,’ she said caustically.

It was quite late when Angelica finally went downstairs. She was wearing a deep rose-pink travelling dress, with a soft shawl thrown around her shoulders in deference to the winter draughts.

Despite her uncertainty about the situation, she looked much brighter and less anxious than she had done the previous evening. There was a warm glow in her cheeks and a sparkle in her blue eyes. She moved with the vibrant sense of purpose which normally characterised her. Martha’s gossip had intrigued rather than alarmed her, and for the first time in months she had something other than her father’s problems to think about.

There were two doors at the front of the hall. She knew one led into the dining-room, and she was about to go over to it when she heard voices coming from the other room. The door had been left slightly ajar and she recognised Benoît’s voice immediately. The other voice sounded familiar, but it was only when Benoît referred to him by name that she realised he was talking to Sir William Hopwood.

She caught her breath in horrified consternation. Her first thought was that her father had sent him to fetch her back, but then reason reasserted itself.

There would hardly have been time for the Earl to get a message to Sir William. Besides, her father had cut himself off from the rest of the world so thoroughly that he was unlikely to think of calling upon his old friend for such assistance.

Her second thought was that it would be extremely embarrassing if she did meet Sir William. It would be very difficult to provide an unexceptional explanation for her presence to him, and he was bound to be surprised and suspicious. She was about to hurry back upstairs when she suddenly realised that the subject of their conversation was of profound interest to her.

‘My men are sure one of the ruffians escaped in this direction,’ said Sir William gruffly. ‘They’re equally sure one of the others was hurt when he was thrown from his horse, but the fools lost track of them in the storm. Did you hear anything last night, Faulkener?’

‘I regret not,’ said Benoît coolly. ‘Apart from the wind, of course.’

‘Dammit! I wish I could believe you,’ Sir William growled.

‘Are you suggesting I’m lying, sir?’ Benoît demanded, but he sounded more amused than outraged.

‘You know damn well I am,’ Sir William retorted. ‘Not that it’ll do me any good. There were times when I thought I’d caught Toby, fair and square—but somehow he always managed to outwit those porridge-brained men of mine. And you’re as slippery as a greased pig.’

‘What a flattering comparison,’ said Benoît appreciatively. ‘I’m sorry you don’t find your men entirely to your satisfaction. I’m sure I could pick out some sharp-witted fellows to take their places.’

‘I dare say you could,’ said Sir William grimly. ‘But I’ll thank you not to interfere in my business.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of being so impertinent,’ Benoît responded smoothly. ‘Are you positive you won’t take some refreshment?’

‘Dammit! Faulkener! Why do you persist in siding with these villains?’ Sir William burst out. ‘If only a few of us made a stand, we could stamp out this infernal business in no time!’

‘Who am I to go against tradition?’ said Benoît lightly.

‘Tradition!’ Sir William exploded. ‘A tradition of murder, terror, blackmail…treason!’

‘Treason?’

‘What do you call trading with the enemy? My God! I’ve even heard that smugglers row over to France from Dover with belts of guineas round their waists to pay for Bonaparte’s armies. Don’t you call that treason? When good English gold is being used to equip our enemies?’

‘I won’t argue with you on that point,’ said Benoît coldly. ‘But you might ask yourself, who supplies the guineas? Not the poor men who risk their lives in the Strait of Dover. It’s merchants in the City—men who may never come within a mile of the coast—who send the gold to Napoleon. Why don’t you discuss the subject of treason with them?’

‘My God! Faulkener! How can you excuse the villainy of these base scoundrels by laying the blame on others?’ Sir William demanded fiercely. ‘If I had my way, every merchant or banker who sent gold to Bonaparte would be stripped of his possessions—but that doesn’t justify what the local men do. They’re lazy, workshy, and they’d rather spend the night dishonestly landing raw spirit than doing a decent day’s work.’

‘Perhaps if they were paid a decent day’s wage for a decent day’s work, they might not be so keen to risk their lives and their health on the beaches,’ Benoît retorted sharply.

‘By heaven, sir! I might have known you’d have a revolutionary spirit in you,’ Sir William breathed, horrified. ‘It’s your French blood. Next you will be telling me that all men are equal and the government should be overturned. You’re in league with the Frogs!’

