by Lucy Ashford
Luke gazed out to sea, remembering how Anthony had been an officer in the army, and served bravely for years in the Peninsula. But then he’d been summoned to London—and was asked to work for British intelligence, in France. ‘It’s because I speak French so well,’ he’d said to Luke lightly when he came to tell him. ‘That’s all.’
‘It will be dangerous,’ Luke had warned.
Anthony shrugged. ‘More dangerous than a battlefield? I doubt it.’
By then it was 1812 and Luke had joined the army, too, fighting under Wellington in Spain. Their home leave coincided only one more time, in the summer of 1813, and they’d walked along the miles of shingle beach talking of old times, of old friends, until Anthony had said at last, ‘There’s something different coming up, Luke. Something’s being planned, down in the south-west of France. It’s risky, but we’re well prepared. And I’ll tell you all about it, when I next get home.’
But Anthony never did come home.
And once Luke was free of the army, he’d never stopped seeking news of Anthony and his comrades. Had never stopped trying to uncover, one way or another, what he bitterly suspected was the truth—that Anthony and his friends had been betrayed and abandoned by their superiors, because some people high up in government had changed their minds and decided they were no longer useful.
* * *
Luke left the churchyard at last to go back to his horse. As he settled in the saddle, he recalled that some of his tenant farmers had been to see him today, asking for the payment of rents they owed to be postponed. This freezing weather, they explained, meant they were running out of fodder for their animals, and they feared they would have difficulty buying their seed corn come spring.
‘Forget about your rents for a while,’ Luke had said. ‘You can pay me when the harvest is in.’
But what, he wondered now, if it was a bad harvest locally, like last year? What if the price of wheat continued to calamitously fall, as it had ever since Napoleon’s surrender?
Somehow Luke would manage—he had to, for all their sakes. The only regular income he’d had for the last year or so was the rent paid on a small London house his grandfather had left him, but the current tenant had recently announced he was leaving, and the place badly needed doing up. With a wry twist to his mouth, he recalled his staunch old grandfather’s advice as he lay dying. There’s nothing for it, Luke. You’ll have to find yourself an heiress. But for God’s sake, make sure she has a gentle heart.
Caroline had possessed a heart, of sorts, but she’d been proud, too, proud as sin. And her father, the wealthy Kent landowner Sir Graham Fawley, had wreaked his own kind of revenge on Luke while Luke was away in the army, by instructing the local bankers to call in all the Danbury loans. Another bad enemy to make.
He would fight on, though. He would fight them all. But how he wished that he hadn’t had to involve a courageous young French girl, whose lips had parted so sweetly to his kiss. Whose haunted green eyes had almost begged him to tell her that she could trust him.
It would have been better for her, he thought grimly, if she’d never set eyes on him, with his estate heading for destruction and himself quite possibly heading for the kind of hell he deserved.
Luke rode on to his house on the headland that as usual looked shuttered and apparently abandoned; though round the back, the yard had been swept clear of snow and lanterns glowed brightly. He found his spirits lifting, just a little. Maybe the old place could be restored. Maybe Anthony would some day return.
Josh Watterson was there rugging up a horse, but he turned as soon as he saw Luke. ‘Monsieur Jacques has arrived, Captain!’
Luke swiftly dismounted, handed the reins to Josh and strode towards the back door.
Inside the large dining hall, a fire burned in the hearth, illuminating the faces of the men who sat round the big table—Tom Bartlett, Pete Watterson and their guest, Jacques. They were looking at maps, Luke saw, which were spread out across the table. The remnants of a cold repast—bread and cheese, and a joint of ham—had been pushed to one side.
‘Luke, mon ami.’ It was Jacques who saw him first, jumping to his feet and coming over to grip Luke’s left hand firmly. ‘Here I am, as I promised. And I’m so sorry I didn’t have better news for you in my letter. But there is something else which I only half-told you. Something very important...’
