The Wolf's Promise (11 page)

‘I don't think that's any of your business,' she said steadily, managing to inject a cool note into her voice.

‘Well, I'm not sure,' said Benoît slowly. He smiled suddenly. ‘Even with my coaching, you're not very efficient at extracting information, are you?' he said provocatively. ‘You should have demanded your fee long ago. I think I may invoke a time forfeit.'

Angelica blinked, momentarily confused.

‘You were going to tell me how you're going to rescue Harry!' she exclaimed, remembering.

‘Well, no,' he corrected her, a glint in his eye. ‘I suggested you might find the experiment of kissing me worthwhile—but I didn't guarantee that I'd tell you about Harry.'

Angelica opened her mouth, drawing in a deep, indignant breath as she realised she'd been tricked.

‘You devious, unscrupulous, ungentlemanly…' She glared at him with hot burning eyes, because she suddenly realised that what she felt was not indignant but hurt and betrayed. How could he have made such heartless use of her innocence?

Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them, glittering on her long eyelashes, and she turned away, humiliated that he should see her cry.

He was beside her in two long strides, gently turning her into the comforting circle of his arms.

‘Don't!' She tried to push him away.

‘Shush.' He stroked her hair gently, making no demands upon her with his embrace. ‘I didn't trick you that badly,
ma chérie.
And if you'd remembered to ask me, I wouldn't have teased you about it.'

Angelica knew she ought not to allow him to comfort her, but it was beyond her strength to push him away. His hands were soothing and his arms very protective. She had a brief, enticing vision of what it would be like if there was always someone there to turn to when she was hurt or afraid. It was a long time since she'd been able to turn to the Earl for support.

‘That wasn't very gentlemanly of you,' she said at last, a catch in her voice, as she lifted her head to look at him.

‘But I'm not a gentleman,
mignonne,
' he reminded her softly. ‘We established that very early in our acquaintance.'

He paused; he was looking at Angelica, but there was a distant expression in his frowning eyes, and she could sense that he wasn't seeing her.

‘My grandfather was a brickmaker who could neither
read nor write,' he said abruptly, ‘but he was determined his sons would do better in life than he had done, and he made enormous sacrifices to ensure that they did.'

He let Angelica go and went over to the globe, spinning it idly with his tanned, supple fingers.

‘I don't think the old man ever travelled more than ten miles from his home in his life,' he said over his shoulder. ‘He died soon after I went to sea.'

‘He must have been very proud of you,' said Angelica almost hesitantly, recognising that she was being offered a rare insight into the making of Benoît Faulkener.

‘He was proud of my father,' said Benoît. ‘Yes, he was proud of me,' he added, as he saw her expression. ‘But he didn't like it when we visited him, and he never consented to visit my parents in Arundel—less than twenty miles from his home. He said it wouldn't do to remind my father's patients that he was the son of a common brickmaker.'

Angelica bit her lip. She'd lived all her life in a privileged and sheltered world, taking for granted the advantages that had been bestowed on her. Now she was being confronted with an entirely different world, one which she'd only been dimly aware of until this moment. She realised that it must be hard for Benoît to speak so openly.

Benoît glanced at her, a sudden tension in his long limbs at her prolonged silence. What he saw in her face seemed to reassure him, and he added more lightly, ‘Actually, I think the member of my family you'd find most interesting is Toby.'

‘Toby?' The name sounded vaguely familiar but Angelica couldn't place it.

‘My father's older brother,' Benoît explained. ‘If it was Grandfather who had a dream of what his sons and grandson could achieve, it was Toby who ultimately made it possible. He learnt to read and write, and then got himself apprenticed to a blacksmith in Chichester. But he knew what was really needed to make the old man's dream come true was money. So he set about making some. It was Toby who paid for my father's training, his books and his instruments—and his first suit of clothes to impress his future patients. And it was Toby's inheritance which allowed me to buy my first ship. But he was still only a blacksmith in Chichester when he died.'

