Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining first-class honours and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write, and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon. They accepted it, and she’s been writing ever since. You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com

Regency Surrender: Notorious Secrets

The Soldier’s Dark Secret

The Soldier’s Rebel Lover

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08543-4

REGENCY SURRENDER: NOTORIOUS SECRETS

The Soldier’s Dark Secret © 2015 Marguerite Kaye The Soldier’s Rebel Lover © 2015 Marguerite Kaye

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

The Soldier’s Dark Secret

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Historical Note

The Soldier’s Rebel Lover

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Historical Note

About the Publisher

The Soldier’s Dark Secret

Marguerite Kaye

Chapter One

England—August 1815

The small huddle of women and the bedraggled children who clung to their skirts stared at him as one, wide-eyed and unblinking, struck dumb and motionless with fear. Only the compulsive clutching of their mother’s protective fingers around the children’s shoulders betrayed the full extent of their terror. He was accustomed to death in combat, but this was a village, not a battlefield. He was accustomed to seeing enemy causalities, but these were civilians, women and young children...

Jack Trestain’s breathing became rapid and shallow as he tossed and turned in the throes of his recurring nightmare. He thrashed around on the sweat-soaked sheets. He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t wake from it. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn’t prevent it unfolding in all its horror.

His boots crunched on the rough sun-dried track as he walked, stunned, around the small village, his brain numb, unable to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. The sun burned the back of his neck. He had lost his hat. A scrawny chicken squawked loudly, running across his path, making him stumble. How had the mission turned into such a debacle? How could his information, his precious, carefully gathered knowledge of the enemy’s movements, have been so wrong?

It was not possible. Not possible. Not possible. The words rang in his head over and over. He was aware of his comrades’ voices, of orders being barked, but he felt utterly alone.

The cooking fires were still burning. From a large smoke-blackened cauldron the appetising aroma of a herb-filled stew rose in the still, unnaturally silent air. He had not eaten since yesterday. He was suddenly ravenous.

As his stomach growled, he became aware of another, all-pervading smell. Ferrous. The unmistakable odour of dried blood. And another. The sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh.

As the noxious combination seared the back of his throat, Jack retched violently, spilling his guts like a raw recruit in a nearby ditch. Spasm after spasm shook him, until he had to clutch at the scorched trunk of a splintered tree to support himself. Shivering, shaking, he had no idea how long the girl had been looming over him...

It was the fall that woke him. He was on the floor of his bedchamber, clutching a pillow. He had banged his head on the nightstand. The ewer had toppled over and smashed. The chambermaid would think him one of the clumsiest guests she’d ever encountered. His nightshirt was drenched, the contents of the jug adding to his fevered sweat. His head was thumping, his jaw aching, and his wrists too, from clenching his fists. Wearily, Jack dragged himself to his feet and, opening the curtains, checking the hour on his pocket watch. It was just after five. He’d managed to sleep for a total of two hours.

Outside, morning mist wreathed the formal lawns which bordered the carriageway. Opening the casement wide, he leaned out, taking ragged breaths of fresh air. Damp, sweetly herbaceous air, not the dusty dry air of far-off lands, that caught in your lungs and the back of your throat, that was so still all smells lingered, and you carried them with you on your clothes for days afterwards.

Jack swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes tight shut in his effort to block out the unwelcome memory. Slow breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Open your eyes. Moist air smelling of nothing but dew. More breaths. And more.

Dammit! It had been two years. He should be over it by now. Or if not over it, he should have it under control. He’d been coping perfectly well in the army—more or less. He’d been dealing with it—mostly. Functioning—on the whole. He hadn’t fallen apart. He’d been able to control his temper. He’d even been able to sleep, albeit mainly as a result of exhaustion brought on by a punishing schedule of duties. Only now, when he was free of that life, the very life that was responsible for creating his coruscating guilt, it was haunting his every waking and sleeping moment.

Dear God, he must not fall apart now, when it was finally all behind him. He had to get out of the house. He had to get that smell out of his head. Exercise, that’s what he needed. It had worked before. It would work again. He would make it work again.

His forearm had finally been released just yesterday after weeks in a cumbersome splint. Jack flexed his fingers, relishing the pain which resulted, his toes curling on the rug. He deserved the pain. A damned stupid thing to do, to fall from his horse, even if his shoulder had just been torn open by a French musket. Quite literally adding insult to injury.

Take it easy, the quack had advised yesterday, reminding him that he might never recover his full strength. As if he needed reminding. As if it mattered now. ‘As if anything matters,’ Jack muttered to himself, pulling off his nightshirt and throwing on a bare minimum of clothes before padding silently out of the house.

The sun was beginning to burn the mist away, drying the dew into a fine sheen as he set off at a fast march through the formal gardens of his older brother’s estate. Jack had been on active service in Egypt when their father died, and Charlie inherited. In the intervening years, nearly all of which Jack had spent abroad on one military campaign or another, Charlie had added two wings to their childhood home, and his wife, Eleanor, had redecorated almost every single room. The grounds, though, had been left untouched until now. In a few weeks, the extensive new landscaping programme would begin, and the estate would be transformed. The lake, towards which he now made his way, through the overgrown and soon-to-be-uprooted Topiary Garden, would be drained, dredged, deepened and reshaped into something that would apparently look more natural.

He stood on the reedy bank, inhaling the odours so resonant of childhood: the fresh smell of grass, the cloying scent of honeysuckle and the sweetness of rotting vegetation laced with mud coming from the lake bed. There was never anyone around at this time of day. It was just Jack, and the ducks and whatever fish survived in the brackish water of the lake.

Divesting himself quickly of his few garments, he stretched his arms high above his head, took a deep breath, and plunged head first into the water. Though it was relatively warm on the surface, it was cold enough underneath to make him gasp. Opening his eyes, he could see little, only floating reeds and twigs, the mixture of dead leaves and sludge churned up by his splashy entry. He broke the surface, panting hard, then struck out towards the centre, his weakened right arm making his progress lopsided, forcing his left arm to compensate as he listed to one side like a sloop holed below the waterline by a cannon.

Ignoring the stabbing pain in his newly healed fracture and the familiar throbbing ache in his wounded shoulder, Jack gritted his teeth and began to count the lengths. He would stop when he was too exhausted to continue, and not before.

* * *

Celeste Marmion had also been unable to sleep. Attracted by the soft light of the English morning, so very different from the bright blaze of the Côte d’Azur where she had been raised, she had dressed quickly and, grabbing her notebook and charcoals, decided to reconnoitre the grounds of Trestain Manor before facing her hosts at breakfast. Arriving late last night, the brief impression she had had of her new patrons, Sir Charles and Lady Eleanor Trestain, was pretty much as she had expected. He was the perfect gentleman, rather bluff, rather handsome, his smile kind, though his manner veered towards the pompous. His wife, a slender and very tall woman with a long nose and intelligent eyes, reminded Celeste of a highly-strung greyhound. Lady Eleanor was a good deal less welcoming than her husband, giving Celeste the distinct impression that she was placing her hostess in a social quandary, for although Sir Charles had welcomed his landscape painter as a valued guest, Lady Eleanor seemed more inclined to treat her as a tradesperson.

‘Which is perfectly fine by me. I am here for my own reasons, not to play the serf in order to placate a social snob. Lady Eleanor is really quite irrelevant in the grand scheme of things,’ Celeste muttered to herself as she made her way through a magnificent but dreadfully neglected Topiary Garden.

She could hardly believe that she had finally made it to England. It had been her goal ever since January, when she had received that fateful letter. It had been a terrible shock, despite the fact that they had been estranged for years, to learn that she would never see her mother again. She had thought herself completely inured to Maman’s coldness, but for a few days after learning of her death, Celeste had been left reeling, assailed by a maelstrom of emotions which struck her with a force that was almost physical.

She had, however, quickly regained her equilibrium. After all, her mother had been more of an absence than a presence in her life for as long as she could remember, even before Celeste had been callously packed off to boarding school at the age of ten. It should make no difference to Celeste that the house in Cassis was closed up, for she never visited. It should make no difference that there was now no possibility of any reconciliation. She had never understood her mother’s attitude towards her, the cause of their gradual and now final estrangement, but she had long decided 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 way from Paris to capture our gardens for posterity before Eleanor’s landscaper gets his hands on them. Mademoiselle, do allow me to introduce you to my brother Jack, who is residing with us at present.’

Her first instinct, as he rose from his seat, was to run. He was smiling, a thin, cold smile, the sort of smile a man might bestow on a complete stranger, but she was not fooled. Celeste clutched the polished brass doorknob, for her knees had turned to jelly as the man from the lake crossed the room to greet her. The naked man from the lake who was Sir Charles’s brother. Mon Dieu, she had seen naked men before but what made her cheeks burn crimson was having witnessed that anguished look on his face. She had seen him naked, stripped bare in quite a different way. She felt as if she had violated some unspoken rule of trespass. Forcing herself to let go of the door handle, she met the cold, assessing look in his dark-brown eyes. What had possessed her to watch him? Why on earth had she not fled as soon as she’d seen him?

He bowed over her hand. Did he notice that her fingers were icy? ‘Mademoiselle Marmion. Enchanté. It is a pleasure to meet you. Again,’ he added sotto voce, leaving her in no doubt that he had recognised her.

‘Monsieur Trestain.’ Her voice was a croak. She cleared her throat. ‘It is a pleasure.’

‘Indeed?’ He ushered her to the table, holding out the chair opposite his own for her. ‘For future reference, Mademoiselle,’ he whispered, ‘I am accustomed to taking my morning swim in private.’

His tone was neutral but there was an underlying note of barely controlled fury. Celeste’s hand shook as she picked up the silver coffee pot. Though she managed to pour herself a much-needed cup without spilling it, she was acutely aware of Jack Trestain watching her, expecting her to do just that. She had been in the wrong, but she did not like to be intimidated. ‘I took the opportunity to explore a little of your beautiful grounds before breakfast,’ she said, turning to Sir Charles.

‘Excellent, I applaud your sense of enterprise.’ Sir Charles rubbed his hands together. ‘And did you find anything to inspire you, Mademoiselle?’

‘Yes, do tell us, did you see anything of interest during your exploration?’

Jack Trestain’s curt tone cut across his brother’s gentler one. Celeste threw him a tight smile. ‘The lake has some interesting views.’

‘I’m sure you found it fascinating,’ Jack Trestain said, returning her look unblinking, ‘though perhaps you will prefer to admire the view in the afternoon sunshine, in future.’

She could not mistake the warning tone in his voice. With some difficulty, Celeste swallowed the spark of temper which it provoked. She had been completely at fault, but this man was taking deliberate pleasure in her discomfort. She nodded curtly and took a sip of coffee to prevent herself from being tempted into a retort.

‘Well,’ Sir Charles said, casting a sideways glance at his brother, obviously perplexed by the animosity reverberating from him. ‘Well, now. Perhaps Jack’s right, the afternoon sunshine would provide the best light for capturing the views. What is your opinion, my love?’

The rather desperate look Sir Charles cast his wife intrigued Celeste. The way in which Lady Eleanor commandeered the conversation, launching into a long and detailed description of the various changes which her landscaper planned, and the possible studies Celeste could make, spoke of considerable practice in changing the subject. Jack Trestain, leaning back in his chair, ignoring the plate of ham and eggs set before him, watched with a sardonic smile on his face, obviously perfectly aware of the diversionary tactics being deployed, equally aware that he was being excluded from the conversation lest he cause further offence.

Lady Eleanor, running out of steam on one subject, switched, with barely a moment to take breath, to another. ‘You are admiring our dining room, I see,’ she said to Celeste, who had actually been staring down at her plate. ‘It is quite a contrast to the rest of the house, you were no doubt thinking. Very true, but we did feel, Sir Charles and I, that it was important to preserve at least one of the original rooms when we carried out our refurbishment. The wall covering is Spanish Cordova leather, you know. I believe it dates from the late sixteenth century. When Sir Charles and I decided—’

‘You don’t look like an artist.’

Lady Eleanor bristled. ‘Jack, really, I was in the middle of...’

‘...delivering a history lesson,’ he finished for her. ‘You might at least wait until we’ve finished eating before you do so.’

Her ladyship looked pointedly at her brother-in-law’s full plate. ‘So you were, for once, planning on actually eating your breakfast, were you?’

‘Eleanor, my love, there is no need to— If Jack is not hungry he need not...’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charlie, there’s no need to be perpetually walking on eggshells around me.’

A long, uncomfortable silence greeted this remark, broken eventually by Jack Trestain himself. ‘I beg your pardon, Eleanor,’ he said stiffly, ‘I got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.’

‘Happens to us all on occasion. No need for apologies, Brother—that is, I am sure that Eleanor...’

‘Apology accepted, Jack,’ Lady Eleanor said quickly, pressing her husband’s hand.

Celeste took another sip of coffee. Jack Trestain put a small piece of ham onto his fork, though he made no attempt to eat it.

‘I confess, Mademoiselle Marmion was not what I was expecting either,’ Sir Charles said with another of his placatory smiles. ‘Your reputation, you know, I expected someone older, more experienced.’

‘I am five-and-twenty, Sir Charles.’

‘Oh, please, I did not mean— One must never ask a lady her age.’

‘I am not embarrassed by my age, Monsieur. My first commission I received seven years ago from the Comte de St Verain. I am proud to say that I have been able to support myself with my painting ever since.’

‘And are your commissions all similar in nature to our own?’ Lady Eleanor enquired.

Celeste nodded. ‘Very similar. In France, many of the great houses were seized during the Revolution and the grounds badly neglected. The families who have managed to reclaim them employ me to paint the gardens once they are restored to their former glory.’

‘While you and I, my dear, are rather contrarily commissioning Mademoiselle Marmion to paint our estate before it is enhanced a deal beyond its current state.’ Sir Charles beamed, seemingly pleased by the thought of being a little unconventional.

‘And you, Monsieur Trestain,’ Celeste enquired, turning to his brother, ‘will you be remaining here to witness this transformation?’

‘I have no idea, Mademoiselle. Nor any notion why it should concern you.’

‘Until recently, our Jack was in the military, a career soldier at that,’ Sir Charles intervened hastily.

Celeste’s jaw dropped unbecomingly. ‘You are a soldier!’

‘A lieutenant-colonel, no less,’ Sir Charles said, with a hint of pride, sliding an anxious look at his silent brother.

‘Indeed,’ Lady Eleanor chimed in with a prim smile, ‘Jack was one of the Duke of Wellington’s most valued officers. He was mentioned several times in despatches.’

‘And Jack has mentioned more than several times that he is no longer a soldier,’ Jack Trestain said with a steely look in his eyes. ‘In any event, I expect Mademoiselle Marmion is more likely to admire Napoleon than Wellington, Eleanor.’

The scars. She should have realised they were battle scars. And that also explained his animosity towards her. How many years had Britain and France been at war? Celeste pushed her chair back, preparatory to leaving the table. ‘I am sorry. It did not occur to me that— I was so delighted to be here in England, so happy that hostilities between our countries had ended, that I did not consider the fact that I am—was until recently—no doubt still am in your eyes, Monsieur, the enemy.’

‘Mademoiselle, please do not distress yourself,’ Sir Charles said rather desperately. ‘My brother did not mean— You have it quite wrong, does she not, Jack?’

‘Entirely wrong. I have no objection to your being French,’ Jack Trestain said in a tone that left it clear that he still objected to her having spied on him. ‘I repeat, I am no longer a soldier, Mademoiselle.’

‘But you were until recently?’ Appalled, thinking back to the horrific reports she had read in the newspapers, Celeste forgot all about Jack Trestain’s rudeness. ‘You were at Waterloo? Mon Dieu, of course you were. Your arm,’ she exclaimed, wondering that she had been so foolish not to have guessed.

‘How did you know about Jack’s arm?’

Sir Charles was frowning at her. Celeste gaped. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say in explanation.

‘Mademoiselle obviously noticed that I’m favouring my left arm at the moment,’ Jack Trestain said, stepping in unexpectedly to cover her gaffe. ‘Being an artist, I am sure she is rather more observant than most.’

She was surprised by his fleeting smile. The man’s mood seemed to change with the wind. When he smiled, he looked so very different. He did not look as if he smiled often. He was a battle-hardened soldier. Those terrible scars. Realising all three pairs of eyes were on her, Celeste rallied. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, nodding furiously, ‘Monsieur Trestain has hit the nail on the head.’

