The Wolf's Promise (4 page)

‘You see!' Angelica declared, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘It is a matter of life and death. Harry will surely try again, and next time he may be killed. I know that some of the prisoners have been killed trying to
escape. All he needs is a little help. One small boat in the right place.'

She knelt up, gripping the arm of Benoît's chair in both hands.

‘You don't even need to go to France,' she said earnestly, her lucid blue eyes fixed on Benoît's face as she concentrated all her powers of persuasion onto him. ‘James Corbett sent his mistress over to England to carry out some business for him and she smuggled the letter out in her clothes—the French seem to be very lax in some respects—and she will be returning soon to Verdun.

‘All we need is the name of someone Harry can safely approach to give him passage over the Channel. Fanny can take the information back to James Corbett.'

‘And how will Corbett get a message through to Harry?' Benoît asked sceptically, raising one black eyebrow. ‘And what happens if the name of the “safe person” falls into the wrong hands? What kind of tragedy would I be responsible for then, if I did as you suggest?'

Angelica bit back an angry retort. She knew Benoît's objections were valid; in her frustration and anxiety she wasn't thinking clearly. But his lack of a positive response to the problem aggravated her almost beyond bearing.

‘There
must
be a way!' She struck the arm of his chair in her exasperation. If you won't go to France yourself—'

‘Did I say I wouldn't?' Benoît covered her hand with his, and Angelica gasped as she suddenly realised how informally she had been behaving with him.

He was still sitting in the armchair, and she was kneeling on the floor beside him in a position which was neither dignified nor ladylike. In her wildest imagining she had never expected their interview would end up like this.

His hand was tanned, with strong but elegant fingers. She was instantly conscious of the warmth and potential power in his grip, and felt an answering spark at his touch which no other man had aroused within her.

She had been drilled in habits of strict decorum, but she also lived in a fashionable, glittering world in which flattery and flirtation were commonplace. She had received thousands of compliments during her few Seasons, and many eligible and not so eligible gentlemen had kissed her hand—but none of them had produced such an immediate response in her.

She hesitated, unable to look away from his face. His gaze was strangely compelling, though she still couldn't decipher the expression in his guarded brown eyes. She was torn between a desire to snatch her hand away and a fugitive wish to prolong the moment. Then she remembered it was her duty to Harry—and her father—to do everything she could to persuade Benoît to help.

She smiled a trifle uncertainly at him, her anxiety and hope apparent in her candid blue eyes.

‘You mean you will go to France?' she said, almost pleadingly.

‘Perhaps.'

‘Perhaps!'
she exclaimed, drawing her hand away, consternation in her expression. ‘But…'

‘Let me have your father's letter,' said Benoît briskly.

‘Why? I've told you everything it contains,' she said rebelliously.

‘Nevertheless, I'd like to see it,' he replied equably. ‘This one belongs to you.' He handed back James Corbett's letter and stood up.

Angelica was taken by surprise by his sudden action. She tried to stand up too, but she'd been sitting on her legs, and she was already stiff from the long hours in the coach. A flurry of pins and needles made her gasp and sink back to the floor.

Benoît reached down and took both of her hands in his, drawing her easily to her feet. She winced slightly as the tingling in her left leg made it extremely uncomfortable to put her full weight on her foot, and he steadied her with a light hand on her waist as she took an involuntary step sideways.

She looked up at him, very conscious of how close together they were standing, and the almost casual intimacy of their actions, which nevertheless did not seem entirely unnatural.

His brown eyes were as watchful as ever, but they didn't lack warmth.

‘You're right,' he said, and he was so close his deep voice seemed to reverberate through her. ‘I do owe your father a life—and that life would appear to be your brother's. But it will be best if you leave it up to me as to how I rescue him. I will write a reply to your father's letter and you may take it to him tomorrow.'

‘But what are you going to
do?
' Angelica demanded. ‘And when are you going to start?'

‘That's my business,' Benoît retorted firmly. ‘Does your father know you're here, by the way? He must have changed a great deal since my brief meeting with him if he allowed you to beard me in my den without a murmur.'

‘Of course he knows!' Angelica exclaimed indignantly, stifling the uneasy awareness that she had informed the Earl of her intentions by the cowardly expedient of leaving him a note.

The Earl had wanted his secretary to bring his letter to Benoît, but Angelica had been deeply suspicious of asking a smuggler to rescue Harry. She hated doubting the Earl's judgement, but since his accident his decisions had often been erratic and even unreasonable. Harry's life was too important to entrust to a stranger on the strength of one brief meeting, sixteen years in the past. Angelica had been determined to discover what Benoît Faulkener was like for herself.

