hope to gain from your visit?’
‘No more do I, Miss Brannagh, save that it is a very different city from London, and I am already glad that I decided to visit, since I have made your acquaintance. If only you lacked the funds for your restaurant, I would offer to go into business with you, but sadly for me, you can already finance your dream.’
‘Then fund your own dream. You must have one, Mr Harrington. Everyone has a dream.’
‘Do they?’ He threw the contents of his glass down his throat in one gulp. ‘I am living most people’s dream, and it bores me rigid. I am carefree and I couldn’t care less. I’m an ungrateful over-indulged, arrogant narcissist, for there is a part of me that wishes I had not been so blessed, then I may have had something to live for.’
‘You should be careful what you wish for, Mr Harrington,’ Phoebe retorted, ‘and grateful for what you have.’
‘Well said, Miss Brannagh. You are quite right, of course. I need a purpose in life. Though what form that will take, and whether I will discover it in Paris, or Venice, or St Petersburg or Vienna, I have no idea.’
‘Why look so close to home? If you are as rich as you claim, you could try the Antipodes, or Brazil, or Argentina.’
‘Or China, perhaps? I’ll tell you what, why don’t we meet here in—say, a year’s time, and I shall unveil the new, improved Owen Harrington to you, and you can then invite me to dine at your new restaurant, which by then will be the toast of Paris.’
‘I’m not sure that a year will be sufficient for either to have happened.’
‘Two years then. Are we agreed?’
His smile was infectious. ‘Two years to the day,’ Phoebe said, smiling back. ‘You have my word, Mr Harrington.’
He took out a gold case, handing her a card from it. ‘And you have mine. Take this, in the unlikely event you need to get in touch before then, to break our assignation, which I sincerely hope does not happen. Otherwise I look forward very much to seeing you again.’
She put the card in her reticule, smiling at the absurdity of it. He poured the dregs of the wine. They raised their glasses in a toast, and their eyes met, and the oddest thing happened. It felt as if time stopped. As if the room and the people in it melted away. And there was only the two of them.
‘Phoebe!’
She leapt to her feet, spilling her wine. ‘Pascal!’
‘Who the hell is this?’
Mr Harrington was on his feet, making a bow. ‘Owen Harrington. I met Miss Brannagh quite by accident, but it was a happy coincidence, for I was able to bring her news of her sister, the Countess of Fearnoch, with whom I am acquainted. How do you do, Monsieur Solignac.’
Pascal gave a short bow. He was frowning suspiciously at Mr Harrington. ‘Mr Harrington didn’t like the idea of my sitting alone so late at night,’ Phoebe said. ‘He was kindly keeping me company until you arrived.’
‘I am grateful to him, but I am here now.’
Mortified by his aggressive tone, Phoebe would have remonstrated, but Mr Harrington was already taking his leave. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, making a brief bow. ‘Miss Brannagh,’ he said, pressing her hand briefly. ‘Adieu.’
He threw some notes on to the table, enough to have paid for all the wine for the entire room for the evening, then with a curt nod, he left.
Despite her lover’s arrival, Phoebe was suddenly despondent, and disappointed to have her encounter with Mr Harrington cut short in such a brusque manner. ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘It’s very late, I’ve had more than enough wine and I want to go home.’
London —October 1830
Phoebe stepped out of the hackney cab that had transported her from the posting house and gazed apprehensively at the imposing town house. The front door was painted a glossy black, the brass knocker and bell pull brightly polished. She shivered, pulling her cloak around her. It had been sunny when she left Paris, but the rain had set in at Calais, and had poured down relentlessly ever since, reflecting her mood.
She checked her watch needlessly. It was just after ten in the morning. Far too early to be calling on anyone. The shutters of the town house were not closed, which meant someone was in residence, but not necessarily the person she sought. So much could have happened in the intervening two years. He might have changed address. He could be married and settled. It was perfectly possible he was still travelling the world.
He could even be dead, for all she knew. After all, he hadn’t turned up at the Procope café in August as arranged. She’d told herself that it was ridiculous of her to expect him to, that their so-called assignation had been light-hearted banter, nothing more, but she’d gone anyway, three nights in a row. When each night ended without him making an appearance she had been bitterly and quite disproportionately disappointed. She had been so eager to hear what he’d made of his life, fervently hoping it would counterbalance the disaster which constituted her own. She had tried hard not to attach undue significance to his failure to turn up, but it had felt like the last straw, a signal to cut and run. Though she had struggled on for another few weeks, in her head, his non-appearance marked the end of her dream.
Which was one of the reasons why she was here, hoping against hope that Mr Harrington had succeeded where she had so signally failed. Though he probably wouldn’t even remember their brief encounter in Paris, she thought despondently. If by some miracle he was in residence and did agree to see her, there was every chance that he’d look straight through her, as if confronted by a complete stranger. Which, in essence, she was.
A footman was eyeing her cagily from the steps of a house across the street. She probably looked suspicious loitering in this genteel locale unaccompanied. Phoebe climbed the first step. If Mr Harrington was not here—oh, God, no, she couldn’t bear to think of the alternative. Please let him be here, she whispered to herself. Please.
The footman was making his way across the street to accost her. Phoebe climbed the remainder of the shallow steps and rang the bell.
The door was opened just a crack by a stern, elderly servant. ‘May I help you?’ he asked, making it clear that he thought it very unlikely that he could.
She held out the worn card which had lain in the recesses of her reticule for over two years. ‘Does Mr Harrington still live here?’
‘Yes, but I’m afraid he does not receive visitors.’
Startled, she was about to ask why ever not, when the man made to close the door in her face. ‘Please, will you ask him if he will make an exception for me?’ Phoebe said urgently. ‘My name is Miss Phoebe Brannagh. From Paris, tell him, the young lady from the Procope Café.’
* * *
‘Phoebe Brannagh,’ Owen repeated.
‘The young lady wasn’t sure if you would remember her,’ his butler informed him, careful to keep his