Already he was looking towards the open door. ‘I found them,’ Jacques went on, ‘living in a small town ten miles inland from La Rochelle. You will realise that they are exhausted by their voyage here, but I assured the lady—her name is Monique—that you will be able to offer them both a refuge. And—’
He stopped. Because in the doorway had appeared a beautiful young woman swathed all in black, clutching a small boy tightly by the hand.
Luke gazed at them, emotion punching his ribs.
‘Anthony’s wife,’ Jacques told Luke quietly. ‘And Anthony’s two-year-old son.’
And the thought struck Luke like a fresh hammer-blow. My brother must be dead. He must have been executed by the French, or killed in captivity, because, one way or another, he would have fought to the death to be with these two. He would never, ever have abandoned them.
Chapter Fourteen
When Ellie rose the next morning, Mary poured out her tea, then opened her wardrobe and pointed eagerly to one after another of the expensive gowns. ‘Perhaps you’ll wear one of these today, miss? Lord Franklin will be arriving, Mrs Sheerham said, this afternoon around two. Might you like to wear the blue gown, miss? Or the green one is very pretty!’
Mary chattered on, as Ellie sat in a silk wrap in front of the dressing table and let Mary brush her hair. Green suits you, she remembered Luke saying softly. You should wear more of it. It matches the colour of your eyes...
Ellie moved suddenly and Mary’s brush dropped on to the dressing table with a clatter. ‘I’m sorry,’ Ellie said. ‘I’m sorry. And I’ll wear my grey day dress, Mary.’
Dieu, she thought distractedly, this was almost worse than the long weeks of flight with her father from Paris. Of knowing that dangerous pursuers would always be on their trail.
Here she was in as much danger as ever—from Luke Danbury, the stranger with the dark hair and intense blue eyes, who had said to her yesterday afternoon, in the snow, in his lethally polite voice, I will have to insist on your obedience in this, I’m afraid.
And, oh, that kiss. The memory of his lips touching hers continued to haunt her, yet to him it would have meant nothing at all—she knew that. Even as she’d melted to his touch, she’d registered that the kiss was merely another way for him to assert his power over her—and she’d been a fool to submit to it as she did, because it had made her terribly vulnerable. It had filled her with a rush of pleasure she’d never known and a disturbing sense of exhilaration, and afterwards she ached with longing somewhere deep inside.
Ellie bowed her head and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to feel like that ever again. She couldn’t afford to feel like that again.
‘Miss?’ Mary was saying. ‘Miss, which ribbon did you want in your hair?’
She realised Mary was holding several velvet ribbons out to her. ‘Any,’ she said quickly. ‘I really don’t mind.’ She pointed to one. ‘Black will do.’
‘Oh, miss. No one will even see it against your dark hair...’
‘Black,’ she repeated.
A week, Luke Danbury had given her. One week, to do as he asked. Or he would tell Lord Franklin Grayfield that her father once worked for Napoleon Bonaparte.
* * *
Lord Franklin arrived in his carriage shortly after two and Ellie, in her second-floor room, heard his horses rattling up the drive at speed—clearly the wintry weather hadn’t presented any problems at all to his coachman. Her sitting-room window overlooked the front courtyard, which
had been swept clear of snow earlier, and she saw that four grooms were waiting to tend the horses, while Mr Huffley the butler and three footmen stood stiffly to attention by the great front door.
Mr Huffley strode forward, bowing as Lord Franklin stepped down from the carriage. And Miss Pringle was knocking on Ellie’s door. ‘Elise!’ she exclaimed as Ellie opened it to her. ‘Elise, his lordship is here. You are coming down to welcome him, aren’t you?’
Miss Pringle was nervous, yet terribly excited. A few minutes later Ellie descended the main staircase to see that Lady Charlotte was already positioned in the great hall with her two footmen standing to attention behind her bath chair, while Miss Pringle hovered close by and watched the main doors eagerly.
And then Lord Franklin swept in. Bluff and hearty, wearing a caped greatcoat and highly polished boots, he looked as if he’d stepped out of his Mayfair house for a drive in the park, rather than having just completed a long journey on winter-bound roads. He bowed over his mother’s hand and Ellie could see that Lady Charlotte was nearly bursting with pride. Then he stood up straight and let his eyes wander around the great hall; taking in the paintings and the statues. And his eyes rested, finally, on Ellie.