Benoît laughed.

‘My good sir,’ he said, chuckling, ‘when I take it into my head to overthrow His Majesty’s government, you will be the first to know. In the meantime, I regret I cannot help you with your current problem.’

Angelica had been standing, transfixed, at the foot of the stairs, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. But now she suddenly realised Sir William was about to leave and she was in grave danger of being discovered. She hurried back upstairs, nearly tripping over her skirt, as Benoît and Sir William emerged into the hall.

She paused, just around the bend in the stairs, and listened to Sir William’s departure. Her heart was beating rapidly with excitement and alarm, and she tried to still her breathing to a normal rate. It would never do if Benoît suspected she’d been eavesdropping.

His argument with Sir William had given her pause for thought. Asking the help of a smuggler was one thing—but what if he really was a traitor to England? He had made no greater attempt to deny that charge than he had to deny he was involved in smuggling.

She pressed her hand to her mouth in horror. What if Benoît really was a revolutionary? Some of the things he’d said certainly implied he had radical ideas. Until this moment the fact that he was half-French had seemed important only because it meant he might be in a better position to help Harry. She had met a number of émigrés in London, and most of them heartily loathed Napoleon. It had never occurred to her that Benoît might actually support the Corsican monster.

She heard the front door close behind Sir William and took a deep breath. She had a strong desire to run back up to her bedchamber, but she could hardly spend the rest of the day hiding there. The sooner she faced Benoît the better.

She draped her shawl more becomingly around her shoulders, and walked sedately downstairs. He had been about to return to the room he had occupied with Sir William, but he looked up at her approach.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ he said politely. ‘I trust you slept well.’ She thought she detected a glint of amusement in his brown eyes, but in the dimly lit hall it was hard to tell.

‘Very well, thank you,’ she replied calmly, although her heart was beating faster than she would have wished. ‘My maid tells me there was quite a storm last night, but I’m afraid I was dead to the world.’

‘I’m glad you were comfortable,’ said Benoît. ‘Come and have some breakfast.’ He held open the dining-room door for her.

‘Thank you.’ Angelica went into the room, feeling a strange frisson of something that wasn’t quite nervousness as she passed beside him.

For a man who could only have had a few hours’ sleep, he looked surprisingly vigorous. She was profoundly disturbed by what she’d just overheard—yet she couldn’t suppress an unruly surge of excitement at being once more in his presence. There was a virile energy in his lean body which provoked an immediate response in her own ardent nature.

But she wasn’t entirely comfortable with that piece of self-awareness, so she tried to distract herself with more mundane considerations. She noticed that he was once again dressed entirely in black—apart from the white cravat. She wondered vaguely if he took it off when he went out smuggling, or whether he just took good care to cover it up. She supposed it must be very convenient for him to be always dressed for business, whatever the hour of day or night.

There was no one in the dining-room, and Benoît pulled on the bell rope. Angelica hesitated. She was feeling extremely unsettled, and she knew if she sat down at the table she would feel trapped. The curtains were open so, partly out of curiosity, partly from a desire to appear at ease, she went over to the window.

The dining-room looked out to the front of the house. After the previous night’s storm, the sky was a surprisingly bright and clear blue. She saw a holly tree close to the window, and in the distance some short-stemmed daffodils were dancing in a light breeze. They were the first she had seen that year.

‘Spring is on its way,’ said Benoît behind her, making her jump. She hadn’t realised he was so close. ‘You should have a relatively pleasant journey back to London.’

Angelica gasped, all coherent thought driven from her mind by his unexpected proximity. She was grateful she had her back to him and he couldn’t see her confusion. It would never do to let him think he had her at a disadvantage.

She bit her lip, her eyes fixed on the daffodils, at a loss for an immediate reply. She had discharged her errand and she had no real grounds for refusing to go; but she didn’t want to leave. She couldn’t abandon Harry’s fate in the hands of a man about whom she harboured such terrible suspicions.

‘It certainly is a beautiful day,’ she compromised, turning to face Benoît just as the maid came in.