Angelica stared at him, her lips silently forming the word ‘how', but she already knew and, even if she hadn't guessed, Benoît's wolfish smile would have informed her.

‘He smuggled tea,' said Benoît, ‘among other things. It was very profitable until they reduced the duty in the 1780s. We were running brandy the night I met your father. So you were right, my lady,' he concluded, a challenging glint in his eyes, ‘this house is ultimately built on the profits of smuggling—or free trading, as Toby preferred to call it.'

Angelica gazed at him. She knew he wasn't ashamed of his antecedents; that, on the contrary, he was extremely proud of his determined and enterprising relatives. All the same, it couldn't have been easy to tell the tale and risk her possible ridicule. She was deeply impressed by both his
moral courage in doing so, and his faith in her ability to understand.

‘Why did you tell me this?' she said slowly.

He glanced at her, an intent, almost questioning look in his eyes, then shrugged dismissively.

‘I cannot tell you how I will get Harry out of France, much less how I shall extricate him from Bitche,' he replied. ‘Even if I knew, which at this point I don't, it wouldn't be wise. But I'd rather you didn't spend the next few weeks imagining me everything from a French spy to an extortionist. You may take this information as a—what did you call it this morning?—ah, yes, an earnest of my good faith.'

Angelica lowered her eyes, considerably shaken that he had remembered and finally responded to her angry demands. Then something occurred to her and she looked up, a spark kindling in her blue eyes.

‘I don't believe I accused you of being a spy?' she protested indignantly.

‘Bearing in mind what Sir William said to me this morning, and the vivid powers of your imagination—I'd be very surprised if that hadn't been among your suspicions,' Benoît retorted.

She saw the white gleam of his teeth as he grinned at her startled reaction, and surprisingly she felt reassured by his gentle mockery. It was hard to know exactly how she felt about Benoît Faulkener, but it was inexplicably comforting to know that, however quickly some aspects of their relationship changed, others remained the same.

‘It was a perfectly reasonable concern on my part,' she said with dignity. ‘And if you hadn't provoked Sir William into losing his temper, it would never have occurred to me!'

‘Poor Sir William,' said Benoît appreciatively. ‘It doesn't take much to enrage him. Do you know, he spent more than twenty years trying to get the better of Toby, but he never let his horses be shod by anyone else? He was very upset when Toby died.'

‘You mean he liked him?' said Angelica wonderingly.

‘They were, in a strange way, friends,' Benoît replied. ‘Toby was a hard man, but he imposed a ruthless discipline on those who worked for him. For the twenty-five years or more he controlled the smuggling on this part of the coast there were none of the atrocities which have occurred in other parts of the county. The situation is far more unstable and unpredictable now that he's gone. There are several gangs vying with each other—' Benoît broke off, shrugging. ‘Not that any of this is of interest to you,' he said briskly.

‘It might be,' Angelica replied tentatively.

Benoît glanced at her sharply, then smiled faintly.

‘No, it isn't,' he said firmly. ‘Because none of this makes the slightest difference to Harry's rescue.'

‘But if you no longer…' Angelica began.

Benoît laughed.

‘My lady, you are so used to looking at the problem from Harry's point of view that you don't have a clear view of the picture,' he declared. ‘It's true that Harry's main stumbling
block was the Channel, but that's the least of
my
worries. I'm much more concerned about how I'm going to establish communications with him in the first place, and get him out of Bitche in the second.'

Angelica bit her lip. ‘He's already done it once,' she said.

‘Which will make it that much harder next time,' Benoît pointed out. ‘Don't worry, my lady,' he added reassuringly, seeing her anxious expression. ‘We will find a way.'

A
ngelica was very quiet as she let Martha dress her for dinner. She'd had little time for reflection since her arrival at Holly House, yet so much had happened to her in the last twenty-four hours. Some of her most deeply held assumptions had been challenged. Even the familiar Martha had been revealed in a new and startling light. Did she feel frustrated by the limitations of her life as a lady's maid? Benoît had given Angelica so much to think about.

