скачать книгу бесплатно
Apart from his white cravat and the frill of his shirt sleeves beneath his cuffs, he was dressed entirely in black, which emphasised his lean height and corresponded well with Angelica’s somewhat exotic preconceptions of him. After her father’s description of their dramatic encounter on the seashore, she had never expected Benoît Faulkener to look like an average gentleman—though what she had been anticipating she would have been hard pressed to say.
In fact, he looked more like a pirate than a smuggler. Her first, confused thought was that she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been wearing a golden earring and a red kerchief, and carrying a cutlass. It was as if he had brought the briny expanse of the ocean into the small room with him. In his invigorating presence, the hitherto cosy chamber seemed to become claustrophobic and cramped.
Angelica’s full lips parted slightly in amazement. She stared at him as if transfixed, still clutching the letters against her breast.
A hint of amusement appeared in Benoît’s alert, watchful dark brown eyes. He had a mobile, intelligent face; his resemblance to his mother was elusive but unmistakable.
‘Good evening, Lady Angelica,’ he said politely, bowing slightly in her direction. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a long wait for me. Had I known you were here, I would have returned sooner.’
Angelica blinked. After an evening spent with the still very French Mrs Faulkener, she had somehow expected Benoît to sound equally exotic. In fact his voice was pleasantly deep, but unambiguously English.
‘I’ve 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 offended by her explosion of anger, but she had certainly succeeded in commanding his full attention.
He stood up almost lazily and went over to her, looking down at her thoughtfully. She glanced at him briefly, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She was too afraid he would see the pain behind her anger, and she was ashamed on her father’s behalf, as well as her own.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘I had no intention of insulting your father. I have no doubt that he is still a fine and noble man. But he was also a very active man—and the loss of his eyesight must have hurt him grievously.’
‘It has,’ she whispered.
Benoît’s unexpected understanding of her father’s plight disturbed her almost as much as his earlier words had upset and angered her. She found she was trembling with a mixture of confused emotions. She didn’t object when Benoît took her hand and led her back to her chair. He picked up her brandy glass and gave it to her, then sat down again himself.
‘I hate to disappoint you,’ he said lightly, once more sounding completely relaxed and at ease, ‘but I haven’t been actively involved in the smuggling trade for nearly fifteen years. I am now an entirely respectable and, I regret to admit it, unromantic businessman.’
Angelica choked on the brandy and began to cough, her eyes watering. She started to rummage in her reticule, and then found that Benoît was presenting her with a spotless linen handkerchief.
‘So I’m afraid you won’t hear any ponies trotting beneath your window tonight,’ he continued, as she dried her eyes, ‘or see any mysterious lights shining from the landing casement. In fact, you will probably find your stay here as uneventful as a night under Sir William’s roof.
‘Actually,’ he added reflectively, ‘you may find your stay here rather more restful than it would be with “Blunderbuss Billy”. I believe he has a habit of setting the whole household in an uproar whenever he goes out to chase my erstwhile companions in crime.’
Angelica smiled, in spite of herself.
‘I can imagine,’ she said, trying to summon up her usual good-humoured composure. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I had no right to speak to you so bitterly just now. Papa only told me about his meeting with you yesterday. I really wasn’t sure what to expect of you—but I assure you I will keep your secret as faithfully as Papa has always done.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Benoît gravely. ‘Is your father well in every other respect?’
‘Yes,’ said Angelica, biting her lip. ‘It was a carriage accident. The coach overturned and splinters of wood and glass went into his eyes,’ she added, almost as if she felt impelled to do so, though Benoît hadn’t asked for further details. ‘He broke his arm and suffered a raging fever for several days, but now everything is mended except his eyes.’
She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but she couldn’t disguise the bleakness in her voice. The Earl’s body might have healed, but his spirit was still sorely wounded. Benoît watched her shrewdly, but he didn’t comment.