He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement and flashed her another smile, one that lit his dark-brown eyes this time, and she felt absurdly gratified.

‘Well now,’ Sir Charles said, after receiving an encouraging nod from his wife, ‘the day’s getting on. I have a meeting with my lawyer in town at noon, Mademoiselle Marmion, but I thought I could give you a quick run through of our plans for the new gardens, just to give you an idea of where the most extensive changes will be, for it is these areas we wish to have immortalised by you on canvas, so to speak. What do you say?’

‘If you are pressed for time, Charlie, then why not let me look after Mademoiselle Marmion.’

It was Sir Charles’s turn to gape. ‘You, Jack?’

Lady Eleanor pursed her lips. ‘I am not sure that would be such a good idea.’

Her husband, however, had recovered from his surprise. ‘Come now, my dear, are we not forever encouraging Jack to embark on some gainful enterprise to aid his recuperation?’

His wife looked unconvinced. ‘It will take up a deal of Jack’s time, and you cannot deny, with all due respect to him, he has not precisely been the most patient of men recently. Every time our little Robert asks him...’

‘We have told our son not to pester his uncle. When Jack is good and ready, he will tell his nephew all about Waterloo,’ Sir Charles said, rubbing his hands together and slanting his brother a nervous look. ‘Jack is still recuperating from some serious injuries, my love,’ he reproved gently. ‘He is bound to be a little short of—of patience.’

‘My point exactly,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion will have even more questions than Robert, no doubt, about the changes, the estate...’

‘Which I am better placed than most to answer,’ Jack Trestain interjected, ‘having been raised here.’

Sir Charles beamed. ‘An excellent point. And showing Mademoiselle around will give you the opportunity to see more of the countryside, for I wish Mademoiselle to make a few landscapes of the wider estate. You might even get a taste for country living, see somewhere close at hand that takes your fancy. I can heartily recommend it.’

This last was said with some hopeful enthusiasm, and greeted with some disdain. A bone of contention, obviously.

‘Perhaps, Charlie,’ Jack Trestain answered, ‘stranger things have happened.’

‘Excellent! That is settled then, provided Mademoiselle has no objection?’

Celeste couldn’t fathom Jack Trestain at all. One minute he was furious with her, the next he was covering up for her and the next he was offering to put himself out for her and spend time in her company. He was volatile, to put it mildly, but he also had a delightful smile, and a body which she found distracting, and she had not found the body of any man distracting for a long time. Not since— But she would not think of that.

Realising that they were awaiting an answer from her, Celeste shook her head. ‘No, I have no objection whatsoever.’

Chapter Two

‘Why did I volunteer?’ Jack had not been expecting this to be the first question the intriguing Mademoiselle Marmion asked him, though perhaps he should have. It was obvious she had a sharp intellect and an observant eye. Whether that was because she was an artist, as he had suggested in order to extricate her from her faux pas regarding his arm, he did not know. What was inescapable was that within minutes of meeting her she had already managed to throw his behaviour into sharp relief. He could not be entirely oblivious to the effect his erratic temper was having on Charlie and Eleanor, but his brother’s softly-softly approach had allowed them all to be complicit in ignoring it.

Until now. Jack shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I have been somewhat out of temper, on account of my injuries. It is the least I can do.’ It would suffice as an explanation. It would have to, since he didn’t have a better one to offer, being as confused by his recent behaviour as anyone. Which was something he was reluctant to concede, since it implied there was an underlying cause, which there was not. At least not one he cared to admit to Charlie. Or indeed anyone.

As an explanation, it also conveniently excluded the fact that Mademoiselle Marmion herself had influenced his impulsive decision. Had she been a small, balding Frenchman with a goatee beard, would he have been so keen to offer his services? Indeed he would not, but that was another thing to which he would rather not admit. Jack smiled at her maliciously. ‘If you would rather have Lady Eleanor’s services as a guide...’

‘No,’ she said hurriedly, just as he had known she would, ‘no, I certainly would not. Lady Eleanor cannot decide if I am to be treated as a superior servant or an inferior guest.’

‘I’ll let you into a little secret about Eleanor,’ Jack said. ‘She is the youngest of four daughters of the vicar a few parishes over, and though no one gives a fig for that save herself, as a consequence she is inclined to over-play her role of lady of the manor. Don’t be too hard on her. She makes my brother happy, which is good enough for me. Or it should be.’

‘Have a care, Monsieur, or I might think you a sensitive soul beneath that prickly exterior.’ Mademoiselle Marmion frowned. ‘Which brings me back to my question. Unlike Lady Eleanor, you made your feelings about me perfectly plain at breakfast. I confess I am confused as to why you now voluntarily choose to spend time in my company.’

Unlike Charlie and Eleanor, Mademoiselle was not one to beat about the proverbial bush. ‘You are referring to the fact that I took umbrage at your spying on me this morning,’ Jack said.

She flinched, but held his gaze. ‘I did not spy. My intrusion was unwelcome, I can see that, but it was also unintended. I am, however, very sorry. Had the roles been reversed, I too would have been...’

She broke off, flushing, but it was too late. Jack was already imagining her naked, scything through the waters of the lake, and Mademoiselle Marmion was clearly perfectly aware of that fact. ‘Think nothing more of it,’ he said quickly, trying desperately to do just that. ‘Your apology is accepted, provided you do not repeat the transgression.’

‘Thank you. I promise you that in future I will avoid visiting the lake in the morning.’

She smiled at him, and he caught his breath. She really was very lovely, with her white-blonde hair, and those eyes the colour of brandy. Her skin was smooth, flawless, but not the creamy-white of an English rose; it was a pale biscuit, sun-kissed and warm. Then there was her mouth. Luscious pink. Too wide for fashion, but perfect for kissing. Kissing her would be like biting into the sweet, delicate flesh of a perfectly ripe peach. The kind which grew in the heat of Spain, not the hard, bitter little fruits which were espaliered on the wall of Charlie’s garden. Kissing her would be like bathing in the dry heat of the true south. Kissing her would be like a taste of another world.

Though he could not for the life of him imagine why he was thinking of kissing her. He’d had no urge to kiss anyone since—well, for quite some considerable time. ‘I think we should get out into the gardens while the light is good, Mademoiselle Marmion,’ Jack said brusquely. ‘I’ll wait here while you fetch a hat.’

‘I was raised in the south of France. I don’t need a hat for the pale English sun, Monsieur Trestain.’

‘Then thank the Lord, that means I’m not required to wear one either. And since we’re dispensing with formalities, I would prefer it if you would call me Jack.’

‘Then you must call me Celeste.’

‘Celeste.’ Jack grinned. ‘How very appropriate. An angel sent from heaven to relieve my boredom.’

‘An artist sent from France to paint your brother’s estate,’ she retorted.

‘Touché. In that case we should get down to business.’

* * *

Celeste followed Jack Trestain down a narrow path through a colourful but uninteresting rose garden. His leather breeches fitted snugly around a taut derrière that was really very pleasant to admire from behind. His jet-black hair, dry now, curled over the collar of his shirt. She couldn’t help but remember the muscles, now decently covered in white cambric, which had rippled while he swam.

She cursed softly under her breath and tried to concentrate on the path. And the task in hand. Not the intriguing man ahead of her, with his powerful soldier’s body. A frisson of desire made her stomach flutter. Twice today, she had experienced this sudden yearning, for the very first time since—since. She had not missed it. She had not even noted its absence, until now. Perhaps, Celeste thought hopefully, it was a sign that she was starting come to terms with the loss of her mother. Not that she’d been struggling precisely, but she had not been quite herself, she could admit that much now.

‘The Topiary Garden.’ Jack Trestain opened the gate with a flourish.

Celeste had passed through it this morning, but had not taken the time to study it. Now she did so with delight. ‘This is fascinating. I have painted several such places before. I think it is unusual to have such a French garden attached to such a very English house, no?’

‘It was first laid out about two hundred years ago,’ Jack Trestain replied. ‘I think it was originally designed by one of your countrymen, now I come to think about it. To appreciate the symmetry and the scale of it, you’ll get a much better view from the top floor of the house, if you were thinking of making this one of your featured landscapes.’

‘Absolutely I am,’ Celeste said, ‘and I think a view from the lake too, through the topiary with the house in the background.’

‘When my mother was alive, the borders were a blaze of colour at this time of year. And the parterre too. You’ll recognise the lavender that borders it, there. I was once passing through Provence when they were gathering the lavender crop. The scent of it took me straight back to my childhood, escaping down here with Charlie, playing hide-and-seek in this garden. It’s well past its best now.’

‘Were you in the army for a very long time, Monsieur Jack?’

‘Thirteen years. My father bought me a commission when I was sixteen. Why do you ask?’

Celeste shrugged, feigning a casualness she was far from feeling. ‘Were you forced to leave because of your injury? Or because there are no more wars to fight?’

‘I was not forced to leave. I resigned my commission.’

His clipped tone made it very clear he considered the subject closed. The same tone he had used with Lady Eleanor at breakfast. Thirteen years was a large part of anyone’s life to exclude from discussion but then, there was an equally large part of her own life she didn’t ever discuss. Celeste smiled brightly. ‘Then let us concentrate on my own modest commission, which I have only just started.’

Jack disguised his relief well enough, but she noticed it all the same. As they walked down another path, Celeste prattled on about other gardens she had painted, other topiary she had drawn, aware he was studying her as covertly as she was studying him. Unsettled and distracted by her own interest, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned by his, she decided that she would do better for now to concentrate on her work, and so took out her sketchbook.

The Topiary Garden was divided into two by the long gravelled path which led towards the lake. On either side, the yew hedges had been trained into the most extraordinary shapes. Despite the fact that it had not been pruned, it was still possible to distinguish peacocks, a lion, a crown, and what looked to be several chess pieces, as well as more traditional cones, boxes and cylinders. Holly bordered the low and overgrown beds which had been laid out in the shadow of the yews. No longer feigning interest, Celeste made several rapid sketches.

Looking up some time later, she smiled at Jack watching her now with unalloyed interest, tilting her last sketch to allow him to examine it better. ‘In France,’ she said, ‘this garden would be prized and restored, not cut down to make way for a— What was it Lady Eleanor called it?’

‘A little wilderness,’ Jack replied, ‘whatever conceit that is. Eleanor loathes it as it is, and I have to confess, it is much darker than I remember.’

‘With some remedial work, it could be very beautiful.’

‘Your sketch certainly makes it look so. Perhaps you should share your thoughts with Eleanor.’

‘Oh, no, that would be presumptuous. It is her garden, not mine.’

Jack ushered her towards the welcome of the shade, where a mossy stone bench was positioned under a yew which had been clipped into an arch. He had come out without a coat, and now rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The contrast between his pale right arm and tanned left was stark. It was not only the colour, but he had clearly lost muscle.

‘It must have been a very bad break to have kept your arm in a splint for so long.’ Without realising, Celeste had reached out to touch him. She snatched her hand away.

‘Why did you stay at the lakeside this morning?’ Jack asked. ‘You’ve as much as admitted you should have left the moment you saw me. What made you stay?’

The bench was small. His leather-clad thigh brushed hers, and his knee too, for he had angled himself to face her. ‘I am an artist,’ Celeste said, her voice sounding odd. ‘You made an interesting subject.’

‘Did you draw me, then?’

His hand covered hers, which were clasped on her lap. Her heart began to thump. ‘There was no time,’ she said.

‘Yet you insist you were watching me purely with the eye of an artist?’

His thumb was stroking her wrist, so lightly she wondered if he was even aware he was doing it. The tension between them became palpable. Beguiled as much by her own new-found desire as by Jack’s proximity, Celeste could think of nothing to say but the truth. ‘I watched you because I could not take my eyes off you. I was fascinated.’

His eyes darkened. His hands slid up to her shoulders. She leaned into him as he pulled her towards him. It started so gently. Soft. Delicate. Celeste leant closer. The kiss deepened. She could feel the damp of his shirt and the heat of his skin beneath it. A drop of perspiration trickled down between her breasts, and she felt a sharp twist of pure desire.

She curled her fingers into his hair. Their tongues touched. Jack moaned, a guttural sound that precisely echoed how she felt, filled with longing, and aching and heat. Their kiss became fierce. He bent her backwards on the bench, his body hovering over hers, blocking out the sunlight. He smelt of soap and sweet summer sweat. His legs were tangled in her skirts. Only his arms, planted either side of her, prevented her from falling.

She was also in danger of falling, metaphorically speaking, from a far greater height if she was not extremely careful. Celeste snapped to her senses. Jerking herself free, she sat up. Jack’s cheeks were flushed. His hair was in wild disarray. His shirt was falling open at the neck to reveal his tanned throat. The soft linen clung to his frame, revealing tantalising glimpses of the hard body underneath. She wanted more. It was good that she wanted more, but with this man! No, she must be out of her mind.

She edged a little way along the bench, shaking out her skirts. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to faint?’ she asked more sharply than she intended.

‘Despite our extremely brief acquaintance you do not strike me as someone much given to histrionics.’

‘You are perfectly correct, I am not. Even when kissing complete strangers.’

‘Not quite complete strangers, Mademoiselle. We have at least been formally introduced.’ Jack shook his head, as if trying to clear the dazed look from his eyes. ‘I apologise,’ he said tersely. ‘I have no idea what came over me. I’m not in the habit of mauling innocent women, especially not when they are my brother’s guests.’

‘Your brother’s landscape artist, not his guest, and I am neither innocent nor inclined to accept an apology for something that was as much my doing as yours,’ Celeste snapped, unduly irked by his assumption that it was all his responsibility. She was relieved to discover she could feel this way again, but she really wished it had not been this maddening man who had sparked her back to life. She picked up her sketch pad and charcoals, trying to regain her composure. ‘It was just a kiss, nothing more,’ she said, because that was all it was, after all.

‘Just a kiss?’ Jack repeated, still looking stunned. ‘Is that what you really think?’

She did not. She thought—not very clearly, admittedly—that it was the most extraordinary kiss she had ever experienced. She thought, looking at him now, that she would very much like to kiss him again, but she was not about to admit that. ‘Very well,’ Celeste conceded, ‘an excellent kiss, though I suspect that abstinence may have contributed to its intensity.’

He flushed dark red. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’

Celeste took a step back. ‘Not that it is any of your business, but I have not been inclined to kiss anyone for—for some time.’

His expression softened a little. ‘Ah, you are referring to your own abstinence?’

‘What else would I have implied?’ Celeste said, thoroughly confused. He could not possibly have thought she referred to him? There could be no shortage of women eager and willing to kiss Jack Trestain. Then she remembered. ‘Oh, you mean you have been incapacitated by your recent poor health.’

A perfectly understandable explanation, and no reason whatsoever for him to flinch as if she had hit him. Yet that is exactly what he did, before abruptly turning on his heels and marching off. Utterly confounded now, she watched his long legs cover the ground quickly, back through the gate, along the grass walk to the rose garden. He did not look back.

Celeste slumped down on the stone bench. While her mind struggled to make sense of what had happened, her body was very clear in its response. What they had shared had been much more than just a kiss. It had been an awakening, a stirring of something that she hadn’t realised had been so utterly dormant.

Her last affaire had ended not long before she had received that letter. It had ended as her affaires always did, without tears or remorse, while it had still been mutually enjoyable, before it could degenerate into boredom, or worse still, the expectation of a future. Not that she’d ever allowed any of her few love affairs to reach that stage. Not that a single one of them had evoked an emotion even close to love in her.

Celeste began to turn the pages of her sketchbook. Love was a subject she knew little about. On the topic of being loveless however, she was something of an expert. It defined her upbringing. It defined her mother’s marriage. Or it had. She snapped the leather covers shut. Ever since she’d received that damned letter, she’d been losing control in all sorts of odd ways. She snapped at the stupidest of things. She couldn’t concentrate on her work. And now this! It was just a kiss, for heaven’s sake. She was overwrought. She had not kissed anyone for a long time. Jack was a very accomplished kisser. Jack, for whatever reason, seemed to find the whole process of kissing her even more unsettling than she had. She would very much like to repeat the process of kissing Jack, if only to prove that it was just a kiss, enhanced by abstinence, just as she’d suggested. Her own.

And as for her suggestion regarding his? Why had he taken such umbrage at her perfectly reasonable assumption? Celeste rolled her eyes. Jack Trestain was an enigma, and one that she had no time to decipher.

* * *

‘There you are, my love. I have been looking for you all over.’

Jack, who had been sleeping on the recessed seat in the nook of the fireplace, woke with a start and looked around him, quite disoriented.

