LITMIR.BIZ

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I swear it.’

      Gathering up the discarded clothing the maid retired. Claudia watched her leave. While it would have been wonderfully convenient to have taken her along, she could never have justified putting Lucy’s life at risk; nor could she tell the maid why her presence wasn’t required. The girl’s feelings had been hurt, but better that than the possible alternative.

      Try as she might, Claudia could not rid her mind of Alain Poiret and the others, or of what had happened after their arrest. Although they were beyond help, it went against the grain to leave the matter there; to let a traitor escape justice. What other evil deeds might he perpetrate as a result? She wondered if Genet had any information, any clue at all that might point to the betrayer’s identity. It occurred to her that a talk with Genet might be both useful and productive.

      In the meantime, there were more immediate tasks awaiting her attention. Having spoken to the cook and the housekeeper, she took herself off to the salon to deal with a pile of correspondence. With its south-facing aspect and the view over the garden it was a pleasant place to work, particularly now that the spring flowers were in evidence. Snowdrops were giving place to daffodil foliage. Soon the tight buds would burst into soul-warming gold and banish winter dullness with glad colour. Save for hazel catkins and pussy willow, the trees were still bare but each branch and twig was covered with new buds. Later perhaps she would go for a walk. The day, though cold, would stay fine. The clouds were high, like fleecy islands in a sea of blue. The blue of a man’s eyes …

      The sky faded and without warning she was looking into Duval’s face. With it came the memory of a bed chamber in Paris; a lean hard body pressed close to her nakedness; the pressure of his mouth on hers, searing, persuasive, his arousal, hard and shocking, awakening a throbbing pulse of warmth between her thighs. She drew in a sharp breath, forcing the image away. It was shameful to think of it let alone to have enjoyed it. She was no different from any of the other women in Madame Renaud’s establishment. I knew I was right. The mocking voice returned with force. Duval suspected the same. How could he not? Claudia felt her cheeks and neck grow hot. Her brief liaison with him was immoral, wrong in every way, and yet she knew now that he had awakened something in her that would never sleep until he was out of her life for good.

      The thought of his forthcoming visit filled her with unease. She had no idea how she was going to handle it, only that it must be faced and decisively too. He was not entirely without a sense of honour. Perhaps she could appeal to it; make him understand that she meant what she said. He could have no hopes of her. She could not suppose he would be easily persuaded, but she must succeed in this. He represented danger in too many ways.

      With a determined effort she returned her attention to the pile of correspondence, forcing herself to concentrate. It took her some time to read through all the letters and then to prioritise the replies in order of importance. A missive from Lady Harrington lightened her mood a little. It contained news of their mutual acquaintance, including a witty and entertaining account of a hunt ball, and expressed the hope that she and Claudia would meet in London: ‘… for the winter has been tedious, and I long for your lively company again. It seems an age since I had any word from you. Do let me know soon how you go on.

      Your affectionate friend,

      Anne.’

      Claudia smiled to herself and set about writing a reply. She could not tell her friend where she had spent the last few weeks, but did provide as much local news as she felt would be of interest. In truth she would be glad to have some female company again, and Anne’s was particularly agreeable.

      By the time she had written the letter, her sense of shame had faded a little. She wrote a few more, shorter, replies and seeing the pile diminish a little did something to ease her conscience. She spent the majority of the morning on the task and then, needing some fresh air, rose and retrieved her shawl from the back of the chair.

      As she turned she glanced towards the fireplace and the portrait hanging above it. A tall, slender figure in scarlet regimentals returned her gaze. His expression was cool, aloof, giving no clue as to the thoughts behind those vivid blue eyes. Deep gold hair complimented the face with its chiselled lines and almost sculptural good looks. Claudia surveyed it steadily. How old had Anthony been when it was painted? Twenty, perhaps? It was probably an accurate likeness, but somehow it gave no real sense of the young man she had known so briefly. No doubt he looked different now anyway. Eight years of military campaigning must have left their mark. The picture was all that remained. But for that, she might have forgotten what he looked like. She sighed and turned away.

      A discreet knock at the door announced the arrival of the butler. ‘The newspapers have arrived from London, my lady.’

      ‘Thank you, Walker. Leave them over there on the table.’

      ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but I thought you’d like to see them at once.’

      ‘Why? What has happened?’

      ‘Napoleon has escaped from Elba.’

      ‘What!’

      ‘It’s true, my lady. Apparently he landed at Cannes on the first of March, and is now trying to rally support.’

      ‘Good gracious.’

      Claudia seized The Times, scanning the front page. It was apparent that Walker had spoken the truth. She frowned. The paper was already several days old and the news older than that, so Napoleon had been at large at least a week. If he managed to rally enough men and raise an army it would mean war again. They’d had less than a year of peace, and now this. In addition there was a French spy on the loose who already knew too much about the British network. It had all manner of far-reaching ramifications that she didn’t like in the least.

      She was afforded little time to dwell on the matter because, having been away for some weeks, there were matters of estate business requiring her attention. A meeting with the land agent turned her mind towards spring planting, lambing, and the purchase of a new seed drill. After that she sat down to study the account books. She was in the study with a pile of ledgers when Walker entered to say that a letter had arrived.

      Somewhat reluctantly she took it from the salver, assuming it was from Duval to confirm his arrival the following day. However, one glance at the direction on the front revealed that it could not be from him. Her mouth dried. Although she had seen it on relatively few occasions, the elegant masculine hand was unmistakeable. With thumping heart she stared at it a few seconds longer. Then, taking a deep breath, she broke the wafer. The letter was a single sheet and contained only a short message:

      ‘My Dear Claudia,

      I trust that you will forgive the brevity of this letter but, since I am now returned to England, it seems superfluous to write at length here. Rather I shall look forward to speaking to you in person when I arrive at Oakley Court tomorrow. You may expect me by three in the afternoon.

      Your obedient servant,

      Brudenell.’

      Claudia’s stomach lurched. Anthony returning; coming here! Never! It had to be a mistake. Hurriedly she scanned the words again, but their import was unchanged. The realisation brought a surge of emotion so powerful that it almost undid her. Shaking, she sank onto the couch as her mind struggled to assimilate the news.

      It took a minute or two and, as the initial shock wore off, it was replaced by cold fury. It was bad enough to discover that he was coming at all, but to announce his arrival thus, as though it were the most natural thing in the world; as though he had merely been away a week or two and not eight years, almost beggared belief. You may expect me by three … How dared he? The arrogance of it, the sheer brass-necked gall of the man was breathtaking.

      ‘Damn you, Anthony Brudenell.’

      She crumpled the letter into a ball and hurled it on the fire. Then she began to pace the floor, her mind in a whirl. Did he seriously imagine she would welcome him back? That the last eight years could somehow be expunged and she would fall into his arms? It was this thought which brought reality home and she realised with a sudden chill that no matter how many years had passed,

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