brought you a letter from my father,’ she said baldly. It wasn’t what she’d intended to say, but her customary self-assurance had deserted her.
‘So my mother said. Please, sit down again.’ He gestured courteously towards a chair and then went over to the sideboard.
Angelica’s gaze followed him. She knew she ought not to stare at him quite so intently but she couldn’t help herself. Even if she hadn’t already been so curious about him she would have felt compelled to watch him. He moved with a controlled, crisp grace which she found unaccountably rewarding to see. He was certainly the most assured man she had ever met; yet she sensed that his self-confidence wasn’t founded on empty arrogance, but upon hard-won experience. Perhaps he really would be able to help her.
‘Would you care for some brandy?’ he asked courteously. ‘You’ve come a long way today, and I don’t imagine you are finding your errand an easy one.’
Angelica had been so preoccupied with her reflections on his potential character that, for a few moments, she barely understood what he’d just said to her. She glanced blankly at the decanter he was holding, and then a natural association of ideas popped unbidden into her mind.
‘Is it smuggled?’ she exclaimed, before she could stop herself.
He had been pouring the brandy, but at her comment he glanced sideways at her. There was a gleam in his dark eyes, and she saw a slow smile form on his lips. He was clearly amused by her gauche outburst. She blushed hotly, wondering furiously how she could have been so unsophisticated as to speak her thoughts aloud.
‘I doubt if much of the spirit drunk in this county has had duty paid on it,’ Benoît replied urbanely, completely unruffled by her question. ‘Except for that in Sir William Hopwood’s house, of course.’
‘Thank you.’ Angelica took the brandy he offered her, returning his gaze as calmly as she could.
She had already put herself at a disadvantage with him; she had no intention of allowing him to see the extent of her inner confusion.
‘Of course, you must know Sir William,’ said Benoît conversationally, as he sat down opposite Angelica and stretched out his long, black-clad legs across the hearth. ‘He’s one of your father’s friends. But I don’t believe you yourself have ever visited this part of the country before, have you?’
‘No,’ Angelica replied, more harshly than she realised. His words had conjured up an old, painful memory. ‘We were going to visit Sir William one spring—but then my mother died,’ she added.
She would not normally have said as much to a stranger, but she was thoroughly unsettled by the situation. Asking a favour from a man she didn’t know, even one who owed such an enormous debt to her father, was turning out to be even harder than she’d anticipated.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Benoît quietly.
Angelica glanced at him quickly and then looked away, gazing into the fire as she tried to get a grip on herself. She knew she was being completely ridiculous. She had come to perform a simple errand and she was turning the whole thing into a foolish melodrama. After a moment she put the brandy glass down on a hearth stone with a firm click and lifted her head to look squarely into her host’s eyes.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said briskly, sounding much more like her normal self. ‘But it happened several years ago, and I’m sure you are more interested in what I am doing here now.’
‘I imagine you’ve come to reclaim my debt to your father,’ said Benoît matter-of-factly, crossing one black-booted ankle over the other and taking a sip of his brandy. Unlike Angelica, he was completely relaxed. ‘I confess I’m curious as to the exact nature of your request.’
‘You do intend to keep your promise, then?’ Angelica exclaimed, staring at him, her surprise audible in her voice. She had assumed he’d done no more than make a brash, boy’s declaration all those years ago. She’d been quite certain that she would have to struggle to persuade him to keep his promise—perhaps even obliquely to threaten him.
Benoît looked up and met her eyes. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but she was suddenly conscious of the immense force of his personality. Like a sleek black wolf slumbering by the winter fireside—he looked peaceful, but you roused him at your peril.
‘I always keep my word, my lady,’ he replied coldly. His voice was dangerously soft, and it contained an undercurrent of pure steel. ‘But I do not yet know what service the Earl requires of me. Perhaps you would be good enough to give me his letter.’
He moved suddenly, leaning forward and stretching out an imperative hand towards her. Her heart leapt in momentary fright at his unexpected gesture and she instinctively hugged the letters against her breast.
‘My lady,’ he said impatiently, a hard gleam in his eyes. ‘It would be foolish for you to come all this way and then refuse to give me the letter.’
Angelica hesitated, her gaze locked with his. She could see no apology in his eyes for having alarmed her—but neither did she have any intention of apologising for doubting his honour. She felt the same sense of apprehension, yet strange exhilaration, that sometimes gripped her at the sound of an approaching thunderstorm. The storm was unpredictable and uncontrollable, but after the endless silence that preceded it the noise and the lightning flashes could be so exciting.
‘I know what’s in it,’ she said suddenly, still making no move to give it to him. ‘Papa dictated it to me yesterday evening. It might be better if I try to explain.’ She stood up restlessly, and took a few hasty steps, but there wasn’t enough space in the small room to pace as she would have liked.
‘Dictated it?’ Benoît glanced at her, a slight frown in his eyes.
‘Papa has been blind for more than a year,’ she said curtly, the abruptness in her voice a measure of how painful she found it to make that admission.
‘I’m sorry. He was a fine man.’
‘He still is!’
Angelica spun around to confront Benoît in a swirl of flashing blue silk and dazzling, golden curls. Spots of colour glowed on her cheeks and her eyes burned like angry sapphires. Benoît’s quiet words of sympathy had touched a raw nerve, jolting a far more vehement response from her than she might have wished.
‘My father is a brave, noble man—not a common smuggler, a thief!’ she blazed furiously. ‘My God, he spared your life. How dare you speak of him as if he’s dead!’
She broke off abruptly and turned her head away, blinking back treacherous tears as she tried to regain control of her emotions. She could not possibly explain to a stranger the bitter, black despondency which had consumed the Earl from the instant he’d realised he would never see again.
Lord Ellewood had lost far more than his sight when his carriage had overturned—and so had all those who loved him. Sometimes Angelica wondered despairingly if he would ever again be the same man she had loved and admired for so much of her life.
For a few moments after her outburst there was silence in the sitting-room. The clock ticked steadily on, and a log collapsed with a shower of sparks in the fireplace, but neither Angelica nor Benoît paid any attention to their surroundings.
Benoît was watching her with slightly narrowed eyes. He didn’t seem to be particularly