It was a mistake. He was too close and she had no avenue of retreat. He looked straight into her eyes for a few seconds, almost overwhelming her with the electric force of his personality. Angelica felt as if she had been stripped naked by the unexpected intimacy of that brief contact. She struggled to appear cool and unflustered, but her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she lifted her chin almost defiantly to meet his gaze.

He smiled, and turned his head to speak to the maid.

Angelica relaxed slightly, and discovered she’d been holding her breath. She controlled a desire to drag in a shaky lungful of air, and began to breathe normally again, berating herself for acting so foolishly. Surely she was far too sophisticated to be overawed by a provincial smuggler? But she couldn’t resist the urge to watch Benoît as he spoke to the maid.

His black hair glinted blue in the bright sunlight. She could see the tiny lines around his eyes from all those times when he must have squinted to see in poorly lit conditions; but he was far more tanned than she would have expected of a man who spent most of his time working at night. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder how active a part in the smuggling trade he took. He surely wouldn’t land the kegs and carry them up the beach himself?

He glanced at her, and she felt her cooling cheeks begin to flush again. A glint of amusement flickered in the intelligent brown eyes, almost as if he had guessed what she was thinking, then he said,

‘Would you prefer tea or coffee with your breakfast, my lady?’

‘Oh…coffee, please,’ she stammered, suddenly remembering Sir William’s strictures on the subject of smuggled tea, although she had a dim recollection that now the duty on tea had been so greatly reduced it was no longer an important item on the smugglers’ inventory.

‘I have written a letter to your father,’ said Benoît, holding a chair for her to sit down. ‘I will give it to you presently.’

‘Thank you,’ Angelica said vaguely.

Her errand was becoming far more complicated than she had ever anticipated. Not only did she have to face the possibility that Benoît might be a traitor; she also had to find a way of dealing with her own irrational attraction to him. She couldn’t believe he had aroused such a strong response within her—no one else ever had. It was probably just a symptom of her anxiety over her father and Harry.

‘You’ll be sorry to learn that you’ve just missed seeing an old friend,’ said Benoît pleasantly, sitting down opposite her.

‘I have…I mean, have I?’ Angelica stammered, flushing guiltily.

‘Sir William Hopwood,’ said Benoît helpfully.

‘Oh, Sir William!’ Angelica exclaimed, trying to sound suitable surprised. ‘What a pity…I mean—’

‘It would certainly have been entertaining watching you trying to explain your presence here to him,’ Benoît observed, grinning. ‘Your eloquence and his bewilderment—or perhaps I have that the wrong way round. As you no doubt know, the worthy baronet is seldom at a loss for words.’

Angelica bit her lip, wondering if Benoît suspected she had overheard his conversation with Sir William.

‘I would have done my best not to embarrass you, sir,’ she said stiffly. ‘Obviously I would have been unable to give Sir William a true explanation for my visit. I am a person of honour—even if you are not.’

‘But I’m not a nobleman’s son,’ Benoît pointed out, completely unruffled by her comment. ‘No tradition of chivalry flows through my veins. I’m just the son of a poor, hardworking country doctor.’

‘Which is how you come to live in such a large house and wear such fine clothes,’ Angelica flashed, before she could stop herself.

‘I earned those,’ he replied, an enigmatic gleam in his eyes as he met her hot gaze.

‘Yes! By illegal—’ She broke off as Tilly came back into the room with a heavily laden tray.

‘Thank you, Tilly,’ said Benoît.

Angelica waited until the maid had left the room, almost grateful for the interruption. She found Benoît both disturbing and infuriating, but it was hard to imagine he was in league with his country’s enemies. On the other hand, what did she really know of him?

‘Do you deny that this house was purchased with the profits of smuggling?’ she demanded, when they were alone again.

“I would do so with alacrity, if I didn’t think the answer would disappoint you,’ he answered immediately, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘I believe I told you before that I’m an unromantic businessman.’

‘Are you suggesting I find anything…attractive about the idea that you are a smuggler?’ Angelica exclaimed, colouring angrily at the implication that she might find him attractive in any way at all.

‘Well, obviously you do,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘From your point of view, if I don’t have any connections with the smugglers I am unlikely to be able to help you. Your principles as a good, law-abiding citizen—the kind Sir William would welcome as a friend—are at war with your sisterly devotion. It’s quite understandable if sisterly devotion wins the day.’

