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The Wolf's Promise
Claire Thornton








‘This time there’s no doubt your eyes are open. Remember that when you next accuse me of not being a gentleman.’


‘I don’t…’

Benoît’s mouth covered her parted lips and stifled whatever it was she had been going to say. Shock held her rigid for several seconds. She had never been kissed like this before, and nothing in her previous experience had prepared her for dealing with such a situation.

The wind wrapped her skirts around them, locking them together. She could feel the heat of his body burning through her clothes. He was holding her firmly in his arms. She was acutely aware of the power in his lean, hard-muscled body, but his lips were gentle and persuasive on hers. Her heart was racing; strange exotic warmth slowly filled her veins. Her empty hands opened once or twice in vague uncertainty, then, almost of their own volition, they slid up the ridged black cloth of his sleeves to rest on his shoulders.


Dear Reader

The location of this story is particularly special to me. The book is set in West Sussex, on the English coast, the countryside where I was born and grew up, and where my family roots go deep. My father has lived all his life on the same country road—moving only half a mile from his birthplace when he married—and it’s a family legend that my mother’s forebears were involved in the Sussex smuggling trade. I was a shy little girl, and I was entranced by the idea that I might be distantly related to the daring, romantic adventurers of the past. But when I grew older, and did some real research on the ‘Gentlemen’, I found they weren’t always as noble and heroic as I’d pictured them. That left me with a dilemma. I’d always wanted to write a book featuring smugglers—but should I make them the good guys or the bad guys…?

I hope you enjoy this chance to discover my solution to that dilemma as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Best wishes

Claire Thornton




The Wolf’s Promise

Claire Thornton







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CLAIRE THORNTON


grew up in Sussex, England, and studied history at York University. She loves writing about the romantic and noble heroes of earlier ages. Claire has also written under the name of Alice Thornton.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue




Prologue


West Sussex 1793

I t was cold and dark on the beach. A black night sky arched over the endless expanse of sand and gusts of icy wind buffeted the Earl. He shivered and turned up the collar of his greatcoat. He could hear the crash of the incoming tide away to his right, but he couldn’t see much further than the circle of light thrown by the lantern Sir William had snatched from the riding officer.

‘Damn it! The scurvy villain lied to me!’ Sir William exploded.

He was staring at the marks in the ridged, damp sand where the kegs had been hauled up onto the beach in a long daisy-chain of contraband.

‘Or perhaps your informant was himself misled?’ the Earl of Ellewood suggested, stamping his feet to keep warm.

It was quite clear what had happened. The smugglers’ landing had been here, while Sir William’s small party had been lying in wait on an empty beach two miles to the west.

‘They’re a cunning lot,’ the riding officer began nervously. It made him anxious to have the local magistrate, two of the magistrate’s men and a visiting earl assisting him in his duty. ‘It would be just like them to feed you false…’

‘Be quiet, damn you!’ Sir William growled. ‘If you were any good at your job, neither the Earl nor I would be wasting our time on this godforsaken beach! Well, their tracks are clear enough. We’ll follow them. Lead the way.’

He handed the lantern back to the riding officer and swung himself into his saddle.

‘Yes, sir.’ The riding officer shuttered his lantern until only a thin beam of light was visible. Then he climbed up onto to his horse and bent low in the saddle so that he could still see the smugglers’ tracks. His lack of enthusiasm was very evident.

Sir William and his men followed the luckless riding officer, but Lord Ellewood did not immediately join them. He was frowning in the darkness.

‘I think Bess has picked up a stone,’ he called. ‘I’ll catch up with you in a minute.’

‘As you wish.’ Sir William’s voice drifted back in the darkness. ‘Damn sorry about this, Henry. I was hoping to show you some action tonight.’

‘The night’s still young,’ the Earl replied.

He watched for a few seconds as the others rode away. Then he looked down at the dark, stirred-up sand and pinched his lower lip thoughtfully. The tide was coming in quickly; many of the smugglers’ marks had already been washed away, but he was sure he’d seen the deep footprints of heavily laden men and horses going down towards the water—not away from it.

There was probably a reasonable explanation for that, and he knew so little about the smuggler’s craft that he wasn’t inclined to make a fool of himself by voicing his observations.

But it was certainly a fact that Sir William had been tricked into waiting on a beach two miles to the west, yet the very obvious tracks leading away from the landing point also headed in a westerly direction.

Lord Ellewood began to lead his mare east along the beach, keeping close to the tideline. There was no moon in the dark sky. It was hard to see what lay ahead, but the stars provided some light, and now that he was away from the riding officer’s lantern the Earl’s eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Two hundred yards along the beach he found what he was looking for. A track of damp, churned-up sand leading inland from the sea. Horses and men had passed this way not long ago.