‘Charles,’ Eleanor was saying, ‘I am writing to my mother. We have such a glut of plums and damsons I thought it would be a good idea to pickle some rather than simply bottle them, and Mama has an excellent receipt. How went your meeting with the lawyer?’

Jack had quite forgotten the trick of acoustics between this room and the one below. His head, resting against the fireplace, was in the precise spot which amplified the voices. He and Charlie had discovered it as boys, and had spent hours talking to each other, one of them in each room. The Laird’s Lug, their Auntie Kirsty had told them it was known as in Scottish castles, a way for the master of the house to eavesdrop on his family and his servants, though Jack reckoned this one at Trestain Manor existed more by accident than design.

Charlie and Eleanor were discussing estate business now, in that domestic, familiar way Jack remembered his parents doing. His head was thumping. Serve him right for sleeping in the middle of the day, though when he slept so little at night, he had little option but to catnap when he could. While in the army, he used to pride himself on possessing a soldier’s ability to sleep whenever and whatever the circumstances. Standing, sitting, marching, he’d slept, and woken refreshed. No, not always refreshed, he thought ruefully, there had been times when he’d felt perpetually exhausted. But the fact remained, until he resigned his commission, sleep had never been a problem.

Was that true? Could his insomnia have been masked by his frenetic army career? He didn’t know. He did know that things had gone rapidly downhill after he left. The nightmare which had been sporadic now regularly invaded his dreams. He woke every morning feeling as if he’d been bludgeoned, his limbs weighted with stones. Precisely as he felt at the moment.

It was too much of an effort to move, so he settled back where he was, letting Charlie and Eleanor’s voices wash over him. Charlie was uncommonly happy with his estate and his wife and his family. Charlie thought that if Jack could settle down as he had, raise some sheep and cows and pigs, start his own nursery, that Jack would be every bit as contented as he was. Poor delusional Charlie. He meant well, but he had no idea, and his ignorance drove Jack to distraction, though he would never wish it otherwise. He envied Charlie. No, that was a lie. Charlie’s placid, uncomplicated life would drive Jack to an early grave, but he envied him the ability to love that placid, uncomplicated life.

Jack couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to be a soldier. He’d been an excellent soldier, and he’d been an exemplary officer. He’d loved being a military man, he’d taken such pride in doing his duty for king and country. There had been times when that duty had required him to see and do some terrible things. Unforgivable things. While he still wore his colours, he had managed to reconcile himself to that. Now, he no longer could. Now, he was being forced to question everything that he’d loved and all that he’d stood for. There were times when he felt as if he were being quite literally torn in two. Times when he raged at the injustice of what was happening to him, times when he was overwhelmed by guilt. There was no right and wrong any more, and his world, which had been one of clear-cut lines for so long, was now so blurred that he was careering around like a compass struggling to find true north. What the hell was happening to him?

Jack ran his fingers through his hair. He ought to have it cut. Just one of many things he ought to do, and had not the gumption to attempt. Every day he swore he would try to be normal. He would take an interest in mundane things like harvests and dressing for dinner and the weather and the king’s health. With increasing regularity, he failed. So many things important to Charlie and Eleanor seemed so trivial to him, and so trivial things tended to take on a disproportionate importance. Like that kiss.

Just a kiss, Celeste had said, though he could have sworn she was as unsettled as he had been by it. And then she’d made that comment about abstinence enhancing its intensity. Bloody stupid phrase. Presumptive. Though she had not been referring to him, as he’d assumed. She was no innocent, she claimed, and she certainly didn’t kiss like one. He’d never experienced a kiss like it. Was that due to enforced abstinence? It had come as a surprise, certainly. He’d assumed that aspect of his life, like sleeping soundly, was beyond him, at least for the time being.

Jack leant his head back against the hearth. It should be reassuring that it was not. Reassuring that he could still—what? Experience desire, lust? He swore. Most likely the woman was right, and it really had been just a kiss, blown out of all proportion by the circumstances. No mere kiss was that momentous. He wished he hadn’t run away now, like a raw recruit retreating under enemy fire. He wished he’d stayed and kissed her again, and proved to himself that it was not a one-off and that his body, unlike his mind, was not completely in limbo.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to remember the taste of her and the feel of her and the smell of her. She was quite lovely. She was altogether ravishing. She would set any man’s blood on fire. He shouldn’t have kissed her. As it was, his self-control hung by a fragile thread. He was confused about many thing but the one thing he knew for certain was that maintaining his self-control was crucial. So he could not risk kissing her again. Definitely not picture her lips pressed to his, her hands...

‘I wonder how Mademoiselle Marmion is faring?’

Jack’s eyes flew open. The name leapt out at him, bringing the background buzz of conversation in the room below to the fore.

Charlie was speaking now. ‘I’m sure she fares perfectly well. She seemed to me an uncommonly confident woman for one of her years. Perhaps it comes from being French. And she is a successful artist too. No, my love, we need have no fear for Mademoiselle. Jack may be— He has developed something of a temper, but he would never behave with impropriety, I am certain of that.’

‘It is not only his temper, Charles. He has a look in his eyes sometimes that frightens me.’

‘The things he has experienced on the battlefield would frighten anyone.’

‘Yes, but—Charles, you must have noticed, there are times when one may address any number of remarks to him, and it is as if he were deaf or asleep. I thought he was simply being rude the first time, but—it is very odd.’

What was it they said about never overhearing good of oneself? Snooping and listening in to private conversations had been the tools of the trade of his carefully cultivated informants, but this was different. Jack cringed.

‘We can be sure of nothing with regard to your brother these days, Charles,’ Eleanor continued after a leaden silence. ‘He is so very changed.’

‘Indeed.’ Charlie’s voice was wooden, a sure sign that his stiff upper lip was being called into action. No doubt he was wringing his hands.

‘He rebuffed poor little Robert again yesterday. I have told the child time and again not to plague his uncle for war stories, but...’

‘He is only five years old, and his uncle is a hero to him. Indeed, Jack is a hero to us all, if only he could see it. If only he could talk to me, but I fear...’

Jack leapt to his feet. So much for his naive belief that he had been covering his tracks. It was mortifyingly clear that Charlie and Eleanor had merely been pretending not to notice his odd behaviour.

I’m sparing you, he wanted to roar at Charlie. I’m preserving all your sad, pathetic illusions about me, he wanted to tell him. He wanted to shake his brother into silence. He wanted to be sick, because he loved Charlie, and he even cared about Eleanor, dammit, because Eleanor loved Charlie too. He wished to hell, for Charlie’s sake, that he could sit down with Robert and tell him tales of derring-do. He wished that it was true, that he really was the hero mentioned by Wellington in despatches, but it was not the case. Heroes didn’t have stains on their soul.

Jack crept from the room. He might not be a hero but he had survived. He would continue to survive. To live, to be truly alive though, that was quite another matter. An aspiration for the future, perhaps. In the meantime, it was a question of enduring.

Chapter Three

Next day, Celeste set to work in the walled garden, the morning sunshine sending fingers of light creeping along the western border. She knew from the landscaper’s plans which Jack had shown her that the oldest of the succession houses and the pinery were to be demolished and replaced with modern structures which could be more efficiently heated. There was a charm to the original buildings which she had started to capture in charcoal, the paper pinned to a large board propped on a portable easel.

She had not seen Jack since he so abruptly left the Topiary Garden. He had not appeared at dinner, nor breakfast. According to Lady Eleanor, this was not unusual behaviour, as Jack often skipped meals. Sir Charles had reminded his wife that the remains of his late-night snacks were regularly found by the kitchen maids, so there was no need to worry that Jack had no appetite whatsoever. Which meant that they clearly were worried, and equally clearly set upon pretending to the source of their concern that they were not. Celeste was not, after all, alone in thinking Jack Trestain’s behaviour decidedly contrary.

She pinned a fresh sheet of paper on to her easel. She would not speculate as to the cause. She found him intriguing. She found him interesting. She found him very attractive. All of these, she took as positive signs of her own return to normality, but she would not allow herself to dwell on the subject any further. She had more than enough issues to occupy her thoughts without adding Jack Trestain to her list.

She picked up her charcoal, decided to adjust her perspective and set to work.

* * *

Half an hour later, deep in concentration, Celeste did not notice Jack’s arrival until he was behind her, making her jump, squiggle a line across her drawing, drop her charcoal and swear rather inappropriately in French. ‘You gave me such a fright. Look what you’ve made me do.’

‘I didn’t mean to startle you, but you were miles away.’

‘I was concentrating on my work.’

Jack was looking at her drawing, but Celeste got the impression he was thinking about something else. She had not misremembered how attractive he was. Nor the strength of her reaction to his physical proximity. Her skin was tingling as if the space between them was charged, like the atmosphere prior to a lightning strike. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, in an attempt to restore some semblance of normality. She was on sure ground discussing art.

He blinked. ‘I think I should apologise for my abrupt departure yesterday.’

Celeste too kept her eyes on her drawing. ‘I was actually referring to my sketch, but since we are on the subject, I fear we were at cross purposes yesterday. When I said— When I mentioned abstinence— I know nothing of your circumstances. I was speaking for myself.’

‘You may as well have been speaking for me,’ Jack admitted ruefully. ‘I have not— It has also been some time since I...’ Their eyes met briefly, then flickered away. ‘I was therefore rather taken aback.’

‘As was I.’ This time their gaze held. Celeste smiled faintly. ‘I am sure that was the reason for the— It explains why we allowed ourselves to become somewhat carried away.’

Jack touched his hand to the squiggle Celeste had drawn, tried to rub it out, then stared at the resultant smudge. ‘Stupid thing for me to get so aerated about. It was, as you pointed out, just a kiss. We’re adults, not flighty adolescents.’

‘Yes, exactly.’ She nodded determinedly to disguise her disappointment. She should not be disappointed. He was agreeing with her, after all. ‘Most likely we would be disappointed if we—if we repeated the experience.’

It came out sounding like a plea to be proved wrong, and for a moment, Jack looked as if he would comply. ‘Most likely,’ he said as he took a step towards her. She could feel his breath on her cheek. He smelled of grass and sunshine. Her heart was beating hard again, making it difficult to breathe. She stared into his eyes, mesmerised. The gap between them imperceptibly, tantalisingly narrowed. Their lips almost touched before they both leapt back as if they had been singed by a naked flame.

Celeste snatched her sketch from the easel and tore it in half. ‘I don’t know what is wrong with me today. I am struggling to find the correct perspective for what should be a simple sketch.’

Jack hesitated, then threw himself down on a wooden bench, his long legs sprawled in front of him. ‘I doubt either Charlie or Eleanor will care which angle you choose, provided you deliver something that closely matches reality. I’m sure the drawing you have just torn up would have proved perfectly satisfactory.’

‘Not to me,’ Celeste said indignantly. ‘I would have known I could have depicted the scene in a more accomplished manner. You may consider what I do to be a trivial endeavour. My paintings don’t save lives or win wars or—or whatever it was you did when you were a soldier, but they are still very important to me.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to patronise you.’

His smile was disarming. Celeste bit her own back, refusing to be so easily won over. ‘But you did none the less.’

‘I did,’ he conceded.

He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘You know, life in the military is not as exciting as you might think. There’s far more time spent marching and drilling than waging war. And in the winter, when the campaign season is over, there’s a deal more playing cards and making bets and drinking than doing drill.’

‘When I am between commissions, I still paint,’ Celeste said. ‘Not landscapes, but people. I am not so good at portraits, but they are mine, and so it is not like work, you know?’

‘Are you often between commissions?’

‘In the beginning, regularly.’ She chuckled. ‘As a result, I was much thinner and not so well dressed as I can now afford to be.’

‘No less pretty, though, I’d wager, if I may be so bold as to offer a compliment to compensate for demeaning your sense of professional pride. Did you always aspire to be an artist?’

‘I am never going to exhibit at the Académie des Beaux-Arts, and I have no ambition to do so. I am not the type to try to break all the rules and to starve in the process, spending my last sou on paint rather than a baguette. I have a modest talent. I was fortunate enough to study with some excellent teachers in Paris, and I needed to find a way of supporting myself, so...’ Celeste shrugged.

‘Your parents then, they are dead? You said you needed to support yourself,’ Jack explained when she raised her eyebrows at the question, ‘so I assumed...’

‘Yes. Both dead.’ Celeste stared down at her hands, frowning. Despite spending a good deal of time thinking about it, she had not the foggiest idea how to begin the search for answers which had brought her to England. She needed help, but her ingrained habit of trusting no one save herself inhibited her from seeking it. Not that, as a foreigner, she thought morosely, she had the first idea of where to start seeking.

‘Penny for them?’ Jack was looking at her quizzically. ‘Your thoughts,’ he said. ‘You were a hundred miles away again. I fear I’m boring you rather than distracting you.’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Perhaps she could ask him just one simple question to get her search underway? She really did have to make a start because there, tucked away at the back of her sketchbook, was a letter containing a puzzle she needed to solve in order to draw a line under the past and get on with her life.

‘Jack?’

He looked at her questioningly.

‘Jack, if you—if you needed to find something. Or someone. How would you go about it? I mean if you did not know where this person lived, or—or who they were, precisely. Are there people one can employ to discover such things?’

‘You mean to track down someone who has gone missing?’

She had his attention now. All of it. Though he was still lounging casually on the bench, though his expression was one of polite interest, his eyes were focused entirely on her. Celeste shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not missing precisely. Not anything at all, really. I’m speaking hypothetically.’

She risked looking up, and wished she had not. ‘Hypothetically,’ Jack said, openly sceptical. ‘Well, hypothetically, you could employ a Bow Street Runner.’

‘Is that what you would do?’

He smiled. ‘Good grief, no. Speaking hypothetically of course, I am more than equipped to solve the problem for myself, but we’re not talking hypothetically, are we?’

Realising that she was clenching her hands so tightly together that the knuckles showed white, Celeste hid them under her painter’s smock. She ought to look him in the eye, but she was sure if she did Jack would know she was lying. She was not a good liar. She was good at keeping silent. She was very good at hiding her feelings, but she was a terrible liar. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Forget I asked.’

She could have bitten her tongue out, realising only at the last moment that telling Jack Trestain something didn’t matter was a sure-fire way of alerting him to the fact that it did, though he said nothing for so long that she began to hope he had done just as she asked. At least she was a step further forward. She had no idea what a Bow Street Runner was, but she could find out. She prepared to get to her feet. ‘I should...’

‘Sit down.’ His grip on her arm was light enough, but one look at Jack’s face, and Celeste thought the better of resisting him. ‘Who exactly is it you’re trying to trace? A lover? An errant husband, perhaps?’

‘I have no husband, errant or otherwise, and as to a lover— No, not since before— Since— It has nothing to do with affairs of the heart.’ She sounded defensive. She was getting upset. And Jack was not missing any of it. ‘It is nothing,’ Celeste said. ‘I regret raising it.’

Jack gave her a neutral look. ‘You know, you’d be taking pot luck by employing a Runner. Some of them are excellent chaps, but some— Frankly, I wouldn’t trust my sister alone with them. Not that I have a sister. Have you? Or a brother? Is it a sibling you’re seeking?’

‘I am not so fortunate as to possess either,’ Celeste said repressively.

Jack nodded. ‘So, it’s not your parents or a husband or a sibling you’re trying to trace. Who then?’

He was not going to give up. Celeste shook her head and folded her lips.

Once again, Jack failed to get the message. ‘Now I come to think about it, you weren’t clear if it was a person or a thing. Is it stolen property then, jewellery? Or the family silver?’

‘Mon Dieu, Jack, I wish you would leave the matter alone!’

‘You ask me for advice but now won’t tell me why. Don’t you trust me, Celeste, is that it?’

‘I don’t trust anyone. I find it is safer that way.’

‘That, if I may say so, is a fairly bleak philosophy.’

‘You may, since I suspect it is also yours.’

He looked quite taken aback. ‘Irrespective of the veracity of that statement, you would admit it is a philosophy which makes finding your missing person or whatever the hell it is rather problematic.’

‘I told you, I was merely speculating.’

‘And I told you, I don’t believe you,’ Jack said, his tone conciliatory. ‘Look, it’s obviously important to you, whatever it is. It’s clear you need help, and I assure you, you can rely on my discretion.’

All of which was most likely true, but it was such a big step to take. Celeste wrapped her arms around herself. What should she do?

‘If it’s difficult for you to tell me, imagine yourself faced with a complete stranger.’