She touched her slender fingers briefly to her lips as she thought of how he'd kissed her. Her body stirred with the memory of his embrace, and the excitement he had aroused in her. He'd asked her if anyone had ever previously kindled a spark in her and she'd refused to answer—but she knew that, until today, they hadn't.

Five years ago she had gone out into society hoping to find someone to stir her heart, but every man she had ever met had been a pale, sickly shadow compared to the Earl.
At first she had been disappointed, then resigned to the situation; and when the Earl had been hurt it had ceased to matter. He needed her, and depended on her, and she had done her best to be what he wanted her to be—if only she knew what that was.

But Benoît had changed everything. She wondered how easy it would be to go back to reading dusty books to her father, sharing the bitter limitations of the Earl's life since his accident, yet knowing there was so much more on the other side of the wall.

After tonight she might never see Benoît again!

This evening she would dine with him, tomorrow morning she would say a polite farewell to him, and that would be the end of her brief adventure.

She stared blindly at herself in the mirror, startled and rather dismayed by the powerful sense of loss which swept over her. She barely saw the huge, distressed blue eyes which gazed back at her out of a pale, troubled face. It was Benoît's eyes she saw, and Benoît's voice she could hear—teasing her, exasperating her, soothing her—and talking to her about things that mattered to him, confident that she was capable of understanding and responding to what he said.

Did he feel as sorry as she did that this brief interlude was nearly over? It hardly seemed likely. He had seen so much more of the world than she had—he must have known many women who interested or excited him. She felt an unexpected stab of an emotion which could almost have been jealousy and her hands clenched in her lap.

‘Stand up, my lady, it's time you were dressed,' Martha interrupted her thoughts.

Angelica obeyed automatically, hardly aware of what she was doing, and allowed Martha to button her into a shimmering gown of pale ivory satin.

The long, softly gleaming skirt fell in a smooth, elegant line from just beneath her bosom to her feet, skimming discreetly past the curves of her waist and hips without entirely concealing them. The dress had a deep, square neckline which revealed the soft, creamy skin of her shoulders and throat, and a long train which whispered richly across the carpet whenever she moved.

Angelica frowned as she slowly became aware of what Martha was doing. For the first time she noticed that her maid had caught up her shining curls in a glittering diamond and sapphire comb, and that there were matching jewels in her ears.

‘No!' she protested quickly, throwing up a hand and stepping back as she saw the pendant Martha was holding out. ‘I can't go downstairs like this! It's a quiet dinner in the country—not a ball at Carlton House!'

‘That's as may be,' said Martha quietly. ‘But I think it's time he was reminded exactly who he's dealing with—and perhaps you need reminding too, my lady.'

Angelica stared at her maid for several long seconds, her skirts still caught up in one hand from when she'd stepped backwards so quickly, her other hand held almost protectively at her throat. She seemed vibrant with suppressed energy. The only colour about her came from the golden glow
of her hair, the soft pink of her lips and cheeks, and the vivid blue of her eyes which was matched, but not overshadowed, by the sapphires in her hair and ears.

She didn't bother to ask who Martha meant by ‘he' because she already knew. She stared at her maid, wondering how much Martha had guessed, and trying to read her thoughts in her expressionless face—but it was impossible.

‘It that all you're going to say?' she asked at last.

‘Yes, my lady.'

‘I see.'

Angelica had been startled out of her preoccupation with Benoît more effectively by Martha's brief, elliptical comment than she would ever have been by the maid's more familiar grumbling. She glanced at the sapphire in Martha's hand and remembered her momentary jealousy at the thought of Benoît's other women.

Perhaps Martha was right. Perhaps it was time to remind Benoît he wasn't dealing with an unsophisticated country wench, but with the daughter of a noble and long-established family. She made no further objection as Martha fastened the pendant around her neck.

