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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 expression bland. ‘You met in Paris, apparently.’
Not long before his life had changed for ever, in fact. ‘Our paths did cross,’ Owen said, ‘but I can’t possibly see her.’
Propped up in bed, his hands hidden under the sheets, he rubbed the extensive scarring on the backs of them compulsively. Phoebe Brannagh! His thoughts often drifted back to their encounter in the Procope. Beautiful, passionate, ambitious and determined, she was unforgettable. He had left the café that night inspired, invigorated, full of optimism for the future, not exactly full of plans but certainly full of determination. He had recalled, many times since, her words of caution when he had so foolishly bemoaned his privileged lifestyle. ‘You should be careful what you wish for, Mr Harrington,’ she had said, ‘and grateful for what you have.’
Such prescient words. In the months which followed, in the aftermath, how often he had wished he’d heeded them earlier, returned to London, satisfied with his lot. He might have remained feckless and shallow, but at least he’d have still been himself.
‘No,’ he repeated, ‘I can’t possibly see her, it is out of the question.’
‘Very well, sir. Shall I convey the usual message?’
The usual message. That Mr Harrington was not at home to callers under any circumstances. Owen hesitated on the brink of assent. What on earth was she doing here, in London? He had wondered, back in August, if she had honoured their assignation. Though it was impossible for him to make the journey he’d still felt guilty, picturing her sitting on her own up in that top room of the Procope sipping wine and waiting for him, just as she had waited patiently, night after night, for Solignac. Had she realised her dream of opening her own restaurant? Were she and the chef who had her under his spell still sharing both a kitchen and a bed? For his part, he fervently hoped not the latter. The little he’d seen and heard of the man had made him certain Miss Brannagh deserved a great deal better.
Why was she here now? It was ludicrous to imagine her concern for him, sparked by his failure to turn up in August as agreed, had brought her all the way to England, though if the boot had been on the other foot, he might well have done just that, for he had imagined their second meeting countless times. During the darkest days, when the memory of her zest for life had been a small beacon of light, he had imagined himself well, fit, successful. Happy. He had dreamed up endless versions of how his life had turned out, picturing himself recounting them to her in the cosy light of the Procope, a pichet of wine and two half-empty glasses on the table.
What had she achieved in the last two years? Now he had the opportunity to find out, was he really going to pass it up? He was genuinely curious, which was a refreshing change from his increasing indifference to the world and its inhabitants. Miss Phoebe Brannagh, she had declared herself, though that didn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t married, merely that it was the name he would recognise. The chances that she had abandoned the kitchens for an easier, more prosaic life were high, but Owen hoped Phoebe had remained true to her highly individual self, and beaten the odds. The more abjectly he felt he had failed, the more fervently he had hoped that she had found success in Paris.
Though if she had, then why was she here? Her family lived in England, he recalled. It could be that she was visiting, and on a whim had decided to look him up. But why hadn’t she written to ask if she could call, if that was the case? And why call at such an early hour? In the old days, he’d have been up since dawn, would have gone for a ride or a run with Jasper while the roads were quiet, or he’d have had a fencing lesson, a shooting lesson, put in some time sparring or at the gymnasium. He could barely recall those days now. When he did, it was as if it was a dream, as if it had all happened to a different person.
Which it had. He was utterly changed in every way. His accident had destroyed him physically. He had battled back for a while, regaining some measure of mobility, but the slough of despond he was sinking into of late was like a pool of black tar, slowly smothering him. His world was muffled, devoid of any feeling, and not even on his best days, when he could just about recognise the importance of not throwing in the towel, did he feel any inclination to take action. He couldn’t possibly let Miss Brannagh see him in this sorry and broken state.
Though he wanted to see her. Hearing about her success might just act as a balm for his malaise. It was a ridiculous notion, to imagine that her triumph could offset his disaster, but it might, it just might make him feel a tiny bit better, even give him the kick up the backside he required. And if he didn’t see her, he’d always wonder, wouldn’t he, what had become of her?
‘Wait,’ he called to Bremner, who hadn’t in fact moved. ‘Have her shown to the breakfast parlour. Light the fire there, and in the morning room. Offer her tea. Food. She likes food. Offer her breakfast. Tell her I will join her presently. I need a bath.’
His butler rushed to do his bidding, failing to hide his astonishment, for visitors, Miss Braidwood’s dutiful calls aside, were unheard of these days. Owen slumped back on his pillows, already having to fight the urge to change his mind. It hadn’t been one of his better weeks. He’d barely crawled out of bed since that last depressing visit from Olivia. He rubbed his jaw, averting his eyes from his un-gloved hands. He needed a shave. He was going to have to work a minor miracle to make himself look even halfway respectable.
Pushing back the bedclothes, Owen placed his feet gingerly on the ground, gritting his teeth as the familiar searing pain shot through his right leg. He had abandoned the exercises prescribed by his doctors. The regime had succeeded to a point, but he’d long ago hit a plateau. He’d been an athlete once. Those simple, tedious stretches, which were the limit of what his doctors thought he could manage, reminded him that he never would be again.
Dammit, he was not using his stick. It was always worst first thing, he simply had to endure it. He took a faltering step, cursing the grinding pain in his hip, forcing another step and another, slowly making his way to the new bathing room he’d had installed, locking the door securely behind him. It was an unnecessary act, as he had no valet, and all the household knew not to intrude on him on pain of death, but it made him feel better all the same.