‘Why are you so keen to— Of what possible interest is it to you?’ Celeste cursed under her breath and jumped to her feet. ‘You wish to know? Vraiment? Very well then, I will tell the truth and shame the devil. I have come to England to find out why my mother killed herself! Are you happy now?’

Jack’s face was a picture of shock. Celeste, even more shocked than he at her impulsive admission, sucked in great breaths of air.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jack said after a brief silence. ‘Celeste, I’m so very sorry.’

He reached out, as if he would put his arms around her. For a brief moment, she was tempted to accept the comfort of his embrace, and that shocked her almost as much as her blurting out the shameful truth to a man she barely knew. She pushed him away, rather too roughly, though she was beyond caring about that. Then suddenly quite drained, she sank on to the bench beside him.

* * *

Suicide. Jack could think of no subject more guaranteed to engage his attention and his sympathy. He clenched his fists. He would try his damnedest to help this woman. That would, at least, be something.

Beside him Celeste was pale, angry and on the verge of tears, though she seemed absolutely determined not to cry. She was looking at him very warily too, most likely already resenting him for forcing her to blurt out something so private and shocking.

‘You can trust me,’ Jack said once more. ‘If I am able to help you, I will.’

‘Why would you?’ she demanded baldly. ‘You’re virtually a stranger.’

He pondered how to answer this without arousing her suspicions. It had cost her a good deal to ask for help, which made him wonder that someone so beautiful and so attractive and so talented should be so bereft of confidantes. ‘A stranger with too much time on his hands, and not enough to occupy his mind,’ he said, which had the benefit of being true. ‘A stranger who has had some experience in such matters,’ he added, which was, tragically, also true.

‘What experience? Jack? I said what experience?’

He realised some time had elapsed since Celeste had posed the question. He dragged his mind back, with some relief, to the present and managed a dismissive shrug, as if he had been merely assembling his thoughts. ‘When a man is battle-weary, an extreme melancholy can make him think death offers the only release. No one can persuade him that the melancholy will eventually pass. In extreme cases, the man becomes so desperate as to take matters into his own hands as your mother did. Soldiers are trained not to show their feelings, and very often in such cases, the outcome is totally unexpected and, to those left behind, wholly inexplicable. Like you, they are left with unanswered questions.’

‘And how do these bereaved families set about gaining answers?’

They didn’t, was the honest answer, in most cases. Jack could no more explain it than the poor unfortunates who took their own lives could. All he could offer was platitudes. He looked at Celeste, no longer distrustful but hanging on his words, the faintest trace of hope flickering in her eyes. He could not bear to douse it with a cold bucket of truth. If he could somehow help her, if he could find the answers for her that he had been unable to provide for others, then perhaps it would help atone. A little. Even a little atonement was better than none. ‘Perhaps it would help,’ he prevaricated, ‘if you could tell me the circumstances of your mother’s death first. It must have come as a terrible shock.’

‘We were not close.’ Perhaps recognising the defensive note in her voice, Celeste made a helpless gesture. ‘I live in Paris. My mother lived in Cassis, in the south. I received her letter in January this year. She was already— It was already— I—my mother was already dead. Drowned. She drowned herself.’

Celeste blinked rapidly. Though he could not see, for they were obscured by her smock, Jack was willing to bet that her hands were painfully clasped. Yet there was a defiant tilt to her head, as if she was daring herself to submit to whatever emotions ensnared her in their grasp.

As a soldier, he was well versed in the art of managing grief. An iron will and rigid self-control had vital roles to play in combat. In battle, you put the living before the dead. It was why other soldiers got so uproariously drunk afterwards. It was why they sought out brothels and taverns, to laugh and to lose themselves, because they could not cry, but they could counter death with a lust for life, and they could later blame their tears on an excess of gin.

But Celeste was not a soldier, and the dead woman was her mother, not a comrade. Though like a soldier, she seemed determined not to crack under the strain. Instinctively, he knew any attempt to comfort her would not be welcome. Jack sat up, putting a little distance between them. ‘This letter— You said her letter? Do you mean...?’

‘Yes, my mother wrote to me to inform me she was about to commit suicide. It was, in essence, a letter from beyond the grave.’

Unable to stop himself, Jack reached for her hands. As he had suspected, they were tightly clasped. He covered them with his own. She stiffened, but made no attempt to repel him. He felt a sharp pang of sympathy. It was not just grief she was holding on so tightly to, but a hefty dose of guilt. Anger at her mother’s act shook him. He bit back the words of blame, knowing full well they were irrational and undeserved, and unlikely to cause Celeste anything but pain. ‘Dear God. I am so sorry.’

‘There is no need. It was a shock. I admit it was a shock, but once I had recovered from that, I read the letter in the hope that it would at least provide some sort of explanation for what, to me, was an incomprehensible act.’ Now she did pull her hands free. ‘Mais non, nothing so straightforward from my mother. I should have known better than to have expected her to change the habits of a lifetime. It was more of a riddle than an explanation, sent in the full knowledge that by the time I received it, she would not be available to help solve it.’

Her anger simmered, the heat of it palpable. ‘Celeste, she would not have been thinking rationally. To take such drastic action, she must have been very desperate,’ Jack said, knowing the words were utterly inadequate, though none the less true.

‘I don’t doubt that. Though not desperate enough to ask for my help.’ Her lip quivered. The tension in her shoulders, the gaze fixed on her lap, made it clear that sympathy was the last thing she desired, but the raw pain was there, hidden under a mask of bitterness and anger. ‘That letter...’ She stopped to take a calming breath. ‘It is not only that there is no explanation. That letter raises a list of questions I wouldn’t even have known to ask.’

Questions. Such cases always raised more questions than answers. Answers which were so rarely found and which allowed guilt to flourish amid the uncertainty. Jack had written countless letters to the loved ones of his men who died in battle, emphasising the glory, and the valour and painlessness of death. Lies, all lies, but beneath the glossing over of reality lay one inalienable truth. They had died doing their duty for their country. Their death had a purpose.

The others, though, the families of those thankfully rare cases where death had been self-inflicted, they had no such truths to console them for what he had once, God forgive him, thought the most heinous of crimes. He searched for Celeste’s hands once more, gripping them tightly. ‘This letter, it’s a great deal more than most have in such circumstances. Will you tell me what she said, and then I will be able to see how I might be able to help you?’

She considered it, looking at him earnestly, but eventually shook her head. ‘Not yet. I can’t.’ She slipped from his grasp, getting to her feet with an apologetic look. ‘I appreciate you sharing your experience of what is a painful and delicate subject. And for being so careful of my feelings. I do not discount your offer to help—it is most generous, but I must consider it carefully. The emotions involved are intensely private. Do you understand?’

Much as he wished to, he resisted the temptation to press her, because he did understand that, only too well. Jack got wearily to his feet. ‘I have no other demands on my time or my services, so please take as much time as you need.’

* * *

Following a sleepless night, Celeste felt wrung out like one of her painting rags after washing. In the end, she had decided to trust Jack. She could not imagine having the conversation they’d had yesterday with a complete stranger, and she could not expect that a complete stranger would have demonstrated the tact or level of understanding Jack had of such matters.

It was not really such a leap of faith when she laid it out logically like that, to trust him. But it was not logic which ultimately convinced her. It was only after he had left her, when she had recovered from the dull ache precipitated by speaking of her mother’s death, that she realised how difficult it must have been for him to talk so sensitively on such a delicate matter. Soldiers were men of war. Soldiers were tough, and brave and bold. English soldiers were famous for their courage and their staunchness in the face of adversity. They did not cry. They did not fear. They most certainly did not have a conscience. Or so she’d thought. Assumed, she corrected herself, because until she met Jack, Celeste thought shamefully, she hadn’t actually thought about it much at all.

She remembered the reports in the newspapers after Waterloo. Death on the battlefield was neither clean nor quick. It was no wonder that the men who fought suffered from—what was it Jack had called it?—an extreme melancholy after witnessing all that horror and suffering. Was Jack suffering from that too? There had been moments yesterday when she thought he spoke from personal experience. But then he did, she reminded herself, thinking of the letters he’d mentioned having to write. The point was he understood and that was why she could trust him.

‘May I come in?’

As if she had summoned him, the man himself stood in the doorway of Celeste’s temporary studio. Dressed in a pair of tight-fitting pantaloons which showed off his long legs to good effect, and a coat which enhanced his broad shoulders, his cravat was neatly tied, and his jaw freshly shaved.

‘You look very—handsomely dressed,’ Celeste said, taken by surprise once more by the force of the attraction she felt for him. The clothes of an English gentleman not only accentuated his muscular physique, but they also, somehow, accentuated the fact that the man wearing them was not always a gentleman. In fact he was just a little bit dangerous. And, yes, a trifle intimidating too.

‘Which is a polite way of saying I look a lot less shoddy than normal,’ Jack said, closing the door behind him. ‘You, if I may say so, look as ravishing as usual. And believe me, I have seen my fair share of beauties. A perk of the job, working on Wellington’s staff.’

‘So his reputation, the French press did not exaggerate it?’

‘I doubt it possible.’

Celeste smiled, but the sight of the letter sitting where she had lain it in preparation made it a forced affair. She picked it up, but despite her resolve, found herself surprisingly reluctant to hand it over. ‘Are you still— Your offer to help, is it still open?’

‘Of course. I want very much to—’

‘Only I would not wish to presume,’ Celeste interrupted, ‘and it occurred to me that perhaps you offered only because you felt a little sorry for me.’

‘No. I understand what you are experiencing, that is all, and I wish to prevent you from— Is that the letter?’ Jack said, holding out his hand.

‘Yes.’ Celeste still kept a firm grip on it. ‘I don’t know what people commonly write in such missives...’

‘Most do not write anything,’ Jack said, ‘as far as I am aware. Or they merely reassure their families that they love them.’

‘Well, in that one regard my mother has followed the custom,’ Celeste said acerbically, ‘though it is the one thing I know for certain to be a lie.’ A brief silence met this remark. She flushed, annoyed at having betrayed herself. ‘It is more of a puzzle than it is a confession,’ she said, gazing down at the letter again. ‘I admit it has me baffled. What we need is someone to make sense of it—what on earth have I said to amuse you?’

‘Not amused, so much as taken aback, I am sorry,’ Jack said, his expression once more serious. ‘It’s just that solving puzzles is—was—my stock in trade. I have a certain reputation as an expert in acrostics. My brother would be shocked at your ignorance, for he mistakenly delights in my minor fame.’ He took her hand. ‘Celeste, I was Wellington’s code-breaker.’

She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry, but I truly am ignorant of these things.’ She broke off, staring as the implications of what Jack had said finally dawned on her. ‘Code-breaker? Do you mean you were a spy?’

‘After a fashion, though not, I suspect, in quite the way you are imagining. Not so much cloak and dagger as pen and paper. Information,’ Jack clarified. ‘Contrary to what civilians believe, wars are not won on the battlefield. Obviously, the battlefield is where matters are finally resolved, but getting there at the right time, in the correct field positions, having the men and the horses and the artillery all lined up, and knowing your enemy—his strategies, his positions, his plans, his firepower—that’s what wins or loses a war. Having a retreat planned if required. And knowing what you’re going to do if you break through his ranks—those matter too. You’ve no idea how many battles are lost when a commander in the field gets too far ahead of himself, or finds himself in retreat when no organised withdrawal has been planned.’

‘You are right, I have absolutely no idea.’

Jack laughed. ‘Put simply, information is what an army thrives on. My role was to assimilate that information to allow the generals to plot their campaigns and I did that by cracking codes, by piecing together different snippets from different sources and assembling them in an order that made sense. Solving puzzles, in other words.’

‘And that, I am pleased to say, does make sense.’ Without giving herself the chance to rethink the decision again, Celeste handed Jack the letter.

‘Thank you. May I read it now?’

Her nerves jangling, she nodded. Jack sat down on the chaise longue which she had positioned in front of her easel. Unable to watch him, she busied herself, opening her precious box of paints and making an unnecessary inventory of the powders and pigments in their glass vials, of her brushes and oils. Behind her, she could hear the faintest rustle of paper worn thin by her many readings. A squeak, which must be Jack’s boots as he shifted in his seat. Another rustle. He was taking an age. He must have gone back to the beginning. She wondered if she should set about stretching a canvas, but immediately abandoned the idea. Her hands were shaking. She began to rearrange her paints again.

‘I’m finished.’

Celeste whirled around, dropping a vial of cadmium-yellow which, fortunately for her and the floor covering, landed softly on a rug without breaking. Cursing under her breath, she snatched it up and put it back in her box before joining Jack on the sofa. ‘What is your verdict?’

‘I think you must have been shocked to the core when you read this the first time.’

She gave a shaky laugh. ‘It was certainly unexpected.’

‘Unexpected!’ Jack swore. ‘You had no inkling of anything it contained?’

‘No. I told you we were not close. En effet, my mother and I were estranged.’ She was aware of Jack’s eyes on her, studying her carefully. It made her uncomfortable, for while she refused to become emotional, she suspected that emotional is precisely what anyone else would be under the circumstances. She gazed resolutely down at her hands. ‘As to the man I believed to be my father, he was always distant. From the beginning, I sensed he resented me. At least now I know why.’

‘You were not his child.’

‘So it would seem,’ she said with a shrug.

‘You’re very matter-of-fact about something so important.’

‘I have had eight months to become accustomed to it.’

Jack eyed her doubtfully. ‘But you’re not accustomed to it, are you? Despite your mother’s positively begging you not to pursue the questions she raises, here you are in England, doing exactly that. It obviously matters a great deal to you.’

Celeste’s hackles rose. ‘I am curious, that’s all,’ she said. Even to her, this sounded like far too much of an understatement. ‘Well, would not you be?’ She crossed her arms. ‘You said yourself only yesterday, people—the ones who are left behind—desire answers. Even when we are advised from beyond the grave not to pursue them. Do not tell me that you would have folded the letter up and forgotten all about it as my mother bids me, Jack Trestain, because I would not believe you.’

‘No, I wouldn’t do that, but neither would I be sitting here pretending that it was merely a matter of satisfying my curiosity either. For God’s sake, Celeste, it’s your mother we’re talking about, not a distant aunt,’ Jack exclaimed. ‘She drowned herself. She made sure that this letter wouldn’t reach you until she was dead. She then alludes to some tragedy in her past being the reason, and caps it all with the revelation that the man you thought all your life was your father is not actually your father, and fails to inform you of the identity of the man who is.”

Jack held the letter out at arm’s length. ‘“Though I write this with the heaviest of hearts,”’ he read, ‘“knowing that I will never see you again, I am thankful that at least this time I have the opportunity to say goodbye.” Your mother’s opening words. What about the fact that she denied you the opportunity to say goodbye to her? Aren’t you upset about that?’

Celeste didn’t want him to be angry on her behalf. If anyone was entitled to be angry with her mother it was she, and she was not. In order to be angry she would need to care, and she did not. She didn’t want Jack to care either. She wanted him to treat this as an intellectual exercise, devoid of emotion. Like breaking a code. ‘You said yourself, she was most likely not in a rational frame of mind. At the end of her tether. Perhaps even a little bit out of her mind. There is no point in my becoming upset. It achieves nothing. Besides, I’ve told you, we were not remotely close.’

‘And if you say that it doesn’t trouble you often enough, you think I’ll eventually believe you.’

Celeste flinched. ‘I don’t care what you believe. Next, you will be telling me that my mother loved me despite a lifetime’s evidence to the contrary.’

‘That is exactly what she claims in her letter.’

‘Yes, from beyond the grave, safe from any challenge to the contrary. How am I to believe it when I have nothing, no evidence at all, to support it? All my life—all my life, Jack!—she pushed me away. And now this. I don’t believe her. How can I believe her? Of course I don’t believe her. C’est impossible!’

Celeste jumped to her feet, turning her back on him to stare out at the long, bland stretch of lawn, struggling desperately to get her unaccustomed flash of temper under control. ‘You have to understand,’ she continued in a more measured tone, ‘it was similar when I was growing up. Always, my mother managed to find a way of refusing to answer questions. Why have I no aunts or uncles? Why must we never speak English except when alone? Why have I no grandparents or even a cousin, as all the other children at school have? Why are you so sad, Maman? Why does Papa hate me? At least now I have the answer to that last question. Papa was not, in fact, my papa at all.’