‘I never told you to bring any of my jewels,' she observed, as the cool silver of the necklace caressed her warm skin, ‘much less this dress. Why did you do it?'

‘You never know when you might need to show your quality,' said Martha grimly, stepping back to look at her handiwork. ‘Clothes are a useful reminder. And you can be sure I took care to hide your jewels from prying eyes.'

‘You don't think there's much danger of me being robbed in this house then,' said Angelica, a half-smile on her lips.

But Martha might not have heard for all the notice she took of Angelica's remark. She studied her mistress intently, then nodded slightly, with evident reluctance.

‘You'll do,' she said sourly.

Angelica hesitated as she approached the drawing-room door. Despite her earlier resolution she felt nervous and overdressed. She wondered if she'd made a crass and insulting mistake. There was nothing pretentious about the Faulkeners. In deference to their guest, Mrs Faulkener had had the fire lit in a larger room than the one she had occupied the previous evening, but it was still furnished very simply, with more regard for comfort than elegance.

Angelica was suddenly afraid that Mrs Faulkener would think she was showing off; and that Benoît would believe she was deliberately parading her consequence before him in direct response to what he had told her about his humble origins. That hadn't been her intention at all. She almost turned and fled back to her room, but it was too late. She turned the door handle and went into the room with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

She noticed, almost with relief, that Mrs Faulkener was not yet present—then she gave all her attention to Benoît. He had risen politely at her entrance, but she saw a flicker of startled, warm appreciation in his eyes as they rested on her
face. Her heart skipped a beat because surely that first, unguarded reaction to her appearance had been very revealing.

He recovered his composure quickly, looking her up and down with a coolly amused expression on his face. At last his gaze came to rest on the jewel around her neck, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

‘You are looking very magnificent tonight, my lady,' he said politely.

‘It was Martha!' Angelica said breathlessly, hearing the cool note in his voice, and afraid that her fears had been well-founded. She lifted her hand instinctively to touch, and perhaps hide, the sapphire and diamonds at her throat.

‘She insisted…' Her voice trailed off as she realised how impossible it was to explain what Martha had said. She looked at Benoît with luminous blue eyes which contained an unconscious appeal for understanding.

Benoît smiled, the warmth springing back into his brown eyes as he strolled towards her, moving with the controlled grace and latent power of the wolf he so frequently reminded her of.

‘Martha is a formidable woman,' he said dryly. ‘I must make sure I make her acquaintance before you leave, my lady. In the meantime, you may tell her that I have understood her message.'

‘I don't understand,' Angelica said, in some confusion, although she was almost certain that she did.

How could she ever have been foolish enough to suppose Benoît would be too unsophisticated to comprehend
the significance of her finery? She wondered briefly whether she truly understood it herself. Was she trying to disconcert him with her magnificence—or captivate him with her glamour?

Either way, she seemed to have met her match.

For the first time since she had known Benoît, he was not dressed entirely in black. He wore a dark blue, double-breasted tail coat which fitted his broad shoulders admirably. A snowy white cravat fell in soft folds beneath his chin, emphasising his dark tan, His breeches were buckled just below his knees, and close-fitting white stockings revealed his well-muscled calves.

It was Angelica's turn to be surprised. She had protested to Martha that she wasn't attending a ball in Carlton House, but Benoît would certainly not have been out of place in such a setting. He bent low to kiss her hand with elegant assurance, and she could feel the warm pressure of his fingers through her long gloves. She looked down at his crisp black hair, feeling strangely close to him, yet at the same time very unsure of herself.

‘Come and sit down,' he said. ‘My mother will be with us shortly, but she was delayed by a minor domestic crisis. The cook's late brother—he was killed last year in Portugal—turns out to have been a bigamist.'

‘What?' The force of Angelica's disbelieving exclamation owed much more to her chaotic feelings than to what Benoît had just said, but at least he had provided her with an excuse for her obvious confusion.

