four days more. Then we will talk.’
‘No, we will not. Our association is at an end, Duval. You must know that.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t over yet, my sweet.’
The soft tone was deeply disquieting. Given what had occurred, he had the power to ruin her if he chose; he could demand money or other favours, or both, in exchange for his silence. She was reluctant to think him so underhand, but what other reason could there be for his wishing to pursue a connection so clearly unwelcome to her?
‘There is nothing for you here, Duval. I really think it would be better if you did not call.’
‘And I really think I must.’
It was quite evident that he wasn’t going to be deterred. Claudia shrugged.
‘Very well, though I fear you will have a wasted journey.’
‘We’ll see about that when the time comes, won’t we?’ He led her to the chaise and handed her in. ‘Until then, my lady.’
Chapter Five
Claudia saw nothing of the passing countryside on the last leg of her journey. Instead she was entirely preoccupied with the spectre of the man she had just left. The cool and civil parting she had once envisaged could scarcely have been further from reality. Now, instead of putting the whole business behind her, it hung overhead like the sword of Damocles. Nor could she see any way out of the situation.
The sight of Oakley Court had never been so welcome. It seemed like a sanctuary after the adventures of the past week. Her first act was to order a hot bath and, having done so, to scrub from head to toe before luxuriating in the suds for another hour. It was a delight to don a fresh gown and, with her maid’s help, to arrange her hair properly. When at length she looked in the mirror the dishevelled hoyden was gone and in her place was an elegant woman of fashion. Only the memories remained. Memories that she was going to have to deal with, somehow.
The maid’s eyes met hers in the mirror. ‘It’s good to have you home, my lady.’
Claudia summoned a smile. ‘It’s good to be home, Lucy.’
The girl glanced in disgust at the pile of dirty clothing on the floor. ‘It’s plain that some maids don’t know how to care for a lady. Next time, take me with you, ma’am.’
‘I am not planning on going anywhere for a while, but when I do I’ll certainly take you with me. It just wasn’t possible last time.’
Lucy beamed. ‘You won’t regret it, my lady. 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