The last time she had seen him was in London on the morning of her departure for Bircham Hall. He had been chilly with disapproval, because of her accusation that someone in his house had searched her room. ‘You perhaps doubt the honesty of my servants, Elise?’ he’d said. ‘You doubt their loyalty to me?’
Yes, Ellie had wanted to reply. Yes, I do. Thank goodness her father’s valise had been safely locked; but the knowledge that someone in that Mayfair mansion had been through everything else she possessed—her clothes, her books, her pitifully few personal effects—had shaken her profoundly.
That was when he’d announced he was sending her to Bircham Hall. It was banishment, in effect. Yet now he was coming towards her to rest his hands briefly on her shoulders and smile down at her.
‘My dear Elise!’ His warmth was almost effusive. ‘This is a brief visit only, I’m afraid. I’ve been obliged to come and attend to some affairs of the estate with Appleby. But I must say I was extremely glad to take the opportunity to see you. My mother writes to me that you have settled in well.’
It was as if he was once more the generous benefactor who’d taken her under his wing in Brussels; assuring her constantly that, as her relative, he felt it his absolute duty to take her into his care.
‘I am most comfortable here at Bircham Hall, my lord,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you.’
All the time, she was aware of Lady Charlotte’s sharp eyes on her. And now her ladyship said pointedly, ‘I rather think, my dearest Franklin, that Ellie finds our company here a little tedious after the excitement of foreign cities.’
Lord Franklin had been handing his coat and hat to his valet, but now he turned back to Ellie. ‘So you find life here tedious? Indeed, I am sorry for that.’
‘I am glad of the peace and quiet,’ she assured him quickly.
‘You’ve had no problems with the staff?’
There it was. The subtle reference to her complaint in London that her room had been searched. He’d not forgotten.
‘No problems at all.’ She gave him a swift, bright smile. ‘In fact, my lord, everyone has been exceptionally kind.’
‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Good.’
And then Mr Appleby was joining them. ‘Ah, Appleby,’ Lord Franklin said affably, shaking him by the hand. ‘We’ll look through the household accounts shortly, shall we? Always something to keep us busy. And while I was in Paris, I bought several fine paintings that had come on the market there; I’ve brought some of them with me and I’m thinking of having the gallery on the first floor rearranged a little, to accommodate them...’
He guided Appleby aside to continue the conversation, and already Lady Charlotte was commanding her footmen to wheel her away. Ellie was about to leave, too, but Lady Charlotte spoke sharply to her over her shoulder.
‘Ellie? You will come with me to my room—I wish to talk to you. But first I want you to fetch my shawl from the dining room—I must have left it there, after lunch.’
‘My lady.’ Ellie dipped a curtsey and hurried to the dining room for the elaborate cashmere shawl, which was draped across the arm of a chair. But as she headed back towards the door into the hallway, she realised that Lord Franklin and Mr Appleby were talking still, in low, grave voices, but she could hear every word they said.
And she froze, because they weren’t talking about art at all.
‘You’re quite sure, Appleby,’ Lord Franklin was saying, ‘that he’s been brazenly roaming the area again? That the fellow is actually daring to show his face, along with his band of renegades? I’m very glad you wrote to me about it and that’s why I’ve come. To have Danbury at large, especially in the present circumstances, is intolerable. Something must be done...’
Already they were moving away, heading for Mr Appleby’s study. Ellie stood there for a moment, allowing the shock to ripple through her.
She knew already from Mary that the local landowners didn’t like Luke Danbury. They say that he gives the working folk ideas, her maid had said. So I think, miss, that perhaps you’d be well advised not to mention Luke Danbury to Lord Franklin.
But Mary had not mentioned that Lord Franklin hated Luke Danbury. Ellie felt very cold all of a sudden, and the marble statues in the great hall seemed to be staring down at her. Mocking her.
