certainly wasn’t looking for ‘true love’, Luke told himself with a wry, sardonic grin. Both he and Eleanor were in complete agreement on that score, neither of them having any time for such an untidy, juvenile emotion. It had been very different when he was younger, of course. Looking back at his callow youth, it seemed to Luke as if he’d been violently infatuated with one totally unsuitable woman after another! But now that he’d reached a reasonably sober age in life—without ever having permanently lost his head or his heart to any woman—it was clearly time that he settled down to a life of quiet, calm domesticity. And, since he was taking Eleanor out to dinner at Le Gavroche tomorrow night, that was obviously the ideal time and place for a proposal of marriage.
Pleased to have come to a firm decision regarding his future, Luke’s attention was drawn to an odd assortment of people standing around the base of the Monument. They appeared to be listening to an extraordinary-looking girl, who was pointing at the tall column behind her.
Despite telling himself that she was undoubtedly a crazy, left-wing rabble-rouser, Luke was intrigued by the way the girl was dressed—and the sight of her long and straight ash-blonde hair, shimmering and sparkling in the bright sunlight. A moment later, he found himself stepping off the pavement and walking slowly across the road.
‘And now we come to a very important point in the history of the city of London—the Great Fire of 1666,’ Angelica told the group standing in front of her.
Considering that she’d never done this particular tour before, she was pleased at just how well things had been going over the past half-hour. In fact, although she was carrying a clipboard, holding a map of the route and a few hastily scribbled notes, she’d hardly had to use it.
Of course, she was less than thrilled at having to wear these awful clothes, but they were the only garments she’d been able to find which hadn’t been soaked by last night’s rainstorm. Luckily, none of her group seemed at all perturbed by the weird ensemble of tight black and white striped leggings, topped by a gentleman’s crimson silk waistcoat over a fine white lawn shirt edged with heavy lace ruffles at her neck and wrists. So who cared if she looked like the principal boy in a pantomime? All that mattered was the fact that, despite the narrow city streets which made it difficult to keep track of the numbers in her party, everyone still seemed to be with her—and really interested in what she had to say.
Proceeding to tell her audience of young backpacking Australians, some bored housewifes, two inscrutable Japanese businessmen and several elderly American tourists all about the Great Fire which had destroyed over eighty per cent of London, Angelica found that even she herself was becoming caught up in the drama of the story.
‘The fire raged through the city for four days and nights, devastating over thirteen thousand houses and businesses, before it was finally put out. This column is known as the Monument.’ She turned to put her hand on the tall stone edifice behind her. ‘It was erected to commemorate the Great Fire, and—’
‘No, I’m afraid that’s not right.’
The sound of the deep voice, cutting across her flow of words, threw her into momentary confusion.
‘Um—-er—’ She blinked, her wide blue eyes
quickly scanning the group. However, since no one seemed disposed to say anything further, she decided to press on. ‘As I was saying, this column was built to commemorate the Great Fire of 1666, and—’
‘No! That piece of information is definitely not correct.’
The disembodied voice sounded much louder this time, causing her audience to swivel around to face a tall man standing at the back of the group.
‘Now, just a minute!’ she said sharply. It wasn’t the first time some clever Dick had tried to disrupt a tour, and she knew that it was fatal to allow them to get away with it.
‘I can assure you that the information I’ve just given you is quite correct,’ she informed the group firmly. ‘There was a Great Fire. It did destroy much of London. And this column commemorates that fact.’
‘I hope our charming guide will forgive me for correcting her…?’ the man drawled, raising a quizzical dark eyebrow as he walked slowly through the group towards her. ‘However, I’ve always understood that the Monument was erected to commemorate the rebuilding of the city—not the fire itself.’
‘That is nothing but a mere technicality,’ Angelica muttered, her face flaming with embarrassment as she realised that the irritating man was quite right.
All the same…she was sure that this man, whose deep voice was tinged with a faint American accent, hadn’t been with them from the start of the tour. Surely she wouldn’t have overlooked such a tall and obviously commanding figure? And what was he doing on a tour like this, anyway? Now that he was standing only a few feet away, it was obvious that from the top of his handsome dark head, right down to those expensive, hand-made shoes, he clearly belonged to a world of wealth and privilege. In fact, clothed in that deathly smart, dark city suit, he stood out from the other members of the tour like a sleek raven amid a crowd of dusty sparrows.
It was, of course, an occupational hazard of the business that the tours, passing through crowded streets, were apt to attract the attention of passersby. And if the guides didn’t keep their wits about them, people would often take part without paying a fee.
Unfortunately she’d been so tired from having been up all night—and so nervous about following an unfamiliar route—that Angelica couldn’t remember whether or not this man had been on their tour from the beginning.
Just as she was about to challenge his right to join them, Angelica was diverted by one of the Australian students. Noticing a door at the base of the Monument, he wondered if it were possible to climb up to the top.
‘Yes, it is,’ she told him. ‘Unfortunately, we can’t spare the time to do so today,’ she added quickly.
‘Oh, well, I guess I’ll have to come back some other time and have a go. By the way, how many steps are there?’
Angelica stared at him, her mind a complete blank. The only thing was to make a guess at the number and hope for the best. ‘Well—um—’
‘There are three hundred and eleven steps,’ a deep voice replied from just behind her shoulder, causing her to spin around to discover that the tall man was now standing just beside her.
‘But it’s a very tight spiral staircase—with definitely no room for a backpack!’ he told the young Aussie with a grin. ‘So if you want a good bird’seye view of London, I’d recommend the Stone Gallery in St Paul’s Cathedral.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Do you mind?’ she snapped at the tall stranger. ‘I’m the one who is supposed to be leading the tour!’
‘Oh, really?’ he drawled sardonically, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘Then why haven’t you mentioned the name of the architect who designed this column?’
‘I was just getting around to that!’ She scowled up at him. ‘It was Sir Christopher Wren, of course.’
‘Well done!’ he murmured sarcastically. ‘And now maybe you can tell us the height of the Monument?’
Angelica gritted her teeth. Why on earth would anyone want to know that piece of completely useless information?