‘Oh, it's quite true,' he assured her, grinning, as he took the chair opposite hers. ‘According to my mother, the first bereaved widow arrived on the doorstep a couple of months ago, and the second one came this afternoon. Apparently she gave quite a dramatic performance—I'm almost sorry I missed it.'

‘You're not serious?' Angelica didn't know whether to be appalled or entertained at what he'd said.

‘That she came—or that I'm sorry I missed the show?' Benoît enquired, a wicked gleam in his brown eyes. ‘You're right, I doubt very much whether I would have found it as rewarding as a day spent in your company.'

Angelica blushed and turned her face away, uncertain how to respond to him. His directness always disconcerted her, and it was almost a relief when Mrs Faulkener came quietly into the room.

Dinner was an exquisite torment for Angelica. It was the first time she had ever spoken to Benoît in company, and she was acutely conscious of Mrs Faulkener's observant eyes as she tried to maintain a flow of light-hearted conversation.

But the Faulkeners were very easy and entertaining companions. Mother and son shared a similar sense of humour, and they had a relaxed respect for each other which impressed Angelica. She wondered if Benoît would show equal respect to his wife. Then she blushed and suppressed the fugitive thought as quickly and guiltily as if Benoît could read her mind. It was hardly any concern of hers how he treated his wife.

At last the two women left Benoît to enjoy his port alone and retired to the drawing room.

‘You have been so kind to me,' said Angelica warmly. ‘I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your hospitality. I feel so guilty for imposing on you a second night.'

Mrs Faulkener smiled as she sat down opposite Angelica.

‘On the contrary,' she replied cordially, ‘I am grateful for your company, my lady. We don't often have visitors. I'm only sorry that you must leave so soon.'

‘Thank you,' said Angelica, uncomfortable aware that she had been so preoccupied with Benoît that she had spared very little thought for her hostess.

It would hardly be surprising if Mrs Faulkener did feel lonely, living in such an isolated spot and with Benoît away so often. Angelica resolved to be a more entertaining guest for the limited time she had left. She felt vaguely that it was important Mrs Faulkener should like her, although she didn't analyse why.

‘Perhaps, in the summer, you could persuade your father to visit Sir William,' Mrs Faulkener suggested. ‘It's a long time since the Earl came to Sussex, and I'm sure Sir William would appreciate it.'

‘I will certainly try,' Angelica agreed, snatching at the idea eagerly. ‘It would be such a relief! He hasn't left the house in months…' Her voice trailed away as she realised how close she was to openly criticising her father.

‘It must be very painful for him,' said Mrs Faulkener quietly.
‘And for you. It is hard to live in the shadow of someone else's unhappiness—particularly when you love them.'

Angelica looked down at her hands gripped together in her lap, seeing them through suddenly misty eyes. She was afraid if she spoke her voice would reveal how close she was to tears, so she didn't say anything, and in a moment Mrs Faulkener began to tell the story of the cook's bigamous brother.

When Benoît joined them, a few minutes later, Angelica had her feelings well under control. Even so, the sight of him after his brief absence caused her heart to leap into her throat and left her temporarily bereft of words. She couldn't believe she was acting so foolishly; anyone would think she was still in the schoolroom! Yet she had been mistress of her father's household for several years.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the maid who came into the room, looking a little flustered, and delivered a letter to Benoît.

‘Thank you, Tilly.' He took it and broke open the seal, reading it quickly. A frown creased his forehead as he nodded his dismissal to the maid.

‘There'll be no reply,' he said curtly, standing up.

‘What is it, Benoît?' Mrs Faulkener asked calmly.

He glanced at his mother and smiled, his expression clearing as he did so.

‘Nothing serious,' he said lightly. ‘It's from Sir William. He thinks he's caught a smuggler, but the man is claiming his innocence and says I can provide him with
an alibi. It could wait till morning, but you know how excitable Sir William gets. It's probably best if I don't keep him waiting.'