Benoît smiled. His dark face hung dizzyingly above Angelica's and she closed her eyes. The candle flames had begun to merge together in a glowing, misty haze. Now that she had finally put her case to Benoît—and he had apparently agreed to help—she was suddenly overwhelmed with weariness.

She was dimly aware of an almost imperceptible touch on her hair, so light that she couldn't be sure it hadn't been a draught from the window disturbing her curls, then Benoît put his hand on her shoulder.

‘You're swaying like an aspen tree in a summer gale,' he said, sounding amused. ‘You've had a tiring day. I suggest you go to bed. You've done your part. Tomorrow you can safely return to your father.'

Angelica opened her eyes, insulted by the idea that she could be worn out by the carriage ride from London and irritated by Benoît's calmly amused dismissal of her.

‘Don't patronise me, sir,' she said coldly. ‘I am a little weary, but I am quite equal to my responsibilities. If your inordinately secretive disposition means that you prefer not to discuss you plans with me, so be it—but don't pretend it's because I'm not capable of understanding their complexities!'

Benoît stepped back and inclined his head in acknowledgement of her comment, but he didn't trouble to retaliate.

‘After you, my lady,' he said, opening the door for her. ‘I am sure we will all see things more clearly after a good night's sleep.'

Angelica gritted her teeth and walked out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster.

‘W
e'll be going back to London today, my lady?' said Martha grimly as she brushed Angelica's hair.

She wasn't much more than thirty, but she'd cultivated an air of old-maidish disapproval from an early age.

‘I expect so,' Angelica replied distractedly.

She had fallen asleep almost the moment she had climbed into bed the previous night. She'd had no time to reflect on her meeting with Benoît. She knew so little about him, and she wanted to be sure she was doing the right thing in entrusting Harry's safety to him.

Martha sniffed disparagingly.

‘Nasty, damp, miserable, unfriendly place,' she said sourly. ‘I don't know why we came here at all.'

That was, quite literally, true. Angelica hadn't thought it prudent to explain the whole story to her maid. She had simply said that Benoît Faulkener was an old acquaintance of the Earl, and that he might be able to help Harry.

‘I came to deliver Papa's letter,' said Angelica calmly.

‘No good will come of it,' said Martha grimly. ‘It's an ungodly household. Comings and goings at all hours. Secretive servants… You mark my words, Sir William was right when he told the Earl Sussex was nothing but a nest of villainous—'

‘What are you talking about?' Angelica interrupted quickly. ‘What do you mean, comings and goings at all hours?'

‘Far be it from me to talk ill of strangers,' said Martha, looking down her nose disdainfully, although her shrewd eyes watched Angelica closely in the mirror. Her mistress might not have told her everything, but Martha was quite capable of making her own deductions about the situation.

Angelica returned her maid's gaze suspiciously.

‘What have you found out?' she demanded imperatively.

‘They gave me a little attic room, overlooking the back of the house,' said Martha, her lips pursed with, for once, genuine distaste. ‘The wind rattles through the casement something shocking—and the draught under the door…I got up to see if I could fix it and then I heard voices. Someone came to the house late last night, but they didn't come openly. There were no lights, just low voices.

‘Then the Master himself went out. I saw him, and I heard the horses. You can be sure I didn't go to sleep after that. I waited for him to return, which he did. Two or three hours later, and on his own. But I'm asking you—what kind of a carry-on is that for a respectable household?'

‘There might be a perfectly innocent explanation,' said
Angelica slowly, not sure whether what she was hearing was good or bad news from her point of view.

‘Oh, yes, and I'm a Chinaman,' said the maid scornfully. ‘If it was all so innocent, why did they look at me as if I was mad this morning when I mentioned I'd heard visitors last night? “Oh, no,” said the cook. “It must have been the sound of the wind you mistook, Miss Farley. You being more used to city life than the sounds of the countryside. No one came to the house last night.'”

‘I see,' said Angelica. ‘I admit, it does sound suspicious.'

‘That's what I've been telling you!' Martha exclaimed triumphantly, momentarily forgetting to be disapproving.

‘But it may not be altogether a bad thing if what you suspect is true…'

‘What?'