* * *
For nearly an hour, Ellie had to sit with Lady Charlotte and hear yet again about Lord Franklin’s prodigious intellect, his academic attainments at Eton and Oxford, and his renown as a collector of art from the Continent. Miss Pringle was there, too, scurrying about at Lady Charlotte’s beck and call. Ellie bore it all in silence, until relief came at last because it was time for Lady Charlotte to take afternoon tea with her son.
Ellie went up to her own room, hardly touching the tray of tea that Mary had brought her, trying to make sense of the strength of Lord Franklin’s words. To have Danbury at large, especially in the present circumstances, is intolerable.
Why the great enmity between the two men? Ellie wondered again if perhaps the papers Luke wanted her to get from Lord Franklin’s library contained evidence that Luke—or his missing brother—was guilty of some kind of wrongdoing.
But Luke didn’t seem afraid of Lord Franklin. He gave the impression that he cared not one jot for society or society’s opinion of him—in fact, only once had she seen his cool façade fracture a little, and that was when he spoke of his lost brother. He’d talked in calm, measured tones, without emotion, but she could tell by the shadows in his eyes and by the way his injured hand clenched at his side that the unspoken grief was there always, tearing at his mind. Colouring his every action.
Even that kiss that had shaken her so. Even that kiss had seemed almost like an act of revenge.
* * *
During dinner Lady Charlotte positively sparkled in her son’s company. Ellie was dressed in sober grey, but her ladyship wore an elaborate brocade gown and a quantity of jewels, and she almost flirted with Mr Appleby, who had joined them for the meal and spoke to her with obsequious flattery.
It was hard to believe, thought Ellie, that this was the same woman who was normally so abrupt and unpleasant. Her son was clearly the light of her life. Miss Pringle was there as well, but apart from the odd rebuke from Lady Charlotte, she was left free to concentrate on the succession of rich delicacies that Cook had prepared in honour of Lord Franklin’s presence.
Ellie’s appetite, however, was small. And she stopped eating altogether when Lord Franklin began to describe his recent visit to Paris.
‘Ah, Paris,’ he said. ‘I think it is my favourite city in all of Europe.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said Lady Charlotte,
‘that the French have recovered their senses and rid themselves of that monster Napoleon Bonaparte. I trust, Franklin, that he is still a prisoner on the island of Elba?’
‘Most definitely,’ Lord Franklin assured her. ‘And now the city is just as it used to be, with King Louis back on the throne and all of France at peace again!’ He turned to Ellie. ‘You grew up in Paris, didn’t you, my dear? Did you or your father ever meet Napoleon, I wonder?’
Ellie’s pulse almost stopped. ‘As you will know, my lord,’ she answered at last, ‘Napoleon kept a very grand court at La Tuileries. But I never visited there. My family lived a secluded life in Paris.’
‘And you lived where, exactly?’
‘In the Rue Tivoli, my lord. Close to the church of St Denis.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I know it. Not far from the new main road that Napoleon ordered his engineers to build from Paris to Orléans.’
Ellie dropped her fork and heard it clattering to her plate.
Lord Franklin gazed at her a moment longer, then started speaking to Mr Appleby about some matter of the estate. And for the rest of the meal, Ellie was scarcely able to say a word.
Her father had drawn up the designs for the Paris to Orléans main road. But surely—surely Lord Franklin couldn’t know that? Surely, if he’d any idea that her father had worked for Napoleon, he would have wanted nothing at all to do with her, despite his connection to her mother?
Dieu. She should never, ever have come to England with him. And yet, she had made that solemn promise to her dying father...
More than ever, she felt a great sense of dread. And even when the meal was over, there was to be no escape, for as they rose from the table Lady Charlotte tapped her son’s arm and declared, ‘Elise plays the piano, you know, Franklin, after a fashion. She might entertain us in the music room for a while.’
‘The piano is a little out of tune...’ Ellie began.
‘You are making excuses, I believe.’ Lord Franklin turned and smiled at her benignly. ‘Some music would be delightful—I’d no idea you were so talented.’