Angelica glared at him.

‘I don’t find this funny, even if you do,’ she informed him through gritted teeth.

‘Of course I find it amusing,’ he retorted, grinning. ‘I haven’t been so entertained in months. On the one hand I have you, a monumentally respectable citizen under normal circumstances, I am sure, hoping and praying I am a dastardly smuggler—and on the other hand I have Sir William berating me for not taking a more active role in the suppression of the malevolent trade. How could I ever hope to satisfy both your expectations?’

‘I don’t wish you to be a smuggler,’ Angelica denied grimly. ‘I simply hoped you might have means of communicating with France… What do you mean—“monumentally”…?’

‘A slip of the tongue,’ Benoît assured her instantly, but she distrusted the gleam in his eye. ‘I meant no disparagement of your character or figure. How old are you, by the way?’

‘Really, sir!’ she exclaimed, affronted. ‘I don’t see what business—’

‘Not much more than five-and-twenty,’ he mused, idly playing with a silver teaspoon. ‘Not on the shelf yet.’

‘I’m twenty-three,’ she snapped.

He grinned and she flushed crossly, suddenly realising how easily she had allowed him to bait her, and with the most obvious ruse in the world. She had intended to learn more about him, but instead it was he who had prodded her into an unwary disclosure.

Before she could think of anything to say to retrieve her position, he stood up.

‘I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast in peace,’ he said magnanimously. ‘I wouldn’t want any guest at Holly House to suffer from a disturbed digestion. Come into the library later. I’ll give you the letter for your father.’

‘The library?’ said Angelica, raising her eyebrows in delicately disbelieving enquiry, as if wondering what a mere smuggler might know of books or learning.

‘The room where you overheard me talking to Sir William,’ Benoît explained helpfully. ‘Enjoy your breakfast, Lady Angelica.’

Angelica was too hungry to allow her confused emotions to interfere with her breakfast. She had a healthy appetite which even Benoît’s provocative manner couldn’t disturb, but she was too distracted to pay much attention to what she was eating.

She kept remembering his conversation with Sir William, and the suggestion that perhaps his sympathies lay with the French.

He was in many ways an infuriating man, and one with whom she would never normally have exchanged a single word.

He had the appearance of a gentlemen but, as he had reminded her himself, he was only the son of a provincial doctor. His handsome figure and quick wit might be enough to open the doors of her fashionable world but, unless he also had the wealth to support him, he was unlikely to make a permanent niche for himself there. Perhaps an ambitious, but nameless, man might well feel post-Revolutionary France did have more to offer him.

On the other hand, although she felt as if she’d been at an almost permanent disadvantage ever since she’d met him, he had treated her with a tolerable measure of courtesy—if you could discount that half-amused, half-mocking gleam in his brown eyes whenever he looked at her. It seemed incredible that he might actually be her enemy.

‘Good morning, my lady.’ Mrs Faulkener came quietly into the dining room, interrupting Angelica’s speculations.

‘Good morning.’

Angelica hadn’t seen the Frenchwoman since her first meeting with Benoît. She wondered how much he’d told his mother about her reason for coming to Sussex—and what she ought to say to the woman. No mother could be happy at the possibility of her son undertaking such a difficult and potentially dangerous task; Angelica couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable in Mrs Faulkener’s presence.

‘I hope you feel more rested this morning,’ said Mrs Faulkener pleasantly, nothing in her manner revealing any underlying hostility towards her guest. ‘Benoît tells me you will be going home today. Cook is preparing a basket of food for you. It’s a long, weary drive back to London.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind!’ Angelica exclaimed, touched by the Frenchwoman’s thoughtfulness. ‘I’m so sorry to have imposed myself upon you like this. I truly never intended…’

‘All your thoughts were fixed on your goal,’ said Mrs Faulkener calmly. ‘That’s only natural. I hope you have found the outcome of your visit satisfactory.’

Angelica stared at the Frenchwoman, wondering if there was some hidden meaning behind the words, but Mrs Faulkener seemed quite sincere.

‘Has Mr Faulkener not explained why I came?’ she asked curiously.

Mrs Faulkener smiled, a hint of quiet pride and amusement in her eyes.