Tears filled her eyes. Celeste swallowed hard on the jagged lump in her throat, staring determinedly out at the lawn. ‘I have endured a lifetime of silences and rejection, so really that letter was in essence one final example. Don’t tell me that she loved me, Jack. I know what she wrote, I don’t have to read that letter again to see the words dance in front of my eyes, but that’s all they are. Just words.’

‘If it doesn’t matter, if it truly doesn’t matter, then why then are you so intent on digging up the past?’ Jack put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to turn and face him. ‘You do realise that what you discover might be hurtful.’

‘Not to me. My hurt is all in the past. All I am doing is filling in the blanks, the missing pieces of my mother’s history. I want to understand why she behaved as she did. I want to know who my real father is. I think I am entitled to know that, but I do not want to meet him, or indeed my mother’s family. I’m not expecting anyone to kill the fatted calf and welcome me into their home. I am aware that I am most likely a bastard. Knowing is sufficient for me.’

‘Your mother’s history is your history too, Celeste. You might be better off not knowing it. Sometimes it’s better to leave the past behind you.’

‘Or bury it so deeply that you can pretend it never happened, that it can no longer harm you?’ She pulled herself free of his hold. ‘But what if the ghosts refuse to stay buried, Jack? What if they continue to haunt you?’

His face paled. ‘What the devil are you implying?’

She had not meant anything in particular. Intent only on silencing his relentless probing, it seemed she had inadvertently struck a raw nerve. It would be dangerous to push him further but it was time to let him sample a little of his own medicine. ‘I have no idea why my mother went to such extremes to make me hate her, but I do know that I need to find out why. I need to understand. I need answers, Jack, while you—you seem so very determined to avoid asking the questions.’

‘What questions?’

There was no mistaking the icy tone in his voice, but she ignored it. She was becoming very interested indeed in how he would respond. ‘What is it that prevents you eating and sleeping? What is it that makes you stop in the middle of a conversation and—and disappear? As if you are no longer there. What is it that makes—?’

‘What is it that stops you from crying, Celeste? What is it that prevents you from admitting that your mother’s death affected you? Ask yourself those, more pertinent questions.’

Jack turned towards the door. Furious, uncaring that she had now achieved her objective, Celeste grabbed his arm. ‘You see, you are running away from the truth. Why won’t you talk about it?’

‘Take your hands off me. Now.’

She had gone too far. She knew it would be insane to push him further, but she knew with certainty that was exactly what she was going to do. Celeste tilted her chin and met his stormy eyes. ‘No.’

She half-expected him to strike her, but he made no such move. Instead, he pulled her towards him until they stood thigh to thigh, chest to chest. She was still angry, but her body responded immediately to the contact with a shiver of delight. ‘I am not afraid of you,’ Celeste said, tilting her head at him.

‘I know,’ Jack said. ‘It’s part of your appeal.’

Chapter Four

Jack’s blood stirred at the first touch of her lips on his. He pulled her tight against him and kissed her more deeply. She returned his kiss with equal fervour. He’d been half-expecting her to slap him. He had kissed her merely to turn the tables on her. Now she was turning the tables back on him, just by reciprocating.

He had been angry. Nay, furious. Now his temper had vanished, burst as easily as a bubble by her touch. A gust of longing twisted his gut. He had not felt desire for such a long time. He could not recall ever feeling desire like this. Nothing to do with abstinence. Everything to do with this woman.

His fingers were shaking as he flattened his hand over her shoulder. This was not what he had intended. She was looking at him, her eyes wide open, watching him. Not afraid of him, though there was something there in her eyes he recognised. Yearning. Yes, and fear of the intensity of that yearning. He ought to stop. She should insist that he stop. He slid his hand down to cup her bottom and kissed her again. He needed, wanted, more. His body demanded it.

Her breathing quickened with his. Her fingers strayed into his hair. Her mouth was on his cheek, her lips warm, soft, little flicks of her tongue on his jaw, the corner of his mouth, licking along his lower lip, nipping, licking, until he could no longer stifle a moan of desire, and she gave an answering sigh.

He abandoned himself to her kisses, to the heat of her touch, to the fever of passion which had him in its iron grip. Their mouths locked. Their tongues thrust and tangled greedily. His hands were on her back, her bottom. Her fingers roamed wildly over him, his back, shoulders, tugging at his coat, clutching at his flanks.

He was achingly hard. He cupped her breasts, frustrated by the layers of her clothing, the impediment of her corsets. He dipped his head to kiss the soft swell of her cleavage, inhaling the sweet smell of her, relishing the shudder of her breath, the rapid beat of her heart, knowing that he had done this to her, that she was doing the same to him.

Their kisses grew ragged. His thirst for her was not remotely quenched. His coat was hanging off by one arm. He shrugged himself free of it, pressing her against the wall of the studio. She moaned, tugging his shirt from his pantaloons, flattening her hands on his back. Her skin on his. He hadn’t thought he could get any harder. His erection throbbed. A long strand of her white-blonde hair had escaped its pins to lie against the biscuit-coloured skin of her bosom.

He had never wanted any woman this much. His erection pressed into her belly. He slid his hand inside the neckline of her gown to envelop the fullness of her breast. When he touched the hard peak of her nipple she cried out, the distinctive sound of a woman on the verge of a climax. He felt the answering tingling in the tip of his shaft that precluded his own. Shocked, he pulled himself free, hazily aware that she was pushing him away.

What the hell? It was no consolation at all to see his own question reflected in her face. He couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. He could, unfortunately, think of a hundred things he wanted to do. Needed to do. Urgently. Jack swore long and hard under his breath. Breathe. Don’t think about it. But he couldn’t take his eyes of her. She hadn’t moved. Head and shoulders against the wall. Eyes closed. Breathing slowly. Measured breaths like his. Hands curled into fists like his. Cheeks flushed with desire, no doubt as his were. That long tendril of hair lying across her breast. He reached for it, caught himself, took a step back and tumbled against the leg of a table.

Celeste opened her eyes. Jack pushed his hair back from his face. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then she stood up, tucked the strand of hair behind her ears, straightened her shoulders. ‘Bien, at least now we know that it was not a product of circumstances, that kiss in the Topiary Garden.’ Her voice was shaky, but she made no attempt to avoid his gaze.

‘The one you insisted was just a kiss,’ he said.

‘As I recall, you agreed with me.’

‘Because I thought I had exaggerated its effect on me.’

‘And what about this time?’

He shook his head. ‘No. It would not be possible to exaggerate how that just felt. Frankly, it was almost too much.’

‘For both of us,’ Celeste said wryly.

Would another woman have denied it? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she did not. It made his own instinct to pretend nothing had happened, or to pretend nothing so—so— No, he would not try to quantify it, and he would not try to deny it. ‘Do you regret it?’ Jack asked as he self-consciously tucked his shirt back into his pantaloons.

She had been rearranging the neckline of her gown, but at that she looked up. ‘Why should I?’

There was an edge in her words that took him aback. He had asked her, he realised now, purely because it was the sort of thing he thought he ought to ask. He knew he ought to regret his actions, but he could not. He was too elated to have the proof that it had not been a fluke, his reaction to that first kiss. Elated to know that whatever was wrong with him, lack of desire was no longer an integral part of it. Frustrated—hell, yes, he was frustrated. But he was also— Yes, he was also still a little bit afraid of the reaction she had provoked in him. And more than a little afraid of the consequences if he had not stopped.

‘I have never been one of those women who pretend they have no desires of their own.’ Celeste’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Nor am I the kind of woman who pretends that such physical desires represent anything more significant, Jack.’

‘You’re warning me off. There’s no need, I assure you. At this moment in time, my only ambition is to get myself through the day—’ He broke off, realising too late what he’d admitted, remembering, suddenly, why he had kissed her in the first place. And now he’d given her the perfect opening to start again.

But to his surprise, her expression softened. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is how I have felt since—since.’ She blinked rapidly, and forced a smile. ‘It is a good thing, this—this—between us, because now I know that I am recovering myself— No, that is not the correct expression.’

‘Slowly getting back to normal?’

‘Yes. That is it. That is what this is, yes? We are both adults. We are obviously well suited as regards—kissing,’ Celeste said, flushing. ‘We need not pretend it is anything else, no?’

He was most likely imagining the pleading note in her voice. It was most likely his male ego that wanted to believe she was much more confused by what had happened between them than she appeared. As confused as he was? ‘You’re right,’ Jack said with a conviction he was far from feeling.

Celeste nodded. ‘Yes. It makes sense, what I said.’

It did. Perfect sense. So it was pointless wondering why she sounded as unconvinced as he. ‘So,’ Jack said in a bracing voice that made him cringe, ‘talking of getting back to normal, perhaps we should concentrate on these questions your mother has raised. Do you have any other clues, save the letter?’

If she noticed anything odd in his voice, she chose not to comment on it. ‘A couple of things. There is this, for what it’s worth, which is not a lot.’ Celeste unclasped the locket from her neck and handed it to him. ‘It came with the letter. My mother always wore it. I don’t think I ever saw her without it.’

Jack turned the oval locket over in his hand, examining it carefully. The metal was slightly tarnished so it was difficult to tell, but it looked like it might be gold or, more likely rose-gold, a cheaper alloy. It was embellished with a fleur-de-lis design. Around the rim were laurel leaves set with clear stones and in the centre was set a larger blue one.

‘It’s just a trinket,’ Celeste said dismissively, ‘though a pretty one.’

‘I’m no expert,’ Jack said, ‘but the design is very fine, most intricately worked. See these hinges? They are very high quality indeed and not at all commonplace. I think it may be more valuable than you think.’

In fact, he was pretty sure that the smaller stones were diamonds, and that the blue stone was a sapphire. As a consequence the locket was more than likely commissioned, and indeed, on the back he noted tiny symbols, probably the goldsmith’s mark. Which might make it, and the owner’s name, traceable. But he could not be certain, and so, as was his custom, he kept his own counsel rather than raise Celeste’s hopes prematurely. ‘Do you mind if I open it?’ he asked.

‘If you wish.’

She shrugged, but he was becoming attuned to her many permutations of shrug, and Jack knew this one for feigned indifference. When he eased open the catch, he could understand why. Inside were two miniature portraits, one on each side. The first, of a flaxen-haired child, was obviously Celeste. The second, facing it, was of an older woman, her pale hair pulled tightly back from her forehead. Aside from the eyes, which were blue, the resemblance between mother and daughter was very strong, but when he said so, Celeste frowned.

‘Do you think so?’

He was surprised by the uncertainty in her voice. ‘She is unmistakably your mother, and clearly the source of your own beauty.’

Celeste touched the miniature with the tip of her finger. ‘She was beautiful. I had forgotten.’

‘May I ask her name?’

Celeste snatched her hand away. ‘Blythe.’

‘They seem to me to have been painted as a pair,’ Jack said. ‘I’m no expert, but...’

‘No, you are right. Both are by my mother’s hand.’ She had herself firmly under control again, and spoke in that cool way of hers he’d initially mistaken for detachment. ‘Unusually, actually, for she mostly painted the landscapes around Cassis. The fishing boats, the calanques—the limestone cliffs and inlets which punctuate the coast. I have never seen another portrait painted by her.’

Which made this pair all the more touching, Jack thought. He was tempted to say so, but hesitated, remembering her reaction earlier, when he had pushed her on her feelings. And she had pushed him straight back. A salutary lesson, he reckoned, in how not to go about extracting information. ‘Cassis,’ he said instead. ‘The village where you grew up?’

Celeste treated him to one of her shrugs. The feigned indifference one again. ‘Paris has been my home for many years.’

‘I remember, you said you were sent there to school when you were—ten?’

‘Yes. And stayed on to study art.’

‘You were very young to be sent so very far from home.’

‘It was a very good school.’

She would not meet his eyes. Another sensitive subject. ‘You mentioned there was another clue?’ Jack said, once more deciding that the best policy would be to bide his time.

She handed him a small packet of stitched muslin. Inside was a man’s signet ring. ‘I found it when I went to Cassis to close the house up after—after,’ Celeste said. ‘I was taking Maman’s paintings down. This was sewn to the back of her favourite canvas. It must have been there for years. I have no idea what it signifies. It clearly does not belong to my mother.’ She leaned across him to peer down at the ring. ‘The markings, I thought perhaps were a family crest. That might lead us somewhere,’ she said, looking at him hopefully.

‘It looks to me more likely to be a military crest. I’m not sure of the regiment. I would need to check.’

‘Military? Why on earth would my mother have such a thing in her possession?’

‘It’s a good question.’

‘As if we don’t have enough questions already. Do you think you can help, Jack?’

He studied the ring with an ominous sense of foreboding. ‘I can try.’

* * *

The next morning, a soft breeze blew up as Celeste walked with Jack along a path which led from the far end of the lake, over a gentle rise to an ancient oak, underneath the spread of which was a wooden bench. The view was prettily bucolic, bathed in the golden early-morning light. They stood on top of the hill while Jack pointed out the spire of St Mary’s Church some five miles away, where Lady Eleanor’s father was the vicar, and closer, the many-gabled rooftops of Trestain Manor. Golden fields of half-harvested wheat contrasted with the dark-green tunnels of hops, while the low, thatched roofs of the farm buildings and cottages contrasted with the distinctive, conical roofs of two oast houses where the hops were roasted.

Celeste was entranced, her charcoal flying over page after page of her sketchbook, while Jack, seated on the bench under the tree, filled her in on some of the history of what she was drawing. He was back to his usual garb of leather breeches and boots, a shirt without either waistcoat or coat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. The skin of his right arm was already turning golden-brown. She would like to draw him like this, his long, booted legs stretched out in front of him, his hair falling over his forehead, the curve of his mouth in a lazy smile. That mouth, the source of such intoxicating kisses.

Desire knotted in her belly. She had never before tumbled so perilously close to completion after a few kisses. The rapidity of her arousal had caught her completely unawares. When he had touched her nipple...

Celeste inhaled sharply. Even now, the memory of it was enough to heat her. And to frighten her. All very well to thank Jack for bringing her body back to life as she more or less had, rather embarrassingly, yesterday, but he had brought it to a place it had never been before. Her claim that abstinence had somehow attenuated what Jack’s kisses did to her felt faintly ridiculous now. In her whole life, she had taken four lovers, and there had been two years between the first and second, yet she knew with certainty that none had made her feel the way Jack did.

The natural conclusion, that it was not circumstances but this man, this very particular man, was what had kept her awake last night. Clearly there was something, some force, some element, some quirk of nature, which made their bodies so well matched. This explanation, she should have found comforting, but for some reason, she did not. If it had not been so reasonable, she would have been inclined to dismiss it as wrong.

‘Is Mademoiselle ready to partake of breakfast now?’

Celeste jumped, staring down at blankly her half-finished sketch. Her charcoal was on the grass beside her. How long had she been daydreaming? At least with her back turned to him, Jack would not have noticed. Or if he had, he had decided not to comment, she thought with relief. There was nothing worse than being asked what it was one was thinking, for it was inevitably something one did not wish to share. It had been unkind of her to mention those lost moments of Jack’s yesterday. Call it daydreaming, call it disappearing, as she had, wherever they were, they were private. His and his alone.

She gave him an apologetic smile as she joined him on the grass, leaning her back against the bench. ‘Thank you.’

He quirked his brow but said nothing, pulling the hamper they had brought with them out from beneath the shade of the tree before spreading a blanket out. There was fresh-baked bread, butter and cheese, a flask of coffee and some peaches. ‘Picked fresh this morning, and though they are ripe,’ he said, sniffing the soft fruit, ‘I don’t expect they’ll be anything like what you’re used to. Our English sun is just not strong enough.’

Celeste stretched her face up to the sky, closing her eyes and relishing the heat on her skin. ‘It is a good deal warmer than I expected. I don’t think I have seen a drop of English rain yet.’

‘You will. One merely has to wait a few days.’

Jack handed her a cup of coffee. Celeste tore off a piece of bread, burying her nose in the delicious, yeasty smell of it. ‘Another myth. I was told that the English cannot bake good bread, but this is most acceptable.’

‘A high compliment indeed from a Frenchwoman.’ He handed her a slice of cheese and laughed when she sniffed that too, wrinkling her nose. ‘Try it, you might be surprised.’

She did, and was forced to admit that, like the bread, it was excellent. ‘Though it breaks my French heart to do so,’ she added, smiling over her coffee cup.

‘But you’re half-English, are you not?’

‘I suppose I am, though I don’t feel it. I think one has to be part of a country before one feels any sense of belonging. All this,’ Celeste said, spreading her arms wide at the sweeping view, ‘it feels so alien to me.’

