Claire Thornton - The Wolf's Promise

‘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.