public.’
‘Even though one of your kings used it for a romantic rendezvous? Charles the First, I think?’
‘Charles the Second,’ Helen corrected. ‘He’s supposed to have come here to seduce the daughter of the house, who’d fled from court to escape him.’
His brows lifted. ‘And did he succeed in his quest?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Helen said shortly. ‘And, anyway, it’s just a legend. I don’t believe a word of it even though I was named after her!’
‘Quel dommage,’ he murmured.
‘Well, Sir Henry always said it was true,’ Daisy interposed from the stove.
‘My grandfather liked to tease people,’ Helen said stonily. ‘He said the room was haunted, too, if you remember.’
‘And you thought if you slept there you might wake to find a ghost in your bed?’ The dark eyes were dancing.
‘Not at all,’ Helen denied. ‘I simply prefer my own room.’
‘Until you are married, hein?’ Marc Delaroche said carelessly. ‘When you have a living man beside you at night, ma belle, there will be no room for ghosts.’
‘Thank you,’ Helen told him, biting her lip. ‘You paint such a frank picture.’
He shrugged. ‘Marriage is a frank relationship.’ He paused. ‘But, legend or not, the State Bedroom and its romantic associations should be available to your public. I hope you will allow me to be its first visitor.’
Helen finished her coffee. ‘Just as you wish, monsieur. Would you like to begin now?’
‘Pourquoi pas?’ he said softly. ‘Why not?’
Oh, Helen thought wearily as she led the way to the kitchen door, I can think of so many reasons why not. And having to be alone with you, Monsieur Delaroche, heads the list every time.
And, heaven help me, I’m not even sure whether it’s you I don’t trust—or myself.
CHAPTER THREE
HELEN was still recovering from that unwelcome piece of self-revelation when they entered the library together. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, trying to compose herself for the inevitable inquisition, but at first there was only silence as Marc Delaroche stood looking round with a frown at the empty oak shelves that still lined the walls.
‘It was a valuable collection?’ he asked at last.
‘Yes—very.’ She hesitated. ‘My grandfather was forced to sell it in the eighties, along with a number of pictures. It almost broke his heart, but it gave Monteagle a reprieve.’
He shook his head slightly, his gaze travelling over the motley collection of shabby furniture, the peeling paintwork, and the ancient velvet curtains hanging limply at the windows. ‘And this is where you spend your leisure time?’
‘Yes, what there is of it,’ she returned. ‘There’s always some job needing to be done in a place like this.’
‘You do not find it—triste? A little gloomy.’
‘In winter it’s quite cosy,’ she retorted defensively. ‘There’s plenty of wood on the estate, so I have an open fire, and I burn candles most of the time.’
‘Certainly a kinder light than a midsummer sun,’ he commented drily. ‘Shall we continue?’
She supposed they must. The truth was she felt totally unnerved by her physical consciousness of his presence beside her. Although he was deliberately keeping his distance, she realised, and standing back to allow her to precede him through doorways, and up the Great Staircase to the Long Gallery. But it made no difference. The panelled walls still seemed to press in upon them, forcing them closer together. An illusion, she knew, but no less disturbing for that.
She thought, I should have made some excuse—asked Daisy to show him round.
Aloud, she said, ‘This is where the family used to gather, and where the ladies of the house took exercise in bad weather.’
‘But not, of course, with holes in the floorboards,’ he said.
She bit her lip. ‘No. The whole floor needs replacing, including the joists.’
He was pausing to look at the portraits which still hung on the walls. ‘These are members of your family? Ancestors?’
She pulled a face. ‘Mostly the ugly ones that my grandfather thought no one would buy.’
Marc Delaroche slanted an amused look at her, then scanned the portraits again. ‘Yet I would say it is the quality of the painting that is at fault.’
She shrugged, surprised at his perception. ‘No, they’re not very good. But I guess you didn’t pay the fees of someone like Joshua Reynolds to paint younger sons and maiden aunts.’
‘And so the sons went off, sans doute, to fight my countrymen in some war,’ he commented, his mouth twisting. ‘While the aunts had only to remain maiden. My sympathies are with them, I think.’ He paused. ‘Is there no portrait of the beauty so desired by King Charles?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘My grandfather wouldn’t part with it. It’s in the State Bedroom.’
‘I cannot wait,’ he murmured. En avant, ma belle.’
‘Do you mind not calling me that?’ Helen threw over her shoulder as they set off again. ‘What would you say if I greeted you with, Hey, good-looking?’
‘I should advise you to consult an eye specialist,’ he said drily. ‘Tell me something, mademoiselle. Why do you object when a man indicates he finds you attractive?’
‘I don’t,’ she said shortly. ‘When it’s the right man.’
‘And I am by definition the wrong one?’ He sounded amused.
‘Do you really need to ask? You know already that I’m engaged to be married.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But where is your fiancé?’
‘He couldn’t come down this weekend.’ Helen halted, chin lifted in challenge. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours.’
‘This weekend?’ he said musingly. ‘And how many weekends before that? It is a matter of comment in the village, you understand.’
‘The public bar of the Monteagle Arms anyway,’ Helen said tersely. ‘You really shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, monsieur.’
‘But I learned a great deal,’ Marc Delaroche said gently. ‘And not merely about your missing lover. They spoke too about your fight to keep this house. Opinion is divided as to whether you are brave or a fool, but none of them thought you could win.’
‘How