‘Maybe that’s because you’re a Parisian.’

Celeste laughed. ‘When I first arrived in Paris, I felt such an outsider. It was as if everyone but me knew a secret and they were all whispering about it behind my back. Even after fifteen years, I’m still not considered a genuine Parisian. I don’t have that je ne sais quoi, that air about me. To the true Parisians, I will always be an incomer.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Jack said. ‘Paris, it’s always seemed to me, is a city that only reveals itself at night, and even then, you have to know where to look. I always sense the best elements are just round the next corner, or along the next boulevard. In Paris, I always feel as if I’m on the outside looking in. It’s not like London at all.’

‘I have never visited London. I hope to go there before I return to France.’ Celeste broke off another piece of bread and accepted a second piece of cheese which Jack cut for her. ‘You have been away from England a long time,’ she said. ‘Does it still feel like home?’

He paused in the act of quartering a peach. ‘Charlie wants me to buy an estate and settle down. I never did share his love for country life, though he seems to have conveniently forgotten that.’

‘Perhaps it would be different if you had been the eldest son, if Trestain Manor belonged to you and not to your brother?’

Jack laughed. ‘Lord, no, I’d be bored senseless. It was always the army for me, so it’s as well I’m the second son and not the first.’ He handed her the peach. ‘What about you? Have you never thought of going back to live in your fishing village?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you miss it? I used to miss all this,’ Jack said. ‘Even though I wouldn’t want to live here, it’s my childhood home.’

Celeste stared at the quarter of peach in her hand. ‘The house in Cassis was where I lived. It was never a home.’ Her voice sounded odd, even to her own ears. She was, yet again, on the brink of tears for no reason. It was Jack’s fault. All she wanted him to do was help her unravel the mystery of her mother’s past, but for some reason, he persisted in linking that past with her own. He seemed to have the knack of inflaming her emotions as well as her body. She set the peach down. ‘Paris is my home,’ she said, as if repeating it would make it more true. Not that it needed to be more true. It was true.

She thought of the house where she had grown up. The distinctive creak of the front door. The very different creak of the fifth stair which had a broken tread. The way the floors always seemed to echo when she walked, signalling her presence too loudly. She tried to close her mind to the memories, but they would not stop flowing. It was Jack’s fault. This was all Jack’s fault.

On her last visit, after receiving the letter, she had packed up every one of her mother’s paintings. They lay in crates now, stacked in a corner of her Paris studio. She couldn’t bear to look at them but nor could she bear to dispose of them. The rest of the house she had left as it was.

She shook her head. She was aware of Jack, sipping his coffee, pretending not to study her, but the ghosts of the past had too strong a claim on her. Her mother on the cliff top painting, her hair covered by a horrible cap, her body draped in shapeless brown. Her mother’s face, starkly beautiful in the miniature inside her locket, strained and sad. Her mother’s paintings were all of the coast and the sea which took her. The sea which she had abandoned herself to, without giving Celeste a chance to save her. The beautiful, cruel sea, which her mother had chosen to embrace, rather than her own daughter.

The pain was unexpected. Nothing so clichéd as a stab to the heart; it was duller, weightier, like a heavy blow to the stomach. At least this time I have the opportunity to say goodbye, her mother had written, so certain that Celeste cared so little she would not wish to do the same. With good cause, for Celeste had made it very clear, after Henri died...

A tear rolled down her cheek. Her throat was clogged. She couldn’t speak. She was filled with the most unbearable sadness. What was wrong with her! She never cried. Had never cried. Now, hardly a day went by where she teetered on the verge of stupid, stupid tears.

In the distance, the chime of St Mary’s heralded noon. She dabbed frantically at her eyes with her napkin. She never carried a handkerchief.

‘Celeste?’

Jack! It was his fault for dredging all this up. His fault for making her so on edge. She jumped to her feet and snatched up her sketchbook. ‘I have the headache,’ she said. ‘I have no more paper. I need to rest. I need more charcoal.’

She was fleeing, just as Jack had, after that first kiss, and she did not care. All that mattered was that he did not stop her. She barely noticed in her anxiety to escape that he made absolutely no attempt to do so.

Chapter Five

‘So this is where you’re hiding.’

Celeste forced herself to turn around slowly. Jack stood hesitantly in the doorway, dressed in his customary breeches and boots. She willed the flush of embarrassment she could feel creeping up her neck not to show on her face. ‘It is safe to come in,’ she said. ‘I am not going to descend into a fit of hysterics or stamp my feet or even run away again.’

He strode over to her, his relief obvious. ‘I’m sorry, Celeste,’ he said. ‘It was not my intention to cause you upset yesterday.’

‘Cassis was not a happy place for me when I was growing up,’ she said carefully. ‘I don’t like to talk of it or even think of those days. En effet, I never do. It is in the past where it belongs.’

And she would make sure it remained there. It sounded contrary, considering the accusations she had flung at Jack yesterday, but their cases were not the same, she had decided after another sleepless night. She had come to terms with her past, he had not. What she needed to concentrate on now was dealing with her mother’s past. Which was a separate issue.

Slanting a look at Jack, she was not surprised to catch him studying her, but she was relieved when he nodded his acceptance, albeit reluctantly. ‘Charlie,’ he said, turning his attention to the portrait she had been examining. ‘Aged about five, I think. What brings you to the portrait gallery?’

‘I was interested to see how the estate had been depicted previously, to avoid the risk of replicating any existing works.’

‘Ah, so you’re here purely in the name of artistic research and not at all out of curiosity?’

Celeste smiled. ‘Naturally.’ She turned to the next work, a family portrait, which showed a youthful Jack and Charlie sitting at their parents’ feet. ‘You looked much more alike as children than you do as adults. You both take after your mother rather than your father, I fancy.’

‘So my mother was forever saying. It was a matter of pride to her that Charlie and I bore the McDonald countenance and not the Trestain visage,’ Jack said, reaching out to draw the outline of his mother’s face on the canvas with his finger. ‘She was a Scot, and verrrrry, verrrry proud of the fact,’ he said in a ham-fisted attempt at a Scottish burr.

‘You miss her?’

‘She died when I was in Spain, about six years ago. But, yes, I do miss her. She wanted me to join the Scots Greys, but my father put his foot down on that one. Nevertheless, she always claimed that my fighting spirit as well as my nose came from her side of the family. Here she is, a good deal younger, in her wedding portrait, with my maternal grandfather.’

Celeste eyed the picture of the fierce man in Highland dress. He looked very much like Jack did when he was angry. ‘Would you have had to wear one of those skirts if you joined the—the...’

‘Scots Greys. No, only the Highland regiments wear kilts.’

‘Tant pis. That is a pity. It would suit you uncommonly well, I think,’ Celeste said. ‘You have the most excellent legs for it.’

‘You speak merely as an observant artist, of course?’

She felt herself colour slightly. ‘Naturally. Is there a picture of you wearing your regimental uniform?’

Jack rolled his eyes. ‘In full ceremonial dress, no less, looking like I’ve a poker up my—looking as if I’ve swallowed a poker. Charlie commissioned it when I was promoted. Here, take a quick look if you must.’

He put his arm around her shoulders and steered her to the far end of the small gallery, where the portrait, in its expensive gilt frame, was hung to take best advantage of the light. ‘Your brother must have spent a small fortune on this,’ Celeste said, raising her brows at the artist’s signature. ‘A full-length study. He is obviously very proud of you, Lieutenant-Colonel.’ She waited for Jack’s customary glower at any mention of the army, but to her surprise it did not surface.

He looked very forbidding in the portrait. His hair was cropped much shorter, barely noticeable under the huge crested helmet he wore with its extravagant black horsehair tail. He stood very tall and straight, his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, his face looking haughtily off into the distance. The scarlet coat was extremely tight-fitting, showing off his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the high, braided collar framing his jaw. White breeches and long, glossy black boots drew attention to his muscular legs. ‘Which regiment did you belong to?’

‘Dragoons,’ Jack said abstractedly. ‘Of course we didn’t wear those ridiculous helmets or the white breeches when going into battle. What do you think of it?’

‘As an artist? It is a technically flawless work. As a viewer, it speaks unmistakably of authority. It depicts you with a—a certain hauteur. I think I would be just a little bit intimidated by the man in the portrait. I would of a certainty obey his orders unquestioningly. If I was one of his men, that is,’ she added quickly.

Jack laughed. ‘I doubt you would follow even Napoleon’s orders.’

‘No, I would have made a very bad soldier. But you, you look—bien—exactly what you were, a high-ranking British officer, used to unwavering obedience and with the air of a Greek god, gazing down on us mere mortals.’

‘Good grief, you make me sound like a pompous ass.’

‘No, not pompous, supremely confident. Very sure of yourself.’

‘I suppose I was.’

Jack was staring at the portrait as if it were of a stranger, just as she had stared at the miniature of her mother only the other day. She was still struggling to equate the beautiful woman in the portrait with the Maman in her mind’s eye. Art could obscure reality as well as portray it. Which was the real Blythe Marmion? Which was the real Jack Trestain? Had the regal, commanding officer in the portrait ever existed? Jack was asking himself the same question, judging by the expression on his face.

‘This likeness was taken less than three years ago,’ he said. ‘I left the army less than three months ago, yet it seems as if a lifetime has passed. I struggle to recognise myself. I can barely remember being the man in the portrait. I thought, you know, that if I re-enlisted, I might— I was fine then. Seeing this—I can’t imagine it now.’

He turned away, heading across the room to the farthest point away from the portrait. I was fine then. For the first time, he had admitted that he was not fine now. What had happened to him? More than ever, she longed to know, but Celeste bit back the questions she was desperate to ask, the answers she would have demanded only a few short days ago. Memories were painful things. Memories were private things. Some memories, as she had learnt only yesterday, were too painful to be shared.

It was like Pandora’s box, her memory. Every time the lid creaked open a fraction, it became more and more difficult to close. Things she wanted to forget wriggled free. Things that reminded her she had not always been the person she was so proud of now. She did not want to be reminded of that person. She would never again be that person.

And Jack? With Jack it was very different. The soldier in the portrait had been a respected and admired officer, one mentioned in despatches, whatever that meant. The man he had become was fighting a different battle now. He had his demons, just as she had her ghosts. No doubt she was just a foolish artist, but she admired this man’s bravery a great deal more.

She rejoined him in front of another full-length painting. ‘And who is this remarkable specimen?’ Celeste asked him brightly.

‘This is my father’s brother, also called Jack,’ he replied. ‘As you can see, aside from our name, we have precious little in common.’

The man was fat, fair and flamboyant in a claret-velvet suit, gazing winsomely out at the viewer, a silver jug in one hand, a book in the other. ‘Household Accounts,’ Celeste read in puzzlement. ‘How very strange. Usually when a man holds a book in a portrait it is to symbolise his learning.’

Jack smiled wryly. ‘In this particular case it symbolises his notorious thriftiness. This next lady now, my Aunt Christina, is my mother’s youngest sister, known as Auntie Kirsty. She is married to a real Highland laird and lives in a genuine Highland castle. Charlie and I used to love visiting them. It was a real adventure for us. My mother hated it up there, for it was freezing cold, winter and summer, and Auntie Kirsty is one of those women who hasn’t much of an opinion of soap and water. Frankly,’ Jack said, grinning, ‘Auntie Kirstie smells exactly like her deerhounds when they’ve been out in the rain. But she’s one of the best fishermen I’ve ever come across, and she can shoot better than almost any trooper I’ve ever trained. You can see the castle in the background there, and this dog here, that’s Calum, her favourite deerhound of the time, though most likely long gone.’ His smile faded. ‘I’ve not been there in many years.’

‘Now you are no longer tied to the army, you could visit her, if you wished.’

‘No. Auntie Kirstie is almost as bad as my mother was for basking in my exploits.’

‘You mean she was proud of you?’

‘They all were, and I was arrogant enough to think I deserved it.’ Jack reached out to touch his aunt’s face, the same gesture he’d used on the portrait of his mother. ‘I considered myself a good soldier.’

‘And the Duke of Wellington agreed,’ Celeste reminded him.

‘Yes, he did, but it all depends on your perspective.’

He spoke not bitterly, but resignedly. His expression was bleak, the despair not so marked as on that first, unguarded day at the lake, but it was manifestly still there in his eyes. She longed to comfort him, but how? The more he said about the army, the more she realised his relationship with it was complex, perhaps impossible for anyone who was not a soldier to understand. He loved the army, he clearly had loved being a soldier, but he spoke of those days as if it were a different person. As if it was not him. As if he would not allow it to have been him. And so perhaps they were kindred spirits after all.

The door to the portrait gallery burst open, and a small whirlwind of a boy came hurtling in, making a beeline for Jack. ‘Please will you take me fishing, Uncle Jack?’

‘Robert, make your bow to Mademoiselle Marmion,’ Jack said, detaching the grubby little hand which was clutching the pocket of his breeches. ‘This, Mademoiselle, is my nephew.’

‘How do you do?’ The child made a perfunctory bow before turning his beseeching countenance back to his uncle. ‘Will you take me fishing? Only Papa was supposed to take me but I think he has quite forgotten, and even though Papa says he always caught the biggest fish when you were little...’

Jack laughed. ‘Oh, he did, did he?’

Robert nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, and Papa would not lie, Uncle Jack.’

Jack dropped down on to his knees to be level with the child whose eyes were the exact same shade of dark brown, Celeste noted, as his own. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you are quite right. Papa would not lie.’

‘But you mustn’t feel bad, because he told me you were the much better shot.’ Robert patted Jack’s shoulder consolingly, making Celeste stifle a giggle. ‘Papa said that when you were only six, which is just a little bit bigger than me, you shot a pigeon this high up in the sky,’ he said, standing on his tiptoes and stretching his arm above his head. ‘Only Papa said that it was very naughty of you, because you weren’t supposed to have the gun, and Grandpapa was very angry, and he gave you a sound whipping, and Papa too, even though he did not shoot the gun, and I think that’s not fair. Do you think that’s fair, Uncle Jack, do you?’

‘Well, I...’

‘Though maybe,’ Robert continued, having drawn breath, ‘maybe,’ he said, plucking at Jack’s shirt, ‘Papa was whipped because he is the eldest and did not show a good example? That is what he said I am to do, when Baby Donal is older. So maybe you would not have stolen the gun and shot the pigeon if Papa had told you not to?’

‘Perhaps,’ Jack said, his eyes alight with laughter but his expression serious, ‘though I was a very naughty boy when I was your age. I tended not to do as I was told, I’m afraid.’

Robert considered this, his head on one side. ‘Is that why you are not a soldier any more? Did you disobey orders?’

Jack sat back on his heels, the light fading from his eyes. ‘I did not, but I wish to God I had.’

Celeste caught her breath at this, but Robert had already moved on. ‘Uncle Jack, will you tell me about the time when you told the Duke of Wellington about that great big fort, and he said that it was a ruin, but you knew better. And there was a big battle and—and will you tell me, because when Papa tells me, he gets it all mixed up and forgets the regiments, and it is not the same as when you tell it.’

Jack winced. ‘Robert, the war is over now.’

‘But you were there and you saw it with your own eyes,’ the child continued, heedless.

‘Robert...’

‘Robert, I think perhaps your uncle...’ Celeste interjected.

Robert stamped his foot. ‘It is not fair! Why must I not ask you? Why won’t you tell me, when you have told Papa?’

‘Because Papa is a grown up. Because it was a long time ago,’ Jack said.

‘Well then, why will you not tell me about Waterloo? That was not a long time ago.’

‘Robert,’ Jack said, getting to his feet, obviously agitated, ‘I think it is best...’

‘But I only wanted to know what it was like,’ the child said, grabbing at his uncle’s leg, his face screwed up with temper, ‘because Steven, who is my best, best friend in the whole village, his papa fought under Sir Thomas Picton at Waterloo in the Fifth Infantry, and I said that you were much more important than even Sir Thomas Picton, and Steven said you could not be...’

‘Enough, child, for pity’s sake!’ Jack’s roar was so unexpected that Robert stopped in mid-flow, his jaw hanging open. Celeste, who felt as if her heart had attempted to jump out of her chest, was also speechless.

Jack pointed at the door. ‘Out! You would test the patience of a saint. No war stories, today or ever. Have I made myself perfectly clear?’ He glowered at the child.

Robert’s lip trembled, but he held his ground. ‘I hate you.’ He stamped his foot again. ‘I hate you,’ he said and burst into tears, storming from the room, violently slamming the door behind him.

