Marguerite Kaye - Regency Surrender - Notorious Secrets - The Soldier's Dark Secret / The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘I have never been one of those women who pretend they have no desires of their own.’ Celeste’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Nor am I the kind of woman who pretends that such physical desires represent anything more significant, Jack.’

‘You’re warning me off. There’s no need, I assure you. At this moment in time, my only ambition is to get myself through the day—’ He broke off, realising too late what he’d admitted, remembering, suddenly, why he had kissed her in the first place. And now he’d given her the perfect opening to start again.

But to his surprise, her expression softened. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is how I have felt since—since.’ She blinked rapidly, and forced a smile. ‘It is a good thing, this—this—between us, because now I know that I am recovering myself— No, that is not the correct expression.’

‘Slowly getting back to normal?’

‘Yes. That is it. That is what this is, yes? We are both adults. We are obviously well suited as regards—kissing,’ Celeste said, flushing. ‘We need not pretend it is anything else, no?’

He was most likely imagining the pleading note in her voice. It was most likely his male ego that wanted to believe she was much more confused by what had happened between them than she appeared. As confused as he was? ‘You’re right,’ Jack said with a conviction he was far from feeling.

Celeste nodded. ‘Yes. It makes sense, what I said.’

It did. Perfect sense. So it was pointless wondering why she sounded as unconvinced as he. ‘So,’ Jack said in a bracing voice that made him cringe, ‘talking of getting back to normal, perhaps we should concentrate on these questions your mother has raised. Do you have any other clues, save the letter?’

If she noticed anything odd in his voice, she chose not to comment on it. ‘A couple of things. There is this, for what it’s worth, which is not a lot.’ Celeste unclasped the locket from her neck and handed it to him. ‘It came with the letter. My mother always wore it. I don’t think I ever saw her without it.’

Jack turned the oval locket over in his hand, examining it carefully. The metal was slightly tarnished so it was difficult to tell, but it looked like it might be gold or, more likely rose-gold, a cheaper alloy. It was embellished with a fleur-de-lis design. Around the rim were laurel leaves set with clear stones and in the centre was set a larger blue one.

‘It’s just a trinket,’ Celeste said dismissively, ‘though a pretty one.’

‘I’m no expert,’ Jack said, ‘but the design is very fine, most intricately worked. See these hinges? They are very high quality indeed and not at all commonplace. I think it may be more valuable than you think.’

In fact, he was pretty sure that the smaller stones were diamonds, and that the blue stone was a sapphire. As a consequence the locket was more than likely commissioned, and indeed, on the back he noted tiny symbols, probably the goldsmith’s mark. Which might make it, and the owner’s name, traceable. But he could not be certain, and so, as was his custom, he kept his own counsel rather than raise Celeste’s hopes prematurely. ‘Do you mind if I open it?’ he asked.

‘If you wish.’

She shrugged, but he was becoming attuned to her many permutations of shrug, and Jack knew this one for feigned indifference. When he eased open the catch, he could understand why. Inside were two miniature portraits, one on each side. The first, of a flaxen-haired child, was obviously Celeste. The second, facing it, was of an older woman, her pale hair pulled tightly back from her forehead. Aside from the eyes, which were blue, the resemblance between mother and daughter was very strong, but when he said so, Celeste frowned.

‘Do you think so?’

He was surprised by the uncertainty in her voice. ‘She is unmistakably your mother, and clearly the source of your own beauty.’

Celeste touched the miniature with the tip of her finger. ‘She was beautiful. I had forgotten.’

‘May I ask her name?’

Celeste snatched her hand away. ‘Blythe.’

‘They seem to me to have been painted as a pair,’ Jack said. ‘I’m no expert, but...’

‘No, you are right. Both are by my mother’s hand.’ She had herself firmly under control again, and spoke in that cool way of hers he’d initially mistaken for detachment. ‘Unusually, actually, for she mostly painted the landscapes around Cassis. The fishing boats, the calanques —the limestone cliffs and inlets which punctuate the coast. I have never seen another portrait painted by her.’

Which made this pair all the more touching, Jack thought. He was tempted to say so, but hesitated, remembering her reaction earlier, when he had pushed her on her feelings. And she had pushed him straight back. A salutary lesson, he reckoned, in how not to go about extracting information. ‘Cassis,’ he said instead. ‘The village where you grew up?’

Celeste treated him to one of her shrugs. The feigned indifference one again. ‘Paris has been my home for many years.’

‘I remember, you said you were sent there to school when you were—ten?’

‘Yes. And stayed on to study art.’

‘You were very young to be sent so very far from home.’

‘It was a very good school.’

She would not meet his eyes. Another sensitive subject. ‘You mentioned there was another clue?’ Jack said, once more deciding that the best policy would be to bide his time.

She handed him a small packet of stitched muslin. Inside was a man’s signet ring. ‘I found it when I went to Cassis to close the house up after—after,’ Celeste said. ‘I was taking Maman’s paintings down. This was sewn to the back of her favourite canvas. It must have been there for years. I have no idea what it signifies. It clearly does not belong to my mother.’ She leaned across him to peer down at the ring. ‘The markings, I thought perhaps were a family crest. That might lead us somewhere,’ she said, looking at him hopefully.

‘It looks to me more likely to be a military crest. I’m not sure of the regiment. I would need to check.’

‘Military? Why on earth would my mother have such a thing in her possession?’

‘It’s a good question.’

‘As if we don’t have enough questions already. Do you think you can help, Jack?’

He studied the ring with an ominous sense of foreboding. ‘I can try.’

* * *

The next morning, a soft breeze blew up as Celeste walked with Jack along a path which led from the far end of the lake, over a gentle rise to an ancient oak, underneath the spread of which was a wooden bench. The view was prettily bucolic, bathed in the golden early-morning light. They stood on top of the hill while Jack pointed out the spire of St Mary’s Church some five miles away, where Lady Eleanor’s father was the vicar, and closer, the many-gabled rooftops of Trestain Manor. Golden fields of half-harvested wheat contrasted with the dark-green tunnels of hops, while the low, thatched roofs of the farm buildings and cottages contrasted with the distinctive, conical roofs of two oast houses where the hops were roasted.

Celeste was entranced, her charcoal flying over page after page of her sketchbook, while Jack, seated on the bench under the tree, filled her in on some of the history of what she was drawing. He was back to his usual garb of leather breeches and boots, a shirt without either waistcoat or coat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. The skin of his right arm was already turning golden-brown. She would like to draw him like this, his long, booted legs stretched out in front of him, his hair falling over his forehead, the curve of his mouth in a lazy smile. That mouth, the source of such intoxicating kisses.