‘My son has never been one to betray someone else’s secrets,’ she said sedately. ‘Even to me. If you came here seeking help, my lady, I am sure he will be able to provide it. Excuse me, I must see how Cook is getting on.’

Angelica gazed after her, deriving a degree of reassurance from her words. Mrs Faulkener clearly considered her son to be a man of honour, but she had also admitted that Benoît didn’t tell her all his secrets—was he likely to tell her if he really was a French spy?

Angelica patted her lips with her napkin and stood up decisively. She wouldn’t obtain any answers dawdling over her breakfast.

The door to the library was properly closed this time, but she turned the handle without hesitation. It was a larger room than she had anticipated, and she paused on the threshold, taken aback by its size and bright airiness. There were windows on two sides, and broad, clear beams of morning sunlight streamed in to illuminate the books and furnishings. A cheerful fire burned in the grate—but what caught her eye and completely arrested her attention was a picture over the chimney breast.

‘That’s not real!’ she exclaimed, forgetful of everything else in her surprise.

Benoît had been sitting at a large desk, but he stood up at her entrance.

‘I hate to contradict you,’ he said, smiling, ‘but I’m afraid it is.’

‘But those colours…’ Angelica stared at the picture. She guessed it portrayed a scene from somewhere in the Caribbean; she had seen many engravings of similar scenes. What had transfixed her were the colours. She couldn’t imagine that the sky or the sea could ever be such vivid, vibrant hues.

‘I was there when the artist painted it,’ said Benoît, watching her fascinated, disbelieving expression. ‘I can assure you that it’s a faithful record of what he saw.’

Angelica went to stand beneath the picture, half raising her hand towards it. She still found it hard to credit that such lucid, brilliant colours could be real.

‘Have you never left England, my lady?’ Benoît asked quietly, coming to stand beside her.

She shook her head mutely, unable to take her eyes off the painting. After the dark gloom of an English winter, and the bleak, anxious journey she had made the previous day, the vibrant colours seemed to sing within her, satisfying a hunger she hadn’t even known she had had.

‘The quality of the light is quite different,’ said Benoît, ‘even in the Mediterranean. And the Caribbean is a whole new world. How long was Harry at sea before he was captured?’

‘A year,’ said Angelica distantly. ‘He was so eager to go. He was in a frigate on the way back from the West Indies when…’

‘Then when you see him again, you must ask him to verify the truth of my picture,’ said Benoît lightly.

Angelica turned slowly, still dazzled by what she had just seen and lifted her eyes to his face. With the splendour of the Caribbean sun behind her, she suddenly realised his tanned skin could owe nothing to a dark English winter. She had been so sure he was a smuggler that she had missed some obvious clues. When she had first laid eyes on him she’d even thought he looked more like a pirate than a smuggler, but then she’d dismissed the idea.

‘If you’re not a smuggler, what are you?’ she blurted out, sounding completely disorientated.

He grinned, and she saw a flash of strong, white teeth against his dark skin. There was a glinting light in his eyes which was almost a challenge.

‘I told you, my lady. I’m a respectable businessman.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly.

He laughed aloud, an unexpectedly full-bodied sound which only served to strengthen the image of piracy in her mind. She had a confused image of him standing on a quarterdeck, a cutlass in his hand, as his crew boarded a helpless merchantman.

‘You’re the second person to call me a liar this morning!’ he remarked. ‘Now Sir William knows I’m so lacking in the honourable qualities of a gentleman that I’m unlikely to call him to book for his words—but what about you, my lady? I can’t call you out, but I could turn you out. Oh, no, you’re leaving anyway so that threat lacks force. How would you suggest I obtain satisfaction?’

A familiar, slow smile played on his lips, and the challenging gleam in his dark eyes was very evident now. He was standing relaxed, yet poised, and there was no mistaking the provocative way in which his gaze lingered on her eyes, her hair and her rosy lips.

She gazed back at him, her blue eyes wide and questioning, her lips parted slightly in surprise. She had tried to convince herself that she had misinterpreted what had happened earlier; but the fiery spark of intimacy she had sensed between them in the dining room was even stronger now—and this time there was no maid to interrupt them.