Shaken, white-faced, Jack slumped on to the sofa which was placed in the middle of the room and dropped his head, pinching the furrow between his brows hard. He rubbed his forehead viciously, as if he were trying to erase whatever thoughts lurked behind it. ‘I frightened him,’ he said starkly. ‘He’s five years old, for goodness’ sake, and I yelled at him as if he’d turned up on the parade ground without his musket. What the hell is wrong with me?’

‘Jack, I don’t think he was so very frightened. It seemed to me he was more angry than afraid.’

‘What blasted difference does it make? He ran away, bawling his eyes out, and that was my fault.’ Jack jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. ‘I’ve never upset a child like that before. What on earth is happening to me?’

‘Jack, I—’

‘No, don’t say another word.’ He rounded on her. ‘You! That is what is behind this. Ever since you— As if I didn’t have enough on my mind without having to lie awake thinking of you and your damned kisses and your damned questions. Why can’t I eat? Why can’t I sleep? Why do I— What did you call it?’

‘Disappear.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper. His anger was not directed at her, but it terrified her, the depths of his anxiety. Though he loomed over her, she stood her ground. ‘Jack...’

He threw her hand from his arm. ‘Don’t pity me. I neither require nor desire your pity, Mademoiselle. I want—I want...’ He flung himself back on to the sofa and dropped his head into his hands. ‘Hell’s teeth, I don’t know what I want. I’m sorry. I’m better left to my own devices at the moment. Best if you leave.’

Celeste turned to do as he bid her, remembering her own desire yesterday to retire to her bedchamber and lick her wounds, but then she stopped, and instead sat down on the sofa beside him. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, Jack. I don’t know what I feel for you, to be honest, but I know it’s not pity.’

He did not look up, but he did not turn away either.

She wasn’t sure what it was she was trying to say. She was reluctant to say anything, especially if it was an unpalatable truth, but she knew she couldn’t leave him like this, bereft and seemingly lost. ‘You were correct,’ she said, though it made her feel quite sick to admit it, ‘when you said that Maman’s death was— That it meant more to me than I thought. You were right.’

Jack lifted his head. Celeste had to fight the urge to run away. She dug her feet into the wooden floor. ‘I blamed you yesterday for what I was feeling. I thought, if it hadn’t been for you, I would not be feeling—’ She broke off, raising her hands helplessly. ‘I don’t know what. Something, as opposed to nothing.’

‘I’m sorry. I had no right to pry.’

‘No more than I did, but it didn’t stop me either. I am sorry too.’

‘I never used to have such a foul temper, you know.’

‘Moi aussi, never. Perhaps there is something in the air at Trestain Manor.’

Jack’s smile was perfunctory, but it was a smile. ‘I don’t know what Charlie is playing at, telling Robert those stupid stories, making it sound as if war is some great adventure.’

‘Isn’t that what you thought at that age?’ Celeste asked carefully.

‘Precisely.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘And now I know better.’

‘Jack, Robert is just a little boy. He doesn’t need or deserve to have his illusions shattered at such a tender age. Why not indulge him a little? What is so different, really, from telling him the kind of stories you once told your brother?’

‘I only ever told Charlie the kind of things he wanted to hear.’

‘Exactement.’

He was silent for a long time. Finally, he shook his head, pressed her hand and got to his feet. ‘I need some fresh air, and you are probably wanting to get on with your work. I’m going to try to manage an hour on horseback without falling off.’

‘But your arm...’

‘Will recover faster if I use the blasted thing. I’m not made of glass. Besides,’ Jack added with a grin, ‘you’ve no idea how embarrassing it is for an officer of the Dragoons to fall from his horse. If any of my comrades knew, I’d never be allowed to forget it.’

* * *

The next day, as Jack had predicted it would, it was raining. Not the kind of polite, soft rain that Celeste had imagined would fall in an English summer, but a heavy downpour rather like the kind of summer storm in Cassis that turned the narrow streets into raging torrents. Gazing out of the windows of her studio, it was as if the sky consisted of one leaden grey cloud that had been sliced open. Water poured from the gutters on to the paths, cutting new channels into the flower beds. The branches of the trees bent under the weight of the deluge.

Celeste shivered, wrapping the shawl she had fetched after breakfast more tightly around her, for the flimsy sprigged-muslin gown she wore was no protection against the cold, damp air. She looked longingly at the small fireplace, imagining the comfort of a fire. In August! She doubted that the hardy Lady Eleanor would think it necessary.

It was too dark to work, and too wet to go outside. Sir Charles, fretting about the harvest, was planning on a tour of the closest farms, though when his wife had quizzed him on what he thought could be achieved, other than a thorough drenching, he had been unable to supply her with an answer. Lady Eleanor was to spend the morning in the kitchen making jam. A task she and her sisters used to look forward to every year when they were growing up, she had told Celeste over the breakfast table. She hoped to pass her receipts on to her own daughters, when they arrived, but in the meantime, she would be sharing the task with cook. She did not ask Celeste if she wanted to join them in the kitchen.

‘And I am glad she did not, for I know nothing at all about making jam or pickles or any of these things the English take such pride in,’ Celeste muttered to herself. The truth was, she thought, looking despondently out at the garden, she knew almost nothing about French cooking either. Frowning, she tried to recall if she had ever seen her mother in the kitchen, and could not. They had always had a cook. Her mother planned the meals, she recalled, writing out the menus for the week in the book in which she kept painstaking household accounts, but, no, not once could Celeste recall her actually shopping for food or preparing it. Then, at school, the kitchens were out of bounds, and in her Parisian garret, she could make coffee, but nothing more substantial.

She leafed through her sketches, which were laid out on a large table set against the wall. She didn’t even like jam, but when Lady Eleanor talked about sharing the task with her sisters, Celeste had felt quite envious. There had been a softness about her ladyship too, as she speculated about a time when her yet-to-be-born daughter would join her in the kitchen. Celeste cast her sketches aside and returned to the window. Was there nothing, no small domestic task she and her mother had shared?

Painting. Yes, there were the painting and drawing lessons, though there were so many that, to Celeste’s frustration, the memory was blurred. She could remember spending hours and hours trying to draw a cat. She could remember struggling to hold her brush in the correct manner. She could remember painting endless bowls of fruit. But her memories were all of her hand, the paper, the paints, the result. She could not recall what her mother had said of any of her work. Could not remember a single occasion when her father—Henri, she corrected herself—had passed any opinion at all on her talent. In fact she could not remember him being present at all.

Outside, the rain was easing. Sir Charles would be relieved. The grass looked much greener, almost too glossy to be real. The trees too looked freshly painted. They reminded her of the idealised pictures in a storybook that her mother used to read to her. She had forgotten that. Returning to the sofa, she sat down and closed her eyes. Her mother was reading the story, her finger pointing to the words so that Celeste could follow along. The book was in English. Where had it come from? Had it been her mother’s as a child? The pages had been worn. The book contained several stories, each beautifully illustrated. An expensive book.

Celeste screwed her eyes shut tighter and tried to recall her mother’s voice, but though she could see the pictures so clearly, she couldn’t hear any accompanying words. Frustrated, she tried to recall other times. Sewing. Her mother had taught her to sew. Not the practical kind that she had been taught at school, but embroidery. Yes, yes, another memory swam into view. She was sitting on a stool at her mother’s knee. ‘When the first course is served at such a grand dinner,’ Maman was saying, ‘one must turn to the right, so I had to wait until the second course to speak to him.’

Celeste’s eyes flew open. She stared around the room, as if her mother might appear from behind the easel. Her voice had been so clear. ‘Mon Dieu, of all the things, I remember that most useless piece of advice!’

‘What most useless piece of advice would that be?’

‘Jack.’ Celeste jumped to her feet, clutching her shawl. ‘You startled me.’

‘Sleeping on the job?’

‘I was not sleeping,’ she said indignantly, ‘I was thinking.’ She eyed his wet hair, sleeked back on his head, with astonishment. ‘You have surely not been swimming in this?’

‘Why not?’

She wrapped her arms around herself, giving a mock shudder. ‘It is freezing.’

‘Nonsense, a little summer rain, that’s all. You’ll be asking for the fire to be lit next.’ She must have looked longingly at the empty hearth, because Jack burst out laughing.

‘If you think it is cold now, you should try enduring an English country winter. Which you will not be required to do, since once your business here is concluded I assume you will be anxious to return to your life in Paris.’

‘Of course I am.’ And she was. Everything she had achieved had been hard-earned and she was looking forward to picking up the threads of her life.

* * *

Jack put the leatherbound folder which he had brought with him down on the table next to her sketches. ‘Celeste, have you considered the possibility that whatever we manage to uncover about your mother’s past might change things, maybe even change your life, the one you’re so keen to reclaim, irrevocably?’

She pursed her lips, shaking her head firmly. ‘I thought I’d made myself plain, I have no ambition to claim any family, legitimate or not, if that is what you mean. Clearly, my mother’s family disowned her. Equally clearly, my father’s family disowned both my mother and me. Frankly, being the unwanted child of one man means I have no wish to repeat the experience as far as my father is concerned, and as to my mother—again, no. Her family rejected her. My mother rejected me. You see the pattern, Jack. Whatever we find will allow me to regain my life, not destroy it.’

She spoke carefully, but coolly. The barriers were well and truly in place once more, but still Jack felt uneasy. She was fragile, she had admitted that much yesterday. He wanted to spare her pain, but he had not that right. All he could do was help her, and hope that the price she paid was worth it.

Jack opened the folder. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘let us set to work on getting you the answers you need. First things first. Let’s take stock of where we are and what we know.’

Chapter Six

Jack took out her mother’s letter from his folder, and laid it out alongside a sheet of notes he had made following a detailed analysis of the contents. ‘Are you ready for this?’ he said.

Celeste nodded, ignoring the fluttering of nerves in her stomach.

‘So, to the beginning—or the beginning as we know it. Your mother married Henri Marmion in 1794.’

Again, she nodded.

‘At the height of the Terror then, when the bloodletting in the aftermath of the Revolution was at its peak,’ Jack said. ‘I think that must be significant.’

Celeste frowned. ‘I cannot see how. My father—Henri—he was not a member of the aristocracy. He was not a politician, or indeed a man of any influence. Besides, we lived in a tiny fishing village, not Paris, or any other important city. We were just an ordinary family.’

Jack tapped his finger on his notes. ‘You were four when this marriage took place. Do you remember anything from the time before? Anything at all,’ he asked. ‘Sometimes the most insignificant details are the ones that matter most.’

Celeste shook her head. ‘I was thinking only this morning, just before you arrived, how little I can recall of my childhood. An English storybook. Painting lessons. Setting the stitches on a sampler. Maman telling me the etiquette for polite conversation at a dinner party, though why she should think it important to instruct me in that I cannot imagine.’

‘What’s your earliest memory?’ Jack asked.

‘That is easy,’ Celeste said with a smile. ‘I found a shell on the beach one day, a huge pink shell, the kind that you put to your ear and can hear the rush of the sea. I remember it was too big for me to hold with one hand. I must have been five, perhaps six. What is yours?’

‘That’s easy too. Charlie had a toy horse, a wooden one on wheels. He called it Hector. I was forbidden from riding it because I was too little, which Charlie delighted in reminding me, so of course that made me all the more determined. I managed to climb up on Hector, and Charlie caught me and pushed me off, and I split my forehead open on the marble floor. I still have the scar. Here,’ Jack said, taking her hand.

It was very faint, right in the middle of his forehead. She ran her finger along it, feeling the tiny notches where it had been stitched, and could not resist pushing back his hair from his brow. It was silky-soft. She snatched her hand away. ‘Your first battle scar,’ she said. ‘Sadly, not your last. How is your arm today?’

Jack shrugged. ‘That wound is healing.’

And so he edged a tiny step closer to admitting there was another, deeper wound. Celeste bit her tongue. Trust, she was learning, was a skittish beast, so she turned the subject to a different sort of animal. ‘Hector is a peculiar name for a horse. What age were you when you stole it?’

She was rewarded with a small smile. ‘I didn’t steal it, I borrowed it. I had to use a stool to climb up on to the saddle, and my legs didn’t touch the ground. Three, perhaps?’

‘Is it odd, do you think, that I can remember nothing from such a young age?’

‘I don’t know, but in my experience, people actually take in a great deal more than they can recount. Memory works in different ways for different people. For some, smell is the most evocative sense. I tend to remember things in the form of patterns. As an artist, for you it might be colour. There are tricks that can help flesh out a memory that I used in my days of gathering information professionally,’ Jack said.

‘You mean when you were interrogating enemy agents?’

‘Lord, no, I mean when I was debriefing our chaps after a reconnaissance. No thumbscrews or rack, in case that’s what you’re imagining either. Simply a case of relaxing the subjects’ minds before gently directing their thoughts. We can try it later if you like.’

‘No,’ Celeste said firmly, ‘I will keep my thoughts to myself, thank you.’

Jack raised a quizzical brow, but turned his attention back to his notes. ‘I can’t help but feel that your mother’s marriage to Henri Marmion must be connected somehow with the Terror.’ He picked up the letter. ‘“Without Henri, I do honestly believe we would have perished. I doubt you will believe him capable of heroism, but back in those dark days, that is what he was. A hero.” She is convinced that both your lives were in danger. That’s too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

It was hard to disagree with Jack’s logic, though difficult to conceive of it being true. Celeste nodded, this time reluctantly.

‘Good, then that is our starting premise.’ Jack pulled out another sheet of paper. ‘So, what else do we know? First, your mother was English. Second, she gave birth to you in France in 1790, so she must have gone there at some point before. I don’t suppose you know your place of birth?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Or your mother’s maiden name? Is there a certificate of her marriage to Henri Marmion?’

She shook her head again. ‘The number of things I don’t know are considerably greater than the number that I do. I don’t even know where they were married, so church records aren’t available as a source of information.’

‘Then you won’t know if she was married previously?’

‘You need not spare my blushes. I have already said I must assume that I am illegitimate,’ Celeste said brusquely. ‘That is the only explanation for my mother’s insistence that she had no family—everyone has family, hers obviously disowned her, and since she was a woman—’ She broke off, struck by a sudden flash of memory. ‘My mother once said to me that a woman’s reputation was all she had. In her letter she wrote that the love she had for the man who sired me was the source of her downfall. The implications are clear enough.’

‘Sired? You speak of your father as if he means nothing to you?’

‘I obviously meant nothing to him. I am merely reciprocating his indifference.’

Jack picked up the letter again. ‘“Your father would have loved you, of that I am sure,”’ he read. “‘He too would have been proud of you.”’

Celeste crossed her arms. ‘That is the kind of soft soap a mother would write to console a bastard child, don’t you think?’

Jack made no reply.

‘You think that I am callous.’

‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘that perhaps your father never knew of your existence. “Your father would have loved you” is what your mother writes. Would have, implying he was for some reason prevented from having the opportunity to do so.’

It had not occurred to her to interpret her mother’s words thus. A veteran of parental rejection, she had assumed that this was yet another case in point. Would her father have loved her? It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘It is hardly relevant,’ Celeste said, steeling herself, ‘since he is in all likelihood dead.’

Jack consulted the letter again. ‘Your mother mentions “tragic consequences” resulting from the “impossible choice” she had to make?’

‘Tragic can only mean a death. I think we must assume it refers to my natural father.’ Saying it aloud brought a lump to Celeste’s throat.

‘Talking of fathers, tell me what you know of Henri Marmion.’

‘I don’t see what Henri has to do with anything.’

Jack sighed. ‘Then it’s as well you asked me to read this letter, because it’s perfectly plain to me that he must have loved your mother a great deal. Think about the circumstances for a moment, Celeste. Your mother is in dire straits of some sort. She’s alone, with an infant child and no family, in a strange country. By 1794, simply the fact that she was English would have put her on a list of suspicious characters, and it would have been impossible for her to escape France. To marry her was to take an enormous personal risk, and Marmion not only married her, but it sounds as though he cut himself off from his own friends and family in order to keep you both safe. A man doesn’t do that unless he’s deep in love or perhaps deep in debt.’

‘He was a schoolteacher. He was a very educated man, but he taught at the village school. He could read and write Greek and Latin, he could quote so many of the Classics, but he—he hid his erudition. I could never understand it. One of the many things I could never fathom.’

‘Did he ever mention his family?’

