had darkened, he wore it considerably longer than before, and he had lost a good deal of weight. Lines were etched between his nose and his mouth, and more lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, which were darkly shadowed. Nature had given him excellent bones, and the loss of weight, instead of making him look gaunt, drew attention to his razor-sharp cheekbones, and to the clean lines of his jaw. He was still a very handsome man, but missing the ready smile and easy charm that had previously complemented his looks, the impression he now gave was forbidding, almost intimidating.
Belatedly, Phoebe got to her feet, making her way to the door where Mr Harrington remained stationery. ‘Good morning. I’m so sorry to intrude on you so early.’ Her smile faltered. ‘I wasn’t even sure that you’d remember me, until your butler offered me breakfast, which he wouldn’t have done if I was a complete stranger.’
‘Miss Brannagh, I have never forgotten that night, or you.’ Her host sketched a bow. ‘Please, finish eating.’
‘I have done, thank you, but I am happy to sit while you partake.’
‘I have ordered coffee, that will suffice for me.’
She had preceded him back to the table. Only as she resumed her seat did she notice his pronounced limp and the spasm of pain that crossed his face as he put his right foot down. ‘You’re hurt. Here, let me...’
He yanked a chair out and sat down heavily. ‘Thank you, but I prefer to manage for myself.’
The stern butler arrived bearing a silver pot of coffee, which he poured immediately before leaving them alone, and which Mr Harrington drank back in a single gulp, without bothering to add either sugar or cream. He was wearing gloves. Tan gloves, tightly fitted, so she hadn’t noticed them at first.
‘Would you like some ham? Eggs?’ Phoebe said, making a conscious effort not to stare.
He poured himself a second cup, this time taking a smaller sip. ‘Thank you, no. I find I do not have much of an appetite these days.’ He eyed her half-empty plate. ‘Not up to your exacting standards, Miss Brannagh?’
‘I’m not very hungry either.’
His complexion was pale. The man she remembered had been glowing with health. This man looked careworn, the lines on his face, she deduced, carved by pain.
‘You look shocked. Aren’t you going to ask what happened to me?’
‘I get the strong impression you’d much prefer that I didn’t.’
He drained his cup. ‘I had an accident. My recuperation has been prolonged. As you can see for yourself, I am not the man I once was. And that is all there is to be said.’
Or at least, all that he would say. He wanted neither pity nor curiosity, that much was clear. Phoebe bit back her questions, opting instead for frankness. ‘As you have no doubt deduced from my appearance at your door at this most unfashionable hour Mr Harrington, my circumstances have also changed since we last met.’
‘Really?’ He pushed his saucer to one side, wincing as he shifted in his chair to stretch his leg out, before turning his attention back to her, his frown deepening as he did so. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I can see that you are different. It is as if the light has gone out of you. You can have no idea how sorry I am to see that. I had hoped that at least one of us would have been toasting their success in August.’
‘You remembered!’
‘Of course I did, and would have been there if it had been humanly possible, but as you can see, I’m in no condition to travel to the other side of the street, far less Paris.’
‘I went,’ Phoebe admitted sheepishly. ‘To the Procope. I hoped—’ She broke off, colouring.
‘You hoped as I did, that at least one of us would have something to toast. I take it then, that you do not?’
‘No.’
‘What happened?’
The sheer magnitude of recent events threatened to overwhelm her. She could not possibly ask him for help, not when he was so obviously enduring his own private hell. Phoebe got to her feet. ‘I wish you well with your recovery, but I really shouldn’t intrude any longer.’
‘Miss Brannagh, please wait.’
She was at the door, about to open it when a crash and a shouted oath made her whirl around. Mr Harrington was on his feet, but only just, clutching the edge of the table. His cup and saucer and the coffee pot were on the floor.
‘Spare me the indignity of having to call my butler to prevent you leaving.’
‘You have troubles of your own. I have no wish to further burden you with my tale of woe.’
He held out his hand, his voice softening marginally. ‘Then distract me from mine by recounting yours. If you can bear to.’
* * *
Miss Brannagh stepped reluctantly back into the room. Stooping to pick up the shattered fragments of crockery and the coffee pot, she paused, cast him an enquiring look, then completed the task when Owen reluctantly assented. His servants would see yet more evidence of his clumsiness, albeit neatly stacked on the table and not abandoned on the floor, but they were used to it by now. At least the coffee pot had been empty. ‘Thank you,’ he said as she sat back down across the table from him.
‘You haven’t eaten anything. It’s not good to start the day on an empty stomach.’
‘The food won’t go to waste, the kitchen staff get any leftovers.’
‘I am pleased to hear that, but it wasn’t my point.’
‘I am not a child who needs cajoled into eating, Miss Brannagh. You cannot fix me with coddled eggs.’ He regretted the words as soon as they were out, but it was too late to take them back. Owen sighed, exasperated. ‘Very well, I will take some of the damned—dashed eggs.’
She smiled at him encouragingly. ‘And perhaps just a sliver of this lovely ham?’
Lacking the will or energy to deny her, he shrugged, studying her as she set about creating a plate of breakfast for him that he had no appetite for. Her smile had momentarily lit up her face, reminding him of the glowing beauty he’d met in Paris, and making the changes in her so much more stark by comparison. She was dressed simply and elegantly in a grey travelling gown, but it hung loosely on her slender frame. He remembered her laughingly telling him how much she loved to eat. He remembered her figure as generous, like her smile. She had lost weight, and he was, unfortunately, willing to bet that it had not been down to working in the heat of the kitchen. As she handed him his plate—like an offering, he thought—smiling at him tentatively, pleadingly, it struck him that what she’d lost most was her confidence. Exactly as he’d said, the light had gone out in her. Ironically, since their paths had parted they had arrived at the same destination, not success but despair.
He eyed the dish she presented him with, the wafer-thin slices of ham curled elegantly into rosettes, the eggs topped with a knob of melting butter, two slices of bread, the crusts removed, cut into delicate triangles. He really didn’t want it, but he didn’t want to seem churlish by refusing. ‘Thank you, Miss Brannagh, this looks most appetising,’ Owen said, awkwardly picking up his knife and