‘Think! Martha!' Angelica twisted round in her chair to face the maid, seizing both the woman's hands in her eagerness. ‘The reason Harry's escape failed was because he couldn't find a boat to bring him across the Channel. Who better than a smuggler…?'

Martha stared at her mistress for a moment, then she nodded grimly as if she wasn't entirely surprised.

‘I guessed it might be something like that,' she said heavily. ‘But how do you know they won't take your gold and then betray Lord Lennard to the French to make an extra profit on the deal?'

‘I don't—yet,' Angelica replied. ‘But it may be the best chance Harry has. I have to do everything I can…for Papa's sake…'

Martha pressed her lips together, accepting Angelica's argument, although she didn't like it very much. But she knew better than anyone how hard the past eighteen months had been for her mistress. No one had been able to break through Lord Ellewood's morose mood. He had shut himself up in his Town house and refused to receive old friends.

For months Angelica had done little but read to her father and try to persuade him to take up his life again—but nothing had helped. If Lord Lennard's return could change all that, then Martha as well as her mistress would do anything to hasten it.

‘Very well, my lady,' she said. ‘Tell me what you want me to do.'

‘Just keep listening for the moment, I think,' said Angelica, smiling ruefully. ‘You've been more alert than I, so far.'

Martha sniffed disparagingly.

‘Only because they put me in a room with half rotten window-frames,' she said caustically.

It was quite late when Angelica finally went downstairs. She was wearing a deep rose-pink travelling dress, with a soft shawl thrown around her shoulders in deference to the winter draughts.

Despite her uncertainty about the situation, she looked much brighter and less anxious than she had done the previous evening. There was a warm glow in her cheeks and a sparkle in her blue eyes. She moved with the vibrant sense of purpose which normally characterised her. Martha's gossip had intrigued rather than alarmed her, and for the first
time in months she had something other than her father's problems to think about.

There were two doors at the front of the hall. She knew one led into the dining-room, and she was about to go over to it when she heard voices coming from the other room. The door had been left slightly ajar and she recognised Benoît's voice immediately. The other voice sounded familiar, but it was only when Benoît referred to him by name that she realised he was talking to Sir William Hopwood.

She caught her breath in horrified consternation. Her first thought was that her father had sent him to fetch her back, but then reason reasserted itself.

There would hardly have been time for the Earl to get a message to Sir William. Besides, her father had cut himself off from the rest of the world so thoroughly that he was unlikely to think of calling upon his old friend for such assistance.

Her second thought was that it would be extremely embarrassing if she did meet Sir William. It would be very difficult to provide an unexceptional explanation for her presence to him, and he was bound to be surprised and suspicious. She was about to hurry back upstairs when she suddenly realised that the subject of their conversation was of profound interest to her.

‘My men are sure one of the ruffians escaped in this direction,' said Sir William gruffly. ‘They're equally sure one of the others was hurt when he was thrown from his horse, but the fools lost track of them in the storm. Did you hear anything last night, Faulkener?'

‘I regret not,' said Benoît coolly. ‘Apart from the wind, of course.'

‘Dammit! I wish I could believe you,' Sir William growled.

‘Are you suggesting I'm
lying,
sir?' Benoît demanded, but he sounded more amused than outraged.

‘You know damn well I am,' Sir William retorted. ‘Not that it'll do me any good. There were times when I thought I'd caught Toby, fair and square—but somehow he always managed to outwit those porridge-brained men of mine. And you're as slippery as a greased pig.'

‘What a flattering comparison,' said Benoît appreciatively. ‘I'm sorry you don't find your men entirely to your satisfaction. I'm sure I could pick out some sharp-witted fellows to take their places.'

‘I dare say you could,' said Sir William grimly. ‘But I'll thank you not to interfere in my business.'

‘I wouldn't dream of being so impertinent,' Benoît responded smoothly. ‘Are you positive you won't take some refreshment?'

‘Dammit! Faulkener! Why do you persist in siding with these villains?' Sir William burst out. ‘If only a few of us made a stand, we could stamp out this infernal business in no time!'

‘Who am I to go against tradition?' said Benoît lightly.

‘Tradition!'
Sir William exploded. ‘A tradition of murder, terror, blackmail…
treason!
'

‘Treason?'

‘What do you call trading with the enemy? My God! I've
even heard that smugglers row over to France from Dover with belts of guineas round their waists to pay for Bonaparte's armies. Don't you call that treason? When good English gold is being used to equip our enemies?'