Angelica glanced down, dragging her attention back to the business in hand, and was dimly surprised to realise that she was still holding the two letters. One of them had already been creased and stained; now they both looked the worse for wear. She tried to smooth them out in an instinctive, almost automatic gesture.
‘So what is it your father wants me to do for him that he is no longer able to do for himself?’ Benoît enquired, a trifle impatiently, as the silence lengthened.
Angelica looked up.
‘To rescue my brother from Bitche,’ she said simply.
Outside, the wind was growing stronger, and she could hear the patter of raindrops against the window. A storm was blowing up, isolating Holly House even further from the outside world. She had heard no movement from anyone else in the house for some time. It would be easy to imagine that she and Benoît were the only two people awake and breathing on the face of the earth. She certainly had the very real sense that he was the only person who could help her, and that this was the moment of truth.
‘I see,’ he said at last, his deep voice expressionless. ‘You want me to travel through more than two hundred miles of French-occupied territory and then rescue your brother from one of Bonaparte’s most notorious prisoner-of-war fortresses.’
‘Papa spared you—and your family. Now we’re asking for a life in return,’ said Angelica with breathless urgency.
She leant towards him, her golden curls dancing, unconsciously holding out her hand to him in a pleading gesture, trying with every fibre of her being to compel him to agree.
She was desperately anxious for her brother to come home. She was sure the Earl’s black moods were made worse by his unspoken fears for his son’s safety. And Harry had always been so cheerful and lively. Perhaps he would be able to find a way of helping Lord Ellewood to come to terms with what he had lost—all Angelica’s efforts had failed.
‘A dramatic rescue is hardly necessary,’ said Benoît dryly. He was still leaning back in his chair, dark and imperturbable, infuriatingly unresponsive to Angelica’s beseeching blue eyes. ‘All your brother—what’s his name…?’
‘Harry. He’s a midshipman.’
‘All Harry has to do is sit tight and behave himself, and he’ll be exchanged in due course,’ said Benoît. He took a sip of brandy, and watched Angelica over the rim of his glass. ‘There’s no need for all this melodrama over a perfectly straightforward situation.’
‘But it’s not straightforward!’ said Angelica passionately. ‘Maybe you haven’t realised, but the French have stopped making automatic exchanges of their prisoners. When the war broke out again in 1803 they even detained civilians—women and children. Many of them are still being kept prisoner at Verdun. Papa says such infamy is in breach of every civilised code of war!’
‘I’m sure many people think so,’ said Benoît softly, still intently studying Angelica, an enigmatic expression in his eyes. ‘But I also understand there is a school at Verdun, with several young midshipmen among its pupils. Why is Harry not one of them?’
‘He wouldn’t give his parole,’ said Angelica flatly. ‘He has already tried—and failed—to escape once. That’s why they’ve sent him to Bitche. It’s a punishment depot, isn’t it? You seem to know all about it.’
‘Only what I hear,’ said Benoît mildly.
His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he was frowning slightly and Angelica at least had the satisfaction of knowing that he was giving the problem his full attention.
‘The fortress was built by Vauban, I believe,’ he said after a moment’s reflection. ‘It’s situated on the summit of a great outcrop of rock. Not an easy place to escape from.’
‘Harry’s done it once already,’ said Angelica proudly. ‘Look!’ She passed him the older of the two letters. ‘We received this only yesterday from one of the détenus at Verdun.’
‘Thank you.’ Benoît put down his brandy glass, unfolded the crumpled paper and began to read.
‘This paragraph here!’ said Angelica impatiently, dropping onto her knees beside his chair, so that she could see the letter too.
Harry and his friends were at liberty for nearly three months. After many difficulties they reached the coast in safety, but they could not find a vessel to take them across the Channel. The French are strict in their surveillance of all boats at night; Harry was recaptured near Étaples and marched back to Verdun in shackles…
‘You see, the main problem was finding a boat to get to England—that is why Papa thought of you!’ Angelica exclaimed eagerly, her golden curls bouncing in her excitement. ‘According to Sir William, the war hasn’t made any difference to the smugglers.’