Despite her attempt to remain cool and detached, Angelica’s heart beat out an uncontrollable rhythm of excitement. Men had flirted with her before, but never like this—if Benoît was flirting. He had not uttered a single elegant compliment. But she could feel the virile power of his personality, even across the few feet of empty space which separated them. It half-frightened her, but it also made her blood sing.

She had spent the whole of her life comparing other men to her father—and none of them had ever measured up to him. She didn’t know whether Benoît was a smuggler, though he was certainly involved in some shady business; he might even be a French spy—but dealing with him could never be boring.

She turned slightly away from him, resting her fingers gently on a large globe. She’d finally recovered her self-possession, and it was time he learnt that she couldn’t be overawed by a quick tongue and a bold look. She was the Earl of Ellewood’s daughter—not a giggling chambermaid.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ she said lightly. ‘I believe, in an affair of honour, it is the gentleman who receives the challenge who has the choice of weapons, is it not?’

‘Are you suggesting you have already challenged me, my lady?’ Benoît raised one quizzical black eyebrow. ‘I thought it was the other way around.’

‘Is it?’ She paused, her hand poised delicately just above the globe, a faint smile on her lips. ‘In that case, I will choose no weapons and thus you will have no opportunity to show me your mettle.’

‘A very feminine solution to the problem,’ he retorted. ‘It ensures that you can accuse me of any dark deed you wish, secure in the knowledge that if I dispute your interpretation, you will refuse to pick up my gage.’

‘If you were a gentleman…’

‘But we have already established that I am not.’

‘…you would not contradict a lady’s opinion,’ Angelica concluded serenely.

‘But think how insulted you would feel if I were foolish enough to imply that you are incapable of understanding complex ideas,’ he retaliated. ‘I’ve made that mistake once already, my lady.’

‘So you have.’

With a quick flick of her wrist, Angelica set the globe spinning. Oceans and continents flashed beneath her hand, merging into each other as the world revolved.

She had a giddy feeling that she had set much more in motion this morning than she fully realised. She didn’t know how to stop it and she didn’t know if she wanted to do so. She hadn’t realised just how frustrated she had become with the enclosed life she’d led for the past eighteen months.

Benoît reached past her and stilled the globe with a deft touch.

‘I’ve always had an ambition to circumnavigate the world, but perhaps not at quite such a breakneck speed,’ he observed dryly.

‘You mean you haven’t already done so!’ Angelica exclaimed in mock amazement, seizing gratefully on the change of topic.

‘Not yet. As I believe I’ve mentioned several times, I’ve been earning a living. But one day I fully intend to sail in the wake of Vasco de Gama.’ Benoît turned the globe slowly beneath his hands, lightly tracing his planned course over the surface of the polished wood.

Angelica glanced at his face. For a few moments his features were in repose, neither challenging nor concealing anything. His eyes rested on the world as if he thought it was a wondrous place—and life an endless adventure.

She looked at the picture on the chimney breast and wondered, a little wistfully, if she would ever have the opportunity to see the colours of that glowing world with her own eyes. Harry had, and she knew her father had, but it had never occurred to the Earl to tell her about them—and now he was blind.

Benoît reached over and picked up a letter from the desk. He offered it to her.

‘This is for your father,’ he prompted her, when she didn’t immediately take it.

‘What does it say?’ she asked, receiving it rather reluctantly and noticing that it was already sealed.

‘My lady!’ Benoît exclaimed. ‘Do you make a habit of enquiring into other people’s private correspondence?’

‘Papa will ask me to read it to him, I might as well know what it says now,’ Angelica replied, a dull note in her voice.

Some of the brightness seemed to have gone out of the day. Ahead of her lay only a weary journey back to London, an unpleasant interview with her father explaining what she’d done—and then a long wait to find out if Harry really would be be rescued.

‘That’s his privilege,’ Benoît agreed, unperturbed. ‘He sent me a letter and I have replied directly to him. That’s my privilege. It might also make him feel less humiliated by the situation if he has the opportunity to break my seal himself.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Angelica replied almost inaudibly. She doubted if her father would appreciate Benoît’s tact. He loathed his dependence too much to be consoled by such courteous gestures.

