LITMIR.BIZ

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must have been very difficult for you to adjust to civilian life after all that time.’

      ‘Yes, it was. Very.’ Her perception surprised Elliot. ‘People don’t really see that.’

      ‘People never do. I was nineteen when I married. When Jeremy died I found I had no idea who I was. Two years later I’m still not sure.’

      ‘I came home to take up the mantle of my family estates, to settle down into the quiet country life I’d joined up to avoid in the first place. Not much more than two years ago and I’m still not sure, either, who I am. I’m not a soldier any more, but I’m pretty damn sure that I’d die of boredom as a country squire.’

      ‘So you’ve taken up housebreaking instead? Is that it?’ Deborah asked, looking amused.

      ‘Partly.’

      ‘I wish I’d thought of something as exciting, but I lack the skills. How came you to acquire them? Is it part of basic army training, lock-picking?’

      Elliot laughed. ‘No, but the British army is made up almost entirely of volunteers, you know. You’d be astonished at the skills one can learn from the men.’

      ‘Is that how you came about your contacts, too?’ Deborah chuckled. ‘I do not recall reading in the newspapers that the war against Napoleon was won by fences and pickpockets and the like.’

      ‘The war was won by poor bastards from all walks of life who enlisted because they had the misguided belief that at the end of it they would have made a better life for themselves and their families,’ Elliot said grimly. ‘The same poor bastards you see begging on the streets now—those of them who made it home.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Deborah said, taken aback by the sudden change in him. ‘I did not mean to make light of it. You must have lost some good friends.’

      ‘Yes.’ Surprised by the urge to confide in her, Elliot took a deep breath. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘You have no need to be. I should have known better. Time makes no difference with such scars, does it? A year, two—people think you should have forgotten.’

      ‘I won’t ever forget.’

      ‘Nor I,’ Deborah said softly.

      She recognised that tone. And the look in his eyes—the darkness, suffering, guilt. She wondered what it was that had put it there. It went too deep to be solely down to the horrors of war. But though she was tempted to ask, she did not. Something about him—a shuttered look, a reticence—warned her off. Besides, questions begat questions. She did not wish to reveal why it was she understood him.

      ‘What do you do with your time?’ Elliot asked. ‘Despite what you said, you don’t give the appearance of one who is enjoying her widowhood.’

      ‘I am still becoming accustomed,’ Deborah said with a shrug. ‘It is not what I expected—not that I was actually planning for it, because Jeremy was only six-and-thirty. I mean, I did not murder him or anything like that.’

      ‘But you thought about it?’

      ‘Well, only by way of diversion when I was …’ Writing my first book, she had been about to say.

      Deborah stared at Elliot, aghast. He was trying not to smile. The corner of his mouth was quivering with the effort of restraining his laughter.

      ‘It’s not funny. That was a shocking thing to make me say,’ she said, trying to hide the quiver in her own voice.

      ‘I did not make you say anything.’

      ‘You know, I wish you would take me with you,’ Deborah said impulsively.

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘Just once. I wish I could accompany you—the Peacock. It would be—I don’t know—marvellous.’ And perhaps inspiring, Deborah thought.

      Elliot burst out laughing. ‘Marvellous! I’ve heard my escapades described in many ways, but marvellous has never been one of them. You are the most original woman I have ever met.’

      ‘Yes? I take that as a huge compliment, I think. Have you met many women?’

      ‘Many. They’ve asked me many things, too,’ Elliot said wickedly. ‘But not one of them has shown an interest in housebreaking.’

      ‘Well, I am very interested in housebreaking,’ Deborah said, trying not to think about the many voluptuous and experienced women Elliot had met. ‘Will you consider it?’

      ‘Consider—good God. You are not serious?’

      She could not quite believe it herself, but it seemed she was. For one night, she would step out of her shadow, cast off the ghosts which haunted her and act as boldly as her literary alter ego. In fact, she would be Bella. It was perfect. Just exactly the boost her writing needed to stop it from stagnating.

      Deborah’s eyes positively sparkled. ‘You have no idea how much,’ she said.

      Elliot seemed to find her enthusiasm amusing. He was laughing—a deep, gruff sound which shivered over her skin. She found herself staring at his mouth. His knee pressed into her thigh through the cambric of her dress. Little ripples of heat spread from the contact. Up.

      ‘Will you take me?’ she asked, half-joking, half-something else she chose not to acknowledge.

      Elliot couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. She smelled of spring and flowers and something more elusive. He leaned closer. There were just the tiniest traces of lines around her eyes. He’d thought her three- or four-and-twenty, but she must be older. That darkness that lurked at the back of her eyes was experience. She was a widow. He couldn’t possibly kiss her here, in the park. But she was a widow. So not married. Or not any more. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do a lot more than that.

      ‘Elliot, will you take me?’

      She was serious! He sat back, blinked, pulled his hat from his head, looked at it, put it back again. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

      ‘It’s not ridiculous,’ Deborah said, too taken up with the outrageous idea to care how wild it sounded, to notice the reckless edge to her voice. This was what she wanted. This was what she’d been waiting for. Excitement—enough to jolt her out of her melancholy. And experience. The authenticity it would lend to her story would give Bella Donna a new lease of life. ‘Please, Elliot.’

      Her hand was on his coat sleeve. Her gloves were worn. His own were new. He hated wearing gloves. He wanted to feel her skin. ‘No,’ he said, shaking her hand away. ‘I could not possibly …’

      ‘Why not? Are you afraid I would mess things up for you? I would not, I promise, I would do only as you instructed.’

      For a few wild seconds he imagined it—the pair of them in cahoots. Her presence would lend a wholly new edge to the thrill of the escapade. What the devil was he thinking? ‘Madness,’ Elliot exclaimed, leaping to his feet. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking. To risk the gallows …’

      ‘It would not come to that. It never has yet—you are too clever for that.’ She couldn’t understand why, but she had to persuade him. ‘Please. My life is so—you have no idea. I can’t explain, but if I could just—I want to feel alive!’

      Elliot had no difficulty in recognising that particular sentiment. It was still madness and he still had no intention of agreeing, but he couldn’t help empathising with what she said. ‘Deborah, it’s impossible,’ he said gently.

      ‘It’s not.’ Desperation made her ruthless. ‘I want to come with you the next time. In fact, I am determined to come with you; if you do not agree I will inform upon you.’

      This he had not anticipated. God dammit, he couldn’t help admire her daring. She must want this very badly. He wondered why. That fatal curiosity of his. Elliot tried valiantly to stifle it. ‘You would be unwise to do so. By your silence,

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