likely be hanged or shot or beaten by the mob. He must leave France without further delay.
As Charles followed the imposing servant in white wig and midnight blue livery up the great white marble staircase of the Chateau Feroc, he was surrounded by all the graceful elegance of eighteenth-century France. Here, it was gilded scrollwork, innumerable tall mirrors that seemed to double the house by reflection, exquisite porcelain, heavy silks and thick carpets and glittering chandeliers.
He went along a corridor and was admitted into a high-vaulted room, with all the elegance and luxuries befitting a family of the nobility. The furniture was in the mode of the present reign, Louis XVI, delicate and fine, the beads of the crystal chandelier catching the firelight and brightening the whole room.
Madam la Countess—an English woman who had met and married the Count de Feroc on a visit to France with her parents—received him alone. She was a stiff, thin, elderly woman with grey hair and very pale skin. In deepest mourning, she presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of heavy black silk. Grim faced, she rose from her chair when he entered and calmly watched him approach. There was no sign of grief for her dead husband on her face.
Charles stopped in front of her and inclined his head. When he straightened up it was to find himself looking into a pair of coldly critical pale eyes. Immediately he could see she was one of those aristocrats who had her feelings buried under deep layers of social propriety, the sort who might stare icily at someone, or turn away, affecting indifference.
‘Thank you for receiving me so promptly, Countess,’ he said in flawless French. ‘May I offer my deepest condolences on your loss.’
‘Sir Charles Osbourne! Welcome to Chateau Feroc.’ The Countess spoke English to the Englishman, her voice clear and incisive.
‘Please speak to me in French, Countess,’ he requested with calm gravity. ‘These are difficult times and servants hear and speculate too much.’
‘As you wish,’ she replied coolly.
‘I apologise for my inopportune arrival. Of course I had no idea of the Count’s demise until I arrived.’
‘How could you? It was very sudden.’ The Countess had never been particularly fond of her husband, and had regarded him with tolerance rather than affection. ‘You are here on behalf of Colonel Winston?’ she remarked, resuming her seat and indicating with a wave of her hand that was almost royal that he should occupy the chair across from her.
‘That is so, Countess—to escort your niece, Miss Monkton, to England.’
‘I know. I was expecting you.’
‘Colonel Winston said he would write to you apprising you of my arrival and the nature of my mission. You have received his letter?’
‘Yes, some weeks ago. We expected you earlier than this.’
‘I did not come direct. The recent troubles make travelling difficult. I also had some matters of my own to take care of first.’
‘You have been in Paris?’
‘I have come from there.’
‘And are things as bad as they say?’
He nodded grimly. ‘The rioting grows worse by the day. Nobles are fleeing the city—and France, if they can manage it without being apprehended.’
‘Then we can be thankful that we do not live in Paris, Sir Charles. So, Colonel Winston is no longer in India,’ she said, folding her hands in her lap, her thin-lipped mouth relaxing slightly.
‘No. He has been in England six months.’
‘And eager to reacquaint himself with Maria, he informed me. He feels that to delay the marriage would be unnecessary and harsh. You must know him well. He must think highly of you to entrust you with the responsibility of escorting his betrothed to England.’
‘We are not friends, Countess,’ Charles was quick to inform her—Henry Winston was an unsavoury character and not a man he would wish to count as one of his close associates. ‘We are—acquainted. No more than that.’
‘I see.’ The Countess studied him thoughtfully. ‘Do you disapprove of Colonel Winston?’
‘It’s not a matter of disapproval, Countess. Our meetings have been infrequent.’
‘And yet he asked you to escort Maria to England.’
‘For reasons of his own he was unable to come himself. I was coming to see my own family—my mother is French, from the south. Everyone in Britain is alarmed by the news that crosses the channel. I was concerned for my family.’
‘Your mother still lives in France?’
‘No. She married an Englishman—my father—and chose to remain in England when he died. Colonel Winston was worried that Miss Monkton might become caught up in the troubles and wanted her to get out. When he heard I was leaving for France, he approached me to ask if I would see her safely to England.’
‘And you agreed, without having met her.’
‘My father and Sir Edward Monkton were close friends for many years. They were in India together. I remember him as being a very fine and noble man. I also owe him a great, personal debt.’
‘Tell me.’
‘When I was a boy my mother and I were washed away while crossing a swollen river. Sir Edward came to our rescue, putting his own life at risk. Without his bravery I would not be here now. It is for that reason that I agreed to escort Miss Monkton to England. While in India I came into contact with Colonel Winston on numerous occasions. He made no secret of how Sir Edward had been easily manipulated into agreeing to his betrothal to Miss Monkton. It was a matter of great amusement to him. I feel under an obligation to protect Sir Edward’s daughter and I have made it my duty to try to stop her marrying Colonel Winston when the time comes. Will she have any objections to leaving France?’
‘Not at all,’ the Countess answered crisply. ‘All Maria talks about is going home and marrying the Colonel.’
‘She has not seen him for six years. She will find him much changed.’
‘As he will Maria. She is no longer a child.’
‘And you, Countess? Will you and your daughter not accompany us to England?’
The Countess studied him for a moment in silence, contemplating his question and curious as to what had prompted him to ask. ‘Ah,’ she said, narrowing her eyes on him. ‘Would I be correct in assuming you are about to try to persuade me to leave my France?’
Charles’s firm lips curved in a slight smile. ‘You are, Countess. I sincerely hope I will succeed. I would be happy to escort you and your daughter, along with Miss Monkton, to England. France is in great turmoil and every day things get worse. There is no organisation in the country, only chaos everywhere. I believe you are in mortal danger, and that you are at risk of your life—I would not like to be a noble in France now. Very soon you will find yourself alone and friendless, and prey to all kinds of dangers.’
The Countess smiled thinly. ‘I think you exaggerate. I hear rumours—most of it nonsense,