‘But I’m not a smuggler any more,’ Benoît reminded her, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes as he looked into her ardent face. ‘Hush! Let me finish the letter,’ he admonished her, as she opened her mouth to make a hasty retort.
She bit her lip in vexation and sat back on her heels in a rustle of impatient silk. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, but she didn’t want to alienate him if he might be able to help.
He smiled faintly, as if aware of her impatience, and carried on reading.
She watched him anxiously. If it was true he was no longer a smuggler, perhaps he couldn’t help her. But he must still have relatives in France, and she retained the deep conviction that if he wanted to do something he could find a way.
The Earl’s correspondent continued:
I saw Harry when he arrived here at Verdun, but I was only able to snatch a few words with him. Following his failed escape attempt he is regarded by the French as a mauvais sujet, criminal and the worst possible escape risk. He has been sent back to the fortress in Bitche, a punishment depot, but I am sure he will try to escape again as soon as the opportunity arises.
It is ironic, is it not, that if the French had offered him parole his own sense of honour would have held him more surely than any shackles? But the French don’t really understand where midshipmen fit into the naval hierarchy. They often don’t offer them the same privileges they allow commissioned officers. Of course, it might be different if they realised he was your son, but so far they don’t seem to have discovered the connection. I remain your humble servant, James Corbett.
‘You see!’ Angelica declared, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘It is a matter of life and death. Harry will surely try again, and next time he may be killed. I know that some of the prisoners have been killed trying to escape. All he needs is a little help. One small boat in the right place.’
She knelt up, gripping the arm of Benoît’s chair in both hands.
‘You don’t even need to go to France,’ she said earnestly, her lucid blue eyes fixed on Benoît’s face as she concentrated all her powers of persuasion onto him. ‘James Corbett sent his mistress over to England to carry out some business for him and she smuggled the letter out in her clothes—the French seem to be very lax in some respects—and she will be returning soon to Verdun.
‘All we need is the name of someone Harry can safely approach to give him passage over the Channel. Fanny can take the information back to James Corbett.’
‘And how will Corbett get a message through to Harry?’ Benoît asked sceptically, raising one black eyebrow. ‘And what happens if the name of the “safe person” falls into the wrong hands? What kind of tragedy would I be responsible for then, if I did as you suggest?’
Angelica bit back an angry retort. She knew Benoît’s objections were valid; in her frustration and anxiety she wasn’t thinking clearly. But his lack of a positive response to the problem aggravated her almost beyond bearing.
‘There must be a way!’ She struck the arm of his chair in her exasperation. If you won’t go to France yourself—’
‘Did I say I wouldn’t?’ Benoît covered her hand with his, and Angelica gasped as she suddenly realised how informally she had been behaving with him.
He was still sitting in the armchair, and she was kneeling on the floor beside him in a position which was neither dignified nor ladylike. In her wildest imagining she had never expected their interview would end up like this.
His hand was tanned, with strong but elegant fingers. She was instantly conscious of the warmth and potential power in his grip, and felt an answering spark at his touch which no other man had aroused within her.
She had been drilled in habits of strict decorum, but she also lived in a fashionable, glittering world in which flattery and flirtation were commonplace. She had received thousands of compliments during her few Seasons, and many eligible and not so eligible gentlemen had kissed her hand—but none of them had produced such an immediate response in her.
She hesitated, unable to look away from his face. His gaze was strangely compelling, though she still couldn’t decipher the expression in his guarded brown eyes. She was torn between a desire to snatch her hand away and a fugitive wish to prolong the moment. Then she remembered it was her duty to Harry—and her father—to do everything she could to persuade Benoît to help.
She smiled a trifle uncertainly at him, her anxiety and hope apparent in her candid blue eyes.
‘You mean you will go to France?’ she said, almost pleadingly.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Perhaps!’ she exclaimed, drawing her hand away, consternation in her expression. ‘But…’
‘Let me have your father’s letter,’ said Benoît briskly.