He felt a surge of gratified pleasure that he had guessed right, and his heart began to beat faster with excitement. There was no time to go back for Sir William. Without hesitation he followed the tracks up the beach towards the black shadows of the dunes.

The sea rumbled behind him; dried seaweed crackled beneath his salt-caked boots, and ahead of him he could hear the wind whistling through the thin, exposed grasses of the dunes—but he could barely see where he was going and he trod almost blindly towards his goal.

He was nearly among the dunes when the light of a lantern blazed suddenly in his eyes.

His heart thudded in startled alarm. He flung up a protective arm to his face, squinting into the glaring light and black darkness ahead, unable to see how many people confronted him. He had heard nothing to warn him of their presence.

He struggled to see beyond the lantern light, remembering all the stories Sir William had told him of smugglers beating or even killing anyone they believed to be a danger to them. Was he going to be battered to death without even seeing his attackers?

‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ said an apologetic voice, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t let you go any further.’

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ the Earl rasped, more angry than frightened. ‘Who are you?’

He heard someone chuckle in the darkness behind the lantern.

‘No one important.’ The voice sounded like that of a young man—pleasant, educated and confident. ‘In case you can’t see it, my lord, I should warn you that there is a pistol levelled at your heart. It will be better for both of us if you don’t make any sudden moves.’

‘You damn murderer! You’ll swing for this!’ Lord Ellewood grated furiously.

‘I haven’t murdered anyone yet,’ his opponent pointed out mildly. ‘I would infinitely prefer it to remain that way—but the matter lies in your hands.’

The Earl’s first moment of surprise and fear had passed and he began to relax. As far as he could tell, the other man was alone, and he didn’t seem to have any immediate plans for violence.

‘What do you intend to do with me?’ he asked more temperately.

‘Nothing,’ said the young man. ‘We could discuss the weather—it’s remarkably dry for the time of year, don’t you think? Or you could tell me the latest scandals from London—and when the conversation begins to pall, you will be free to go back to the Manor.’

‘What if Sir William catches up with us first?’ the Earl enquired politely.

His eyes were beginning to adjust to the lantern light which was not, in fact, all that bright, and he could discern the dim outline of his waylayer. The young man was bare-headed in the wind. He was also tall, but he seemed to be lightly built and Lord Ellewood felt confident that, if an opportunity arose, he would be able to turn the tables on his opponent.

‘He won’t,’ said the young man confidently.

‘What have you done to him?’ the Earl demanded angrily, taking a hasty, unconsidered step forward as he spoke, suddenly afraid for his friend.

‘Stand still!’ Unexpected menace in the assured voice brought the Earl to an abrupt halt. ‘Thank you. I believe I’ve already mentioned I’m not partial to murder.’ After his initial sharpness, the young man sounded friendly again, and almost reassuring. ‘But I’ve no doubt Sir William will find tonight’s chase more exhilarating than the average foxhunt.’

The Earl drew in a deep breath, allowing the sudden tension to ease from his body.

‘You’ve sent him on a wild-goose chase?’ he said at last.

‘As you say,’ the youth agreed. ‘Until your arrival I thought I’d lost the toss, but now I see I was mistaken,’ he added politely.

The Earl grunted, unimpressed by the implied compliment.

‘I’m sorry to detain you in such an inhospitable place, my lord,’ said the young man apologetically. ‘If you had gone with Sir William you would have been a great deal warmer! But I won’t keep you much longer. If you wish, you can retrace your steps now.’

‘That’s hardly more enticing than my current situation!’ Lord Ellewood retorted.

The young man laughed.

‘I don’t suppose it is,’ he admitted. ‘Allow me to make some amends.’

He put the lantern down, balancing it carefully between two tufts of grass halfway up a dune. The Earl’s eyes narrowed speculatively, wondering if this would be a good moment to spring at his companion—but the pistol continued to point steadily at his heart. The young man was both watchful and cautious. It seemed increasingly unlikely that he would make a mistake.

He delved in his pocket with his free hand.

‘Catch!’ he said, and tossed something to the Earl.

Lord Ellewood barely had time to react. He fumbled the catch and nearly dropped the flask.

‘Brandy?’ he asked dryly, unscrewing it.

‘What else? I’m not particularly fond of it myself, but it might compensate for the bitter wind around your ears,’ the young man replied. ‘You’ve had an unrewarding night, my lord.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ The Earl swallowed a mouthful of fiery spirit. ‘At least I can claim to have bandied words with a smuggler…’

‘Free trader,’ the young man corrected him pleasantly. ‘Sir William bandies words with us all the time—but not usually in circumstances of much benefit to him.’

A sudden gust of wind blew up a swirl of dry, gritty sand from the dunes. The mare snorted and reared backwards, lunging away into the darkness.