She weighed the letter in her hand, remembering her earlier doubts about Benoît. She found it almost inconceivable that he might be intending to betray Harry to the French—what good would it do him? The information that Harry wanted to escape was hardly going to be news to his captors. But she did wish he had given her firmer assurance about what he meant to do.

She looked up and found that he was watching her, a half-smile, and perhaps a question, in his eyes.

‘You were right, sir,’ she said slowly, ‘it was a very tiring journey yesterday. It’s lucky the storm didn’t break earlier in the day. We had enough trouble jolting over the ruts and boggy places in the road as it was.’

She went over to the front window, looking out at the driveway and the bobbing, yellow daffodils. There were one or two shallow puddles on the ground, reflecting the blue sky above.

‘I confess, I am a little daunted at the prospect of setting out again so soon,’ she said hesitantly, as if reluctant to admit a weakness.

‘Come now, Lady Angelica,’ Benoît said bracingly. ‘This doesn’t sound like you. What happened to being “equal to your responsibilities”? I’m sure you won’t let a little discomfort stand in the way of your duty. Besides, the Earl’s carriage is very well upholstered.’

Angelica bit her lip. She disliked intensely the role she had created for herself, but she couldn’t think of any better excuse to stay at Holly House another day.

‘I’m sure the journey to London must seem infinitesimal to a man who has sailed halfway round the world,’ she said grittily, ‘but to me it is not so. I do not enjoy having to admit such foolish sensibility to a stranger, but the prospect of climbing into the coach again this morning fills me with horror.’

‘Now that I can believe,’ Benoît said appreciatively. ‘It’s always best, when telling lies, to stick as close to the truth as possible.’

Angelica swung round indignantly, sparks in her blue eyes.

‘Were you planning to challenge me?’ he asked softly, before she could speak. ‘I warn you, my lady, I will pick up the gage.’

He was standing beside the desk with the still vigour which characterised him, simultaneously relaxed yet alert. There was an intelligent, amused understanding in his brown eyes which was very disconcerting.

Angelica hesitated, thinking better of what she’d been going to say. She knew she was on shaky ground. Her own nature would not allow her to play the part of a nervous, vapourish female, even if she wanted to do so; sooner or later she would betray herself.

‘Nevertheless, I would be grateful if you would allow me to intrude upon you another night,’ she said, as serenely as she could. ‘If the weather remains dry the roads will be in much better condition tomorrow. It will be easier for the horses.’

‘Of course, we must consider the horses,’ Benoît agreed smoothly, a gleam in his eye. ‘But how long will the Earl tolerate the absence of his daughter? I should hate to have Sir William come storming in here accusing me of kidnapping you. He might suspect me of trying to hold the Earl to ransom for your safe return.’

Angelica gasped. Not once, in all the time she since had decided to deliver her father’s letter herself, had that possibility occurred to her.

‘You wouldn’t!’ she exclaimed, caught between indignation and disbelief.

‘I might, under certain circumstances,’ Benoît said reflectively, startling her even further. He smiled at her expression. ‘No, my lady, you’re quite safe with me,’ he assured her. ‘But I think we might send a message to your father that you’re still here. He must be more aware than most of the possibility of accidents on the road.’

Angelica nodded, unable to argue with Benoît’s suggestion. For all his black moods, she knew the Earl was probably desperate with worry for her. It upset her that she was causing him so much distress. But it was an unbelievable relief to have escaped briefly from the dark, gloom-enshrouded house in Berkeley Square. One more day could not hurt.

‘I’ll tell my mother you are staying while you write a note to the Earl,’ said Benoît briskly. ‘Feel free to use the desk. We’ll send him my letter at the same time.’

‘Oh…’ Angelica wanted to protest, but she couldn’t think of an unexceptional way to resist his eminently reasonable suggestion.

‘You will have to curb your curiosity in that respect a while longer,’ said Benoît, with dry amusement, removing it neatly from between her fingers. ‘Excuse me, my lady.’

He went out, leaving Angelica alone. She looked around, her eyes drawn once more to the brilliant painting over the fireplace. She was staying for Harry’s sake, she told herself. There was a great deal about Benoît Faulkener that still needed investigation before she could finally trust her brother’s life to him.