not to let it be a cause of hurt to her. Until she had received that blasted letter which hinted at reasons, mysterious reasons, for her mother’s heartless indifference.
Celeste had tried very hard in the weeks after that letter to carry on with her perfectly happy, perfectly calm and perfectly ordered and increasingly successful life, but the questions her mother had raised demanded to be answered. Until she knew the whole story, until she knew the truth behind those hints and revelations, Maman’s life was an unfinished book. Celeste had to discover the ending, and then she could close the cover for ever. It was an image she found satisfying, for it explained away quite nicely that churning feeling which kept her awake at nights when she thought of her mother. Guilt? Hardly. Her whole life she had been the innocent victim of a loveless upbringing. And of a certainty it was not grief either. In order to grieve, one had to care. And she did not care. Or, more accurately, she had taught herself not to care. She did feel anger sometimes, though why should she be angry? She did not know, but it did not sit well with the self-contained and independent person she had worked so hard to become. And so she had come to England to find some answers and close an unhappy chapter in her life.
Napoleon’s escape from Elba in March earlier in the year had put paid to Celeste’s original plans for her trip here. As France and Great Britain resumed hostilities, she waited restlessly for the inevitable denouement on the battlefield, guiltily aware that her impatience was both unpatriotic and more importantly incredibly selfish. She knew nothing of war save that she wished it would not happen. She cared not who won, provided that peace was made. Until Waterloo, like almost every other person of her acquaintance, she managed to close her eyes to the reality of battle. After Waterloo, the full horror of it could not be ignored.
But peace was finally declared, and that, despite the defeat of France, was a cause for celebration. No more war. No more bloodshed. No more death. It also meant that Celeste was finally free to travel. The commission from Sir Charles Trestain to paint his gardens for posterity before he had them substantially altered had come to her by chance. A fellow artist of her acquaintance, who had been the English baronet’s first choice, had been unable to accept due to other commitments and had recommended Celeste. She could not but think it was fated.
So here she was, in what she was only beginning to realise was a foreign country. Her command of the language had been the one and only piece of her heritage which her English mother had given her, though they had spoken it only when alone. As far as the world was concerned, Madame Marmion was as French as her husband.
Celeste stopped to remove a long strand of sticky willow which had become entangled in the flounce of her gown. The grass underfoot was lush and green, the air sweet-smelling and fresh, no trace of the southern dry heat of home—or rather the place she was raised, for a home was a place associated with love and affection, something which had been in very short supply in Cassis.
No matter, she had her own home now, her little studio apartment in Paris. The air in the city at this time of year was oppressive. Celeste took a deep breath of English air. She really was here. Soon, hopefully before the summer was over, she would have some answers. Though right at this moment, she wasn’t exactly clear how on earth she was going to set about finding them.
A gate at the end of the neglected Topiary Garden revealed a view of a lake. The brownish-green water looked cool and inviting. Frowning, deep in thought, it was only as she reached the water’s edge that Celeste noticed the lone swimmer. A man, scything his way through the water in a very odd manner, rather like a drunken fish. Coachman, gamekeeper, gardener or perhaps simply one of the local farmers taking advantage of the early-morning solitude? She could empathise with that. Solitude was a much-underrated virtue. Whoever he was, she ought to leave him to finish his illicit swim in Sir Charles’s lake. Had the roles been reversed she would have found the intrusion most offensive. And yet, instead of turning back the way she had come, Celeste stepped behind a bush and continued to watch, fascinated.
He was completely naked. The musculature of his torso was beautifully defined. His legs were long, well shaped, and equally well muscled. He would make a fascinating life study, though it would be a lie to say that it was purely with an artist’s eye that she observed him, peering as she did through the straggle of jagged hawthorn branches. Like his swimming, the man’s face was far from perfect. His nose was too strong, his brow too high, his eyes too intense and deeply sunk. He looked more fierce than handsome. No, not fierce, but there was a hardness to his features, giving him the air of a man who courted danger.
His swimming was becoming laboured. He slowed and stopped only a few yards from where she stood, staggering slightly as he found his footing. The water lapped around his waist. His chest heaved as he began to make his way towards the bank where his clothes were draped over a branch some distance away. It was too late for her to make her escape. She could only hold her breath, keep as still as possible and hope that he would not spot her.
His torso was deeply tanned. There was an odd puckered hollow in his right shoulder where the flesh appeared to have been scooped out. His entire right arm was distinctly paler than the rest of him, as if he had spent the summer wearing a shirt with one sleeve. A scar formed an inverted crescent on his left side, just under his rib cage. A man who liked to fight or one who was decidedly accident prone? He was panting, his chest expanding, his stomach contracting with each breath. His next step revealed the rest of his flat belly. The next, the top of his thighs, and a distinct line where his tan ended.
And then he stopped. He looked up to the sky, and Celeste’s breath caught in her throat as his face almost seemed to crumple, bearing such an expression of despair and grief that it twisted her heart before he dropped his head into his hands with a dry sob. His shoulders were heaving. Appalled, mortified to have witnessed such an intensely intimate moment, Celeste turned to flee. Her gown caught on the hawthorn briar, and before she could stifle it, an exclamation of dismay escaped her mouth.
He looked up. Their eyes met for one brief moment that seemed to last for an eternity. He looked both heartbreakingly vulnerable and volcanically angry. Celeste tore herself free of the thorns and fled.
* * *
Back in her room at Trestain Manor, Celeste could not get the image of the man’s tortured face out of her head. Nor her deep shame at having spied on him. She, of all people, should respect a person’s right to privacy, given how hard she defended her own. It took fifteen minutes for the colour to fade entirely from her cheeks and another fifteen before she was calm enough to face breakfast with her new patrons.
Praying that the man would not turn out to be one of Sir Charles’s footmen, she made her way down the stairs to the dining room where one of the austere servants indicated the morning repast was being taken. The very welcome aroma of coffee was overlaid with a stronger one of eggs and something meaty. Hoping that she would not be obliged to partake of either, Celeste opened the door and stopped dead in her tracks on the threshold.
The room was dark, for the windows were heavily curtained, and despite the white-painted ceiling, the overall impression was gloomy. An ornately carved and very highly polished walnut table took up most of the available space, around which were twelve throne-like chairs. Three were occupied. Sir Charles was seated at the top of the table. Lady Eleanor was on his right. And on his left sat another man. A man with damp hair, curling down over his collar. With a coat stretched across a pair of broad shoulders. Her stomach knotted.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Marmion, I trust you slept well. Do join us.’
Sir Charles pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Celeste, her polite smile frozen, could not shift her gaze from the other guest. There was a kerchief knotted around his neck rather than a carefully tied cravat. He had shaved, but somehow he looked as if he had not.
‘Jack, this is Mademoiselle Marmion, the artist I was telling you about. She’s come all the