Startled, the young man turned his head—and the Earl seized the brief opportunity. He leapt towards the smuggler, knocking him to the ground without difficulty.

The pistol fired, but the Earl had already thrust it to one side. He was heavier than his opponent, and he’d had the element of surprise in his attack. He had no doubt that the youth had pulled the trigger involuntarily as he fell backwards.

They struggled among the dunes in an untidy confusion of flailing limbs. It was far too dark to see his opponent and Lord Ellewood fought by instinct, trying to subdue the youth without inflicting real damage. But the young man was strong, and agile as an eel. He twisted and broke free with a powerful lunge, disappearing among the shadows of the dunes.

The Earl sprang to his feet, drawing his sword instinctively as he glanced around, alert to any indication he was about to be attacked from the darkness.

The lantern was still resting undisturbed between the tufts of grass, sending its pale beam of light towards the sea. The wind hissed through the dunes, but the Earl could hear no other movement from the shadows surrounding him.

The mare had bolted, frightened by the pistol shot and the noise of the fight.

The Earl backed away, his boots crunching on the shingle as he returned to the firm sand of the seashore. He wasn’t a coward, but he had no desire to run onto an unseen blade among the dunes.

Then a dark shape rose silently from the shadows, sword in hand, and sprang towards him.

It was an untidy fight, illuminated only by the distant stars and the inadequate lantern. Twelve years earlier the Earl had served in the America Wars. He had both training and experience on his side, but his opponent was familiar with the ground and very, very fast.

Even so, the young man was soon outmatched. There was a sickening slither of steel, his sword was wrenched from his hand, and he found himself flat on his back in the sand.

‘Now I’ll see you!’ the Earl growled, his blade at his defeated opponent’s throat. ‘Get up! But be warned—if you make one false move I’ll run you through!’

The young man got to his feet displaying neither fear nor panic. He was breathing quickly from his exertions, but otherwise he was as much in control of himself now as he had ever been. The Earl smiled grimly in the darkness, aware of a certain measure of respect for his opponent. Smuggler or not, the youth had fought bravely and bore himself well in defeat.

‘I must take a few more lessons before I cross swords with you again, my lord,’ he said boldly.

‘You’ll not have the opportunity.’

The Earl picked up the lantern and shone it straight into the young man’s face.

The youth had been expecting it, and he neither flinched away nor threw up a hand to protect himself from the light. The tip of Lord Ellewood’s sword was still grazing his throat, but his dark brown eyes stared fearlessly at the Earl from a lean, intelligent and extremely youthful face.

‘How old are you?’ the Earl demanded sharply.

‘Fourteen,’ said the boy.

‘My God!’

From his opponent’s composure and self-confidence Lord Ellewood had assumed the youth to be a good deal older.

They stared at each other in silence for several tense moments, then the boy grinned impudently.

‘Take care, my lord,’ he said, glancing at the lantern the Earl was holding. ‘It’s an offence to show a light so close to the sea. If Sir William catches you, he may be obliged to clap you in irons.’

‘You should be flogged at the cart’s tail for your insolence!’ the Earl growled, half angry, half amused by the boy’s disrespectful boldness.

‘Or hung in a gibbet until my dry bones fall through the iron cage as a warning to others?’ the boy suggested softly.

‘No!’ Lord Ellewood exclaimed, startled.

He paused, considering the implications of the boy’s comment. The lad’s connection with the smugglers might be difficult to prove, but there was no doubt that he had waylaid—and attacked—the Earl; for that charge alone he could expect a heavy penalty if he ever stood in the dock. His youth would offer little protection.

‘Do you intend to be a smuggler all your life?’ Lord Ellewood demanded abruptly. ‘Or was this escapade just a moment of brief, high-spirited folly?’

‘No.’ The boy held the Earl’s gaze for a few more seconds without attempting to clarify his ambiguous answer, then he turned away to look towards the sea, unheeding of the sword still held at his throat.

The first grey light of dawn was rising in the east and Lord Ellewood no longer needed the lantern to distinguish the boy’s features. The youth was almost as tall as the Earl, and his black hair was wildly tousled by the cold, salty air—but his eyes looked steadily towards the distant, silvery horizon, almost as if he saw his future there.

Lord Ellewood smiled sardonically. Despite the threatening sword, his prisoner had obviously decided that the risk of being precipitously dispatched was minimal—but the Earl wasn’t quite ready to confirm that assumption.

‘Stand still!’ he said harshly, thrusting the sword tip a little closer to the boy’s neck. ‘Don’t give me an excuse to save the hangman work.’

‘I am unarmed and at your mercy,’ the boy pointed out calmly. ‘I’m sure no man whom Sir William calls friend would take advantage of such a situation. What do you intend to do with me?’ he added matter-of-factly.

