care you could protect and support her when she discovers, as she will, the impossibility of marrying Colonel Winston.’
The Countess returned his gaze with a coldly smiling blandness that told its own story. ‘I think you should meet my niece. She will tell you herself how much she wants to return to England. It is six years since her father died. Six years since she left Gravely.’
‘Over six years since she saw Colonel Winston.’
‘That too, but as I said, in the end she will make up her own mind.’
‘As I always do, Aunt,’ a voice rang out from across the room.
The Countess and Charles looked towards the door to see a young woman standing there.
Charles rose to his feet, recognising her as the young woman he had met in the village the previous day distributing food to the children. Closing the door softly behind her, she moved towards him; he was struck by her proud, easy carriage, her clear skin and the striking colour of her blue-black hair, drawn from her face into a neat chignon. She was stately, immensely dignified, her face quite expressionless, but underneath he sensed that she had overheard some of his conversation with the Countess and that she was quietly seething.
‘Sir Charles, this is Maria, Colonel Winston’s future wife. Maria, meet Sir Charles Osbourne. He is to escort you to England.’
When Maria stood in front of him, Charles bowed his head and murmured a few words of conventional greeting. But when he raised his head a sudden feeling of unease caused him to look at her with a start, his scalp prickling. She was studying him with cool interest, her expression immobile and guarded. His eyes met the steady jade-tinted gaze, and for one discomforting moment it seemed that she was staring into the very heart of him, getting the measure of him, of his faults and failings. He had never seen eyes that contained more energy and depth.
It was not until she began to talk that he realised the depth of her charm. Her voice was low, beautifully modulated, and her French was a joy to hear. Everything about her fascinated him, drew him to her, and he felt a stirring of interest as he looked into the glowing green eyes, the passionate face of the young woman before him.
Maria found herself gazing into the eyes of the man she had seen in the village the day before. Her lips tightened ominously. ‘You! So you are the man Colonel Winston has sent to take me to England?’
‘He did not send me, Miss Monkton. He approached me and asked me if I would escort you when he heard I was coming to France.’
The light blue eyes rested on her tight face and she thought irately that he was aware of her dislike and amused by it. ‘I see. I do not know what you meant when you said to my aunt that when I reach England I will discover the impossibility of marrying Colonel Winston and nor do I care to—and he will not force me into marriage. No one could do that, sir.’
‘He—is much changed since you last saw him. You must be prepared for that.’
She smiled. ‘As I am changed. That is only to be expected after six years. It is quite normal.’
‘I do not speak lightly, Miss Monkton.’
Maria heard him with growing annoyance. There was much she wanted to say to him, but not with her aunt’s eyes watching her every move and her ears missing nothing of what was said. She disliked his easy manner and the steady gaze of his light blue eyes, but his last words awoke an echo in her mind, of her own doubts about marrying Henry. When his letter had arrived informing them to expect Sir Charles Osbourne who was to escort her back to England, she had experienced a joy like she had never known—joy because she was going home to Gravely, a joy that had little to do with her becoming reunited with Henry.
Of late there was a doubt inside her mind concerning her betrothed, like a small persistent maggot nibbling away. Perhaps it was that she had got older, had read more into his letters, which had become shorter as time went on. The writing was scrawled as if hurriedly written—as if he found writing to her more of a duty than a pleasure. Whatever it was, the spell had begun to lose some of the lustre of its first potent charm.
But she would not expose her doubts to this arrogant Englishman and she thrust them into the background of her mind.
‘You do not like Colonel Winston, do you, sir?’
‘No,’ he replied truthfully. ‘I don’t.’
‘These are troubled times. I am sure you have more important things to do than assist a complete stranger across France.’
‘I do have important matters that occupy me.’
‘Then if you dislike him, why did you agree?’
‘One of the reasons is because my father and your own were friends. They were in India together.’
‘Oh—I see!’ she faltered. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘How could you?’
‘And the other reasons?’
He smiled. ‘There were several—which I shall tell you about on the journey. When I became aware that you were to return to England and the difficulties you may encounter, I was happy to offer my services. My father would have expected nothing less of me than to help the daughter of an old and dear friend.’
‘Then I am grateful to you, sir. I will be pleased to avail myself of your protection and assistance on the journey. How are we to travel?’
‘By coach.’
‘Which Chateau Feroc will provide,’ the Countess offered.
‘Thank you, but I must decline your offer. It must be an ordinary equipage, nothing too grand, you understand. I will acquire the coach and two post horses. There must be nothing in your baggage to give you away,’ he told Maria with a note of authority. ‘All your fine clothes and any jewels you might have must be left behind.’
‘I have no jewels, sir. Everything I have of value—jewels my mother left me—is in England in the strong room at Gravely.’
‘Good. We shall travel as husband and wife—Citizen Charles Duval and his wife Maria, visiting relatives in a village near Calais. We shall speak French at all times. Consequences could be dire if we are heard speaking English. We are both fluent in French, so if we are stopped no one will suspect we are anything other than what we seem. Memorise your assumed surname if you will. You will dress in plain clothes as befits the wife of a cloth merchant of modest means. Good clothes are enough to brand a person, as the mob attribute fine dress to nobles and rich bourgeois.’
‘And my maid?’
‘Will remain behind.’
Her delicate brows rose. ‘This is all very unconventional.’
His eyes sliced to hers. ‘These are not ordinary circumstances.’
‘Nevertheless Maria cannot travel alone with you without a maid. Why—it’s quite unthinkable,’ the Countess remarked, her expression one of shock.
‘That is how it will be. I am not planning a tea party, Countess. I am trying to execute a plan to get your niece to England with her life intact. On this occasion etiquette and protocol don’t count.’