* * *
The breakfast served to her was good plain fare, but though she had not eaten properly for days, Phoebe could only manage a few desultory forkfuls of eggs and ham. She drank an entire pot of tea though. Tea didn’t taste the same in Paris, somehow. The different water probably accounted for it. She was gratefully accepting a boiling kettle to brew a fresh pot and wondering what could be keeping Mr Harrington, and why on earth he did not receive visitors, when the door to the breakfast parlour opened and he finally appeared.
She was so shocked that for a moment she couldn’t move from her place at the table. He looked as if he had aged ten years. His hair 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 fork.
‘They say we eat with our eyes. Presentation is much underrated by most cooks. It is one of the first things I learned from—shall I have your butler bring fresh coffee?’
He shook his head.
‘In Paris, the juice of freshly squeezed oranges is often served in the morning, but the French don’t really take breakfast seriously as a meal the way we do. Are you sure you don’t want some fresh coffee with that? Or perhaps—perhaps I should simply be quiet and allow you to eat. I talk too much when I’m nervous.’
Her mouth trembled. When she poured herself some more tea, her hand shook. What the devil had happened to her! He’d wager her revered Solignac had some hand in it. He had already taken against the man before he’d finally turned up late at the Procope, and his appearance in the flesh had simply confirmed Owen’s dislike. An ill-mannered bully with an inflated sense of his own importance who took his lover for granted.
He forced the last mouthful of breakfast down, and was rewarded with a smile.
‘You see, you were hungry after all.’
‘Apparently,’ he said drily.
‘The eggs were a little over. It is very difficult to keep eggs from spoiling, but the simple solution is to add a little knob of butter, I don’t know why more people don’t realise it. Forgive me, the last thing you need is a culinary lecture.’
Owen pushed his plate away and eased himself carefully to his feet, biting the inside of his cheek as the anticipated fierce stab of pain shot through his damaged hip. ‘We’ll retire to the morning room, if you are finished with your tea. It is the second door on your left.’
Ushering her ahead of him, he followed her slowly, resisting the urge to use the wall for support, mortified by how vulnerable he felt without his stick. He would not fall over. He bloody well would not fall over.
Lowering himself into the wing-back chair by the fireside, he felt as if he’d completed an epic journey, closing his eyes, taking a moment to get his breathing under control, wondering if the doctors had been right after all, and that the pathetic and rudimentary exercise regime at least served to prevent his health from deteriorating further. The footstool was just out of reach, but as Miss Brannagh made to help, he nudged it towards himself with his good leg.
‘Thank you, but I’m not entirely helpless.’
He waved her to the chair opposite, where she sat, hands clasped tightly, on the edge of the seat. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop apologising. Please.’ Adjusting his foot on the stool, he tried to force a smile, but it felt strained, and probably looked more like a grimace. ‘Now, Miss Brannagh, that we are more comfortable, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’
‘Well first of all—I know it’s silly—but when you didn’t show up at the Procope I wondered why. I hoped that whatever your reason for not being there, that you had fared better than me.’
‘Then you have been sorely disappointed, I’m afraid. I assume you are on your way to visit one of your sisters or—did you say you had an aunt?’
‘Aunt Kate. Lady Elmswood. She lives in Shropshire.’ She gazed down at her hands, which were white at the knuckles, she was clasping them so tightly together. ‘I’m not planning on visiting family just at the moment.’
‘Then may I ask what has brought you to England—assuming that your concern for my non-appearance at the Procope in August is not the main reason.’
She took a visible breath. ‘The truth is that I have lost absolutely everything, including almost every penny of the settlement Eloise made on me. I could not have failed more abjectly and I can’t—I simply cannot face my family until I’ve found my feet again.’
‘Good lord! What on earth happened?’
‘Exactly what my sister Estelle predicted.’
‘Monsieur Solignac,’ Owen said, fatalistically.
‘You don’t sound very surprised.’
‘I wish I had misjudged him, Miss Brannagh.’
‘You cannot wish that more fervently than I.’
‘Tell me.’
She winced. ‘It sounds as if you have already guessed. I was dazzled by him. Everyone was, who came into contact with him—everyone that is, save Estelle and by the sounds of it, yourself. I thought myself the luckiest woman in the world to have been taken under his wing as his protégée, to be allowed to train under him, and I thought that I was progressing well.’
‘I remember,’ Owen said, ‘you had reached the dizzy heights of patisserie. I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed to mean a good deal to you.’
‘Yes, it did. And I kept progressing, or so I thought. Pascal even permitted me to introduce a few of my own dishes to the menu. The rest of the kitchen brigade treated me as a fellow chef, not a woman. I thought I was earning their respect too. Perhaps I was, but it was more likely they knew me for Pascal’s—Pascal’s lover.’ She coloured violently. ‘I expect you will think that a shocking admission—my sisters were both shocked to the core.’
‘Miss Brannagh, I guessed when we met that your—your heart was engaged.’
‘You did? I thought at the time that I had been discreet, but I should have known better. I’m not very good at disguising my feelings.’ She stared at him, her face set defiantly. ‘I’m not ashamed of them, or what I did. They view affaires of the heart very differently in Paris.’
‘And you were very much in love with Paris.’
‘And with Pascal—or so I thought,’ Miss Brannagh replied, looking mortified. ‘It is probably difficult for you to understand, but in the kitchen, passions run so very high, and Pascal—he was—he is—the most passionate of all.’
‘But your feelings were not reciprocated?’