‘I won't argue with you on that point,' said Benoît coldly. ‘But you might ask yourself, who supplies the guineas? Not the poor men who risk their lives in the Strait of Dover. It's merchants in the City—men who may never come within a mile of the coast—who send the gold to Napoleon. Why don't you discuss the subject of treason with them?'

‘My God! Faulkener! How can you excuse the villainy of these base scoundrels by laying the blame on others?' Sir William demanded fiercely. ‘If I had my way, every merchant or banker who sent gold to Bonaparte would be stripped of his possessions—but that doesn't justify what the local men do. They're lazy, workshy, and they'd rather spend the night dishonestly landing raw spirit than doing a decent day's work.'

‘Perhaps if they were paid a decent day's wage for a decent day's work, they might not be so keen to risk their lives and their health on the beaches,' Benoît retorted sharply.

‘By heaven, sir! I might have known you'd have a revolutionary spirit in you,' Sir William breathed, horrified. ‘It's your French blood. Next you will be telling me that all men are equal and the government should be overturned. You're in league with the Frogs!'

Benoît laughed.

‘My good sir,' he said, chuckling, ‘when I take it into my
head to overthrow His Majesty's government, you will be the first to know. In the meantime, I regret I cannot help you with your current problem.'

Angelica had been standing, transfixed, at the foot of the stairs, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. But now she suddenly realised Sir William was about to leave and she was in grave danger of being discovered. She hurried back upstairs, nearly tripping over her skirt, as Benoît and Sir William emerged into the hall.

She paused, just around the bend in the stairs, and listened to Sir William's departure. Her heart was beating rapidly with excitement and alarm, and she tried to still her breathing to a normal rate. It would never do if Benoît suspected she'd been eavesdropping.

His argument with Sir William had given her pause for thought. Asking the help of a smuggler was one thing—but what if he really was a traitor to England? He had made no greater attempt to deny that charge than he had to deny he was involved in smuggling.

She pressed her hand to her mouth in horror. What if Benoît really was a revolutionary? Some of the things he'd said certainly implied he had radical ideas. Until this moment the fact that he was half-French had seemed important only because it meant he might be in a better position to help Harry. She had met a number of
émigrés
in London, and most of them heartily loathed Napoleon. It had never occurred to her that Benoît might actually support the Corsican monster.

She heard the front door close behind Sir William and
took a deep breath. She had a strong desire to run back up to her bedchamber, but she could hardly spend the rest of the day hiding there. The sooner she faced Benoît the better.

She draped her shawl more becomingly around her shoulders, and walked sedately downstairs. He had been about to return to the room he had occupied with Sir William, but he looked up at her approach.

‘Good morning, my lady,' he said politely. ‘I trust you slept well.' She thought she detected a glint of amusement in his brown eyes, but in the dimly lit hall it was hard to tell.

‘Very well, thank you,' she replied calmly, although her heart was beating faster than she would have wished. ‘My maid tells me there was quite a storm last night, but I'm afraid I was dead to the world.'

‘I'm glad you were comfortable,' said Benoît. ‘Come and have some breakfast.' He held open the dining-room door for her.

‘Thank you.' Angelica went into the room, feeling a strange frisson of something that wasn't quite nervousness as she passed beside him.

For a man who could only have had a few hours' sleep, he looked surprisingly vigorous. She was profoundly disturbed by what she'd just overheard—yet she couldn't suppress an unruly surge of excitement at being once more in his presence. There was a virile energy in his lean body which provoked an immediate response in her own ardent nature.

But she wasn't entirely comfortable with that piece of
self-awareness, so she tried to distract herself with more mundane considerations. She noticed that he was once again dressed entirely in black—apart from the white cravat. She wondered vaguely if he took it off when he went out smuggling, or whether he just took good care to cover it up. She supposed it must be very convenient for him to be always dressed for business, whatever the hour of day or night.

There was no one in the dining-room, and Benoît pulled on the bell rope. Angelica hesitated. She was feeling extremely unsettled, and she knew if she sat down at the table she would feel trapped. The curtains were open so, partly out of curiosity, partly from a desire to appear at ease, she went over to the window.

The dining-room looked out to the front of the house. After the previous night's storm, the sky was a surprisingly bright and clear blue. She saw a holly tree close to the window, and in the distance some short-stemmed daffodils were dancing in a light breeze. They were the first she had seen that year.

‘Spring is on its way,' said Benoît behind her, making her jump. She hadn't realised he was so close. ‘You should have a relatively pleasant journey back to London.'