‘Damned if I know,’ the Earl admitted frankly, although his sword didn’t waver. ‘You’re too good for gallow’s meat. Perhaps I ought to have you pressed. A few years of naval discipline might make a man of you!’

‘A very courteous offer, but I have other plans,’ the boy replied instantly.

‘I daresay you have,’ said the Earl dryly, ‘but you should have thought of that before you held a pistol on me. You have the voice and manners of a gentleman, boy. News of this night’s escapade might seriously damage your family’s reputation and standing—don’t you think?’

There was silence for several long moments. The boy’s eyes were still fixed on the horizon and he did not look at the Earl. Lord Ellewood almost began to wonder if the youth had heard what he’d said. Then the boy replied,

‘Yes, my lord.’

The Earl grunted and sheathed his sword. The boy turned his head sharply at the sound. For an instant he seemed poised for flight—but he didn’t run; and there was a question in his eyes as he met Lord Ellewood’s gaze.

‘Which is the quickest way back to the Manor?’ the Earl asked, without attempting to explain his actions.

The boy stared at him for a few moments, a frown in his dark eyes as he tried to decipher the Earl’s intentions. Then he bent to pick up his own sword.

‘I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘We’ll go along the beach. It’s quicker and more comfortable for walking.’

‘An important consideration, since I am now on foot,’ Lord Ellewood agreed caustically. ‘I suppose you don’t have a horse hidden among the dunes?’

‘I regret not, my lord,’ the boy apologised.

‘I imagine you must be well known to Sir William,’ said the Earl, as they began to walk along the beach.

‘We have met,’ said the boy cautiously.

‘Hmm.’ Lord Ellewood turned over several possible ways of dealing with his erstwhile prisoner as they strode, almost companionably, along the damp sands.

‘Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You must know I couldn’t catch you in the dunes.’

‘You’ve seen my face,’ said the boy simply. ‘I’d like to know what you intend to do next. As you just implied, Sir William would certainly recognise my description.’

‘I see,’ said the Earl dryly. ‘I dare say you could be long gone before he came in search of you.’

‘But my family couldn’t—as you also pointed out—and my father’s practice would suffer. Inflict your punishment on me, my lord, whatever it is—but not on them.’

The boy turned as he spoke and looked squarely into the Earl’s face. The force of his personality was reflected in his keen, dark eyes. Lord Ellewood was powerfully struck by the coiled spring of potential within the youth.

For a moment it seemed as if they were well matched: the shrewd-eyed, experienced man and the fearless, black-haired boy. They had more in common than the Earl would willingly choose to admit.

‘I’ll not betray your secret,’ he said curtly. ‘But I suggest you find more legitimate outlets for your ambition in future. The gibbet is a sorry place for anyone to end their days.’

‘Thank you.’ The boy spoke without overemphasis, but the Earl caught the undercurrent of sincerity in the light voice.

‘That way, my lord,’ he said, turning to point inland. ‘Follow the track for half a mile. Then turn right onto the lane. Turn left at the crossroads and Sir William’s house is a mile farther up on the right.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Earl.

He hesitated, suddenly reluctant to part from his companion. He was extremely curious about the boy but, in the circumstances, it probably wasn’t advisable to try to pursue their acquaintance.

‘My name is Benoît Faulkener, my lord,’ said the boy, clearly and unhurriedly, surprising the Earl once again.

‘Very French,’ Lord Ellewood replied casually, not quite sure why the boy was sharing this information with him. ‘I’d heard that most of the smugglers have contacts across the Channel.’

‘My mother’s French,’ said Benoît. ‘My father is the doctor in Arundel. My friends call me Ben. It seems unlikely that you will ever be my friend, my lord, or that you will ever need my services. But, if you do, I’ll not forget what I owe you.’

The Earl stared at him in undisguised astonishment as he realised the implications of the boy’s words.

‘You’re offering to repay me for my silence?’ he exclaimed.

‘At any time, and in any way you choose, my lord.’ Benoît stepped back and bowed with something of a flourish.

The Earl laughed disbelievingly.

‘Your effrontery is extraordinary!’ he declared, unable to imagine any circumstances in which he might need the boy’s help. ‘Take care that one day you don’t overreach yourself.’

Benoît grinned, the fresh dawn sunlight emphasising the distinctive contours of his dark face and the gleam of his strong white teeth as he returned the Earl’s gaze.

‘That may happen, but I’d rather try, and fail—than live knowing I’d never had the courage to try at all!’ he declared boldly. ‘Good day, my lord.’

He turned and strode away across the open fields which fronted the beach, leaving the Earl alone on the cold, windswept sands.




Chapter One


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.




Chapter Two


‘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.




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