‘Not that I remember, but then Henri rarely talked to me. I think he came from Cahors, in the south-west. I don’t know how I remember that. His accent, perhaps.’ Celeste shook her head, as if doing so would clear the tangled web that her past seemed to have become. ‘He was so distant. I can’t imagine that he was capable of love. I never saw any sign of affection between them. Besides, my mother claims to have loved my natural father. She made her choice for love, according to her letter.’

‘Celeste, do you not think that makes Henri Marmion’s behaviour more understandable rather than less so? To love, and never to have that love returned, would that not make a man distant? To see the evidence of his wife’s true love in the form of her child—her only child—would that not eventually turn a loving husband into an embittered one?’

Celeste dropped her head on to her hands. ‘Stop it! You are turning everything upside down. I don’t know! Dammit, I am not going to cry again.’

She jumped to her feet, thumping her fist into her open palm, and paced over to the window. ‘You know, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I cried before I came to England. Even before boarding school, I learnt that tears were futile, and at school—well, you learn very quickly that it is better not to show weakness. And now I seem to be weeping constantly. Eight months since my mother died, and only now am I beginning to appreciate that she really is gone. It doesn’t make sense.

‘You can never understand, you with your idyllic childhood here, growing up knowing how much you were loved, you can have no idea what it was like for me. Those miserable days at school, those cold little notes Maman wrote to me there about the weather, and the fishing, and—and nothing about her. Nothing about missing me. She didn’t love me, I have known that for a long time.’

‘I think she did.’

She jerked her head round to look at him. ‘How can you possibly say that?’

‘The locket. Worn round her neck every day of her life. Her only possession treasured enough to leave to you. Containing portraits of you and her, so close they are almost touching when the clasp is closed. A mother and her only daughter. Just because she never demonstrated her love doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. That locket tells me it was very real.’

Celeste dropped her head on to the cool of the window glass. When Jack put his arms around her waist, she resisted the urge to lean back into the comfort of his arms. She did not deserve comfort. This time the urge to confess outweighed the shame of what she must say. ‘I had not seen her for a year before she died. The last time—the last time...’

She kept her eyes on the garden through the window glass which was misting over with her breath. ‘Yesterday, when I said that she didn’t give me a chance, it was a lie. Just after Henri died, Maman came to Paris. She told me that now she had done her duty by Henri, she wanted to heal the rift between us. I—I—I was angry with her. I told her that she had made her choice when she sent me off to boarding school at his behest. She did not protest very much. I presumed that the offer was more of a token than— No, I won’t make excuses.’

Celeste turned around, facing Jack unflinchingly. ‘I sent her packing. I could not forgive her for choosing Henri over me. When I was ten years old, I begged Maman not to send me away, but she chose to do what Henri wanted. Because she owed him our lives, she did as he asked, the letter says. Perhaps if I’d given her a chance that day in Paris, she would have explained it to me, but I did not. We were estranged for a long time but that last year, our estrangement was my fault alone. I feel such guilt. You would not understand such guilt. There is a part of me, you know, that thinks I deserve to suffer now. A part of me that thinks I do not deserve answers. Jack, I don’t want you to be under the misapprehension that I’m an innocent victim.’

‘Celeste, for God’s sake, you had a lifetime’s experience of her not explaining. You can’t be thinking that what she did is your fault.’

‘Can’t I?’

‘No.’ Jack gave her a gentle shake. ‘No. You don’t know if it would have made any difference. You cannot know for certain if she would ever have trusted you enough.’

‘Yes, I have tried to tell myself that. I am not a martyr. I have tried.’ Celeste shook her head wearily. ‘For months, trying, pretending, and until I came here it was working—I thought. But now I can’t pretend.’

‘Celeste, I repeat, it’s not your fault.’

‘Jack, you can’t know that any more than I can. You don’t understand...’

‘I understand a damn sight more than you think.’

‘Those soldiers you told me about, yes, but they were not your family. You were not directly responsible.’ She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. ‘Perhaps this dark secret of Maman’s would have sent her to her grave regardless of what I did. But there is the possibility that she might have confided in me if I had given her one last opportunity. It’s possible that she might still be alive today as a result.’

‘Speculation is pointless, it changes nothing.’ Jack’s tone was harsh. His fists were clenched. ‘You can dig up the skeletons of your mother’s past. They might be gruesome, or they might be nothing at all, but whatever they are, they cannot alter what happened. It was her act, not yours. You can’t let the guilt destroy you.’ His eyes went quite blank. ‘You can never know if it would have made a difference. There are so many imponderables. If you had kept your mouth shut. If you had not been so determined to see for yourself. If you had not spilled your guts. If you had not—’

He broke off, staring at her as if she were a spectre. His expression frightened her in its intensity. ‘You will never know, but if you keep asking, one thing is for certain. You will tear yourself apart. That much, I most certainly understand.’

Celeste stared at the door as it slammed shut behind him. She sank down on to the sofa. She felt as if she were seeing her life through a shattered mirror. Everything she thought she knew about herself had become distorted. The barrier which her mother had erected between them was bizarrely, in death, beginning to break down. In doing so, it was not only destroying Celeste’s idea of her mother, it was destroying her notion of herself.

She curled up, squeezing her eyes closed, but the tears leaked out regardless. Was she tearing herself apart for no purpose? No, she had a purpose. She had to know. And when she did, she would be healed, not broken.

And as for Jack? If you had kept your mouth shut. If you had not been so determined to see for yourself. If you had not spilled your guts. He had clearly been talking about himself. What had he been so determined to see? What did it mean, to spill his guts? Had he been ill? Or did he mean he had talked? Given away secrets?

‘Non,’ Celeste muttered. Jack was no traitor, on that she would stake her own life. Then what was Jack? ‘I could as well ask, what is Celeste,’ she muttered as exhaustion overtook her.

* * *

Jack sat at the window of his bedchamber, watching the grey light of dawn appear in the night sky and replaying his conversation with Celeste in his head for the hundredth time.

Guilt. From the moment she had told him that her mother had taken her own life, Jack had known that guilt would eventually overwhelm her. He’d hoped that by helping her quest for answers, he’d postpone its onset but it was already too late. After yesterday’s confession, she wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

Jack was something of a connoisseur of guilt and all its insidious manifestations. Eating away at you. Keeping you awake. Torturing your dreams. Turning you inside out. He couldn’t bear thinking of Celeste suffering the same fate. Celeste, who had worked so hard to escape her miserable childhood and make her own world. Celeste who was so confident, and so independent and so strong.

And now so vulnerable. He couldn’t bear to think of what it would do to her, if she did not find the answers she sought. But then he already knew. Guilt would consume her. As it was consuming him?

Feeling his chest tightening, Jack pushed open the window and gulped in the fresh air. Outside, the sky had turned from grey to a hazy pink. It was time for his early-morning swim. Pulling off his nightshirt, Jack grabbed his breeches and shirt. As he pulled the window closed, he noticed a flutter of white in the garden below. Celeste, hatless as usual. Her hair was piled carelessly on top of her head, long tendrils of it hanging down, as if she had not even bothered to look in the mirror. Her gown was cream coloured, with short puffs of sleeves and a scooped neck, accentuating the golden glow of her skin.

She was barefoot. He could see tantalising glimpses of her toes as she walked. The deep flounce of her gown was already wet with dew. She paused, lifting her face to the pale sun, closing her eyes. Had she slept? What was she thinking? She was so very lovely, and she looked so very fragile.

She made for the path which would lead her to the lake. Jack watched as she reached the gate, hesitated, then turned away. Giving way to a sudden impulse, he headed out of his bedchamber, descending the stairs three at a time, and ran out into the garden.

* * *

‘Celeste!’

‘Jack.’ His bare feet left a line of footprints in the damp grass behind him. He was dressed in only his leather breeches and his shirt. His hair was in disarray and he hadn’t shaved.

‘I’m going for my swim.’

‘Then that is the signal for me to make myself scarce.’

He smiled, pushing his hair back from his face. ‘Actually, I wondered if you would care to join me?’

He looked tired. He looked devastatingly dishevelled. He looked as if he had just risen from bed. He made her think of rumpled sheets and tangled limbs. Their tangled limbs. ‘Join you?’ Celeste repeated, dragging her eyes away from the tantalising glimpse of chest she could see at the opening of his shirt.

‘At the lake. To swim. Assuming you can swim, that is?’

‘I was brought up on the coast. Of course I can swim,’ Celeste said, and then the significance of his offer struck home. The lake at this time of the morning was Jack’s private domain, his sanctuary. For him to offer to share it with her was hugely significant. ‘No, I would be intruding. After the last time...’

‘This is different. I am inviting you as my guest.’

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His smile made her insides flutter. She was weary of questioning and analysing her thoughts and motives. The urge to just be, to surrender to a whim was irresistible. ‘Then I accept your kind invitation,’ Celeste said. ‘I am extremely flattered, since I know how important your privacy is to you. I would very much like to join you for a swim. I should warn you though, I am rather good.’

Jack laughed. ‘I am not so very shabby myself,’ he said, opening the gate for her. ‘I’ve come on a bit since you last saw me in action.’

‘I remember thinking that you swam like a fish that had drunk too much wine.’

‘Not so much now. Perhaps one small glass of Madeira.’

The path to the lake was narrow and dark. The earth was cool against her bare feet. She had not swum for so long. She loved the water. She had not allowed herself to miss it. Now, seeing the glint of the lake in the early morning sunshine, Celeste felt her spirits rise in anticipation. The water was a strange colour, nothing like the sea. Golden and greenish, with a hint of brown. She stretched her arms high above her head, lifting her face to the warm English sun, and laughed with delight.

Jack pulled his shirt over his head. His muscles rippled. She caught her breath. He really was magnificent to look at. ‘I think I’d best retain these,’ he said, indicating his breeches.

Celeste had been so intent upon the swim, she hadn’t considered the delicate matter of attire. In Cassis, she had always swum naked. She loved the feel of the ocean on her skin. But in Cassis, she had always swum alone. She had never swum in the company of a man, and this man— She dragged her eyes away again.

‘Changed your mind?’

Celeste shook her head. ‘Go in. I will follow you but don’t look.’

Jack laughed. ‘I never make promises I can’t keep,’ he said, turning his back and beginning to wade into the water.

She watched him dive, and then swim strongly towards the far side. He barely laboured at all. His strength had all but returned. Celeste went behind the very hawthorn bush where she’d hidden that first day, and began to undress, quickly removing her gown, her corset and her petticoats. She was left wearing only her pantaloons and camisole. It was not an ideal outfit for bathing but she could not countenance the alternative.

She picked her way across the pebbles into the shallows of the lake. Jack was at the far side again, swimming steadily. The water felt warm on her toes, the mud oozed around her feet in a not unpleasant manner. She waded in and gasped as the cool water soaked through her thin camisole and met her skin. Jack turned and began to head back towards her. Hurriedly, Celeste waded out, until the water was waist high, and then she dived into the cool water with relish and began to swim. It was not at all like the waters of Cassis, this English lake, but there was still that marvellous feeling of freedom. She struck out more strongly, heading for the opposite bank, kicking her legs behind her, and just before it became too shallow, she turned and began to swim back, passing Jack on the way.

She swam until her muscles protested, and then she turned over and floated, her eyes closed, careless of the mud and twigs and leaves tangling in her hair. For the first time since Maman had died, she felt relaxed, weightless, free. It was all still there, but it could wait. It could all wait. Rolling over to make her way back to shore, she saw Jack standing waist deep in the water, watching her.

She waded towards him. ‘I think I have most of your brother’s lake in my hair.’

‘Did you enjoy that?’

‘Oh—so, so much.’ Celeste beamed at him. ‘I had forgotten how swimming— It makes you forget everything.’ Her smile faded. ‘Is that why you...?’

‘Yes. And for this.’ Jack indicated his arm.

Celeste touched the puckered skin gently. ‘Does it still hurt?’

‘Not really.’

Sunlight danced on the water and in her eyes. Droplets of lake water clung to the rough smattering of hair on Jack’s chest. Her camisole was plastered to her body like a second skin, making it completely transparent. Her nipples were hard and puckered with the cold, and clearly visible. Jack’s eyes were riveted on them. She did not feel embarrassed. In fact she felt emboldened. Desire twisted inside her. Jack’s eyes met hers. She stepped towards him. His arms went around her waist. His chest was surprisingly warm. It was not like before. No flare of anger to propel them towards each other. This time it was slow, a different kind of heat. She tilted her head. Sunlight dazzled her eyes until Jack’s head blocked it, and his lips met hers.

Different. He tasted of lake. Cool. Tentative. Like a first kiss. A gentle tasting, the sweetest of touches. Slow. A kiss with no purpose but to kiss. And to kiss. And then to kiss again. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her closer. Kissing. Only kissing. Her arousal was languid, melting, none of the fierce flames of before. She could kiss him for ever. This was the kind of kiss that would never end. Lips and tongues in a slow dance. Hands smoothing, stroking. Skin clinging, damp, heating.

Jack traced the line of her throat with butterfly kisses. He kissed the damp valley between her breasts. His mouth sought hers again, and their lips clung, still slowly, but deeper now. She kissed the pucker of his musket wound. She flattened her palms over the swell of his chest. His hands covered her breasts, making her nipples ache. The sweetest of aches, the gentlest but most insistent tugging of desire, making her sigh, and then making her moan.

She’d thought it was too much before. But this was too different. The dazed look in his eyes, his lack of resistance when she disentangled herself, told her he felt it too.

‘Thank you,’ she said gently, ‘for the swim.’ She began to wade ashore. She had hauled her gown over her wet undergarments and was wrapping the rest of her clothing into a bundle when Jack re-joined her. They walked slowly back to the Manor together in silence, words for once superfluous.

Chapter Seven

‘A very proper, very English young lady.’ Celeste repeated, looking blankly at Jack. They were in the studio, where she had been laying out her preliminary drawings to allow Lady Eleanor and Sir Charles to make their final selections, before she began the task of painting the actual canvases. ‘You think that my mother was of genteel stock?’

Jack nodded. He had taken a seat across from her at the table. In the two days which had passed since their early-morning swim, they had both been careful not to mention it or the kiss which had followed. Though as far as Celeste was concerned, it hung in the air, almost palpably, every time she looked at him.

She shuffled a bundle of rejected sketches, quite unnecessarily. ‘What makes you come to this conclusion?’

Jack tapped his pencil on the notebook in front of him. ‘A number of little things. Hasn’t it ever struck you as odd, for example, that the wife of a school teacher would employ a cook?’

‘I’ve never given it much thought. It’s just how things were.’

‘Then there’s this school you attended in Paris. It sounds as if it was a good one.’

Celeste frowned. ‘The girls were from good families. Titled, mostly, or very wealthy. Or both. That was one of the problems I had to deal with, being neither.’

‘You mean you were bullied?’ Jack’s hand tightened on his pencil. ‘I don’t know why, but I assumed that sort of thing was confined to boys.’

‘If you mean fighting, then it most likely is. Girls are more subtle,’ Celeste said grimly. ‘It doesn’t matter, I learned to hold my own. Besides, I cannot believe it was really so grand a school,’ she rushed on, having no desire to recall how effective the bullying had been. ‘We were not permitted a fire except in the dead of winter and then never in the dormitory. And the bed sheets were almost threadbare. It was hardly luxurious.’

‘Which confirms my point,’ Jack said with a tight smile. ‘My so-called exclusive prep school had dormitories that would have delighted a Spartan. Such privations don’t come cheap. Then there is her knowledge of dinner-party etiquette. And the comment about—what was it—a woman’s reputation. Your mother could draw and paint, but she couldn’t cook. Could she sew?’

‘She taught me to embroider.’

‘Precisely.’

Jack looked pleased. Celeste was unconvinced. ‘I never thought much about my mother’s origins. Why should I, when Maman was so determined that she had none? She would have preferred me to believe she had been baked like dough in an oven.’ Blind baked, Celeste added to herself, a brittle pastry with a hard crust.

She pushed back her chair and went over to her favourite spot at the window. Was she being unfair? Maman had been cold, distant, aloof. Certainly stern, and yet at other times she had looked...

Just as Jack had done that first morning at the lake.

Despair? Anguish? Whatever label one put on it, it was obvious now that her mother had indeed suffered. And she, Celeste, had been oblivious to it. All the signs had been right in front of her nose, and she had not noticed them. She shook her head in disgust at herself. ‘I have been an idiot! For an artist, quite the blind woman. Thinking I was the poor little schoolgirl, when really it was a case of all the other little schoolgirls being so very rich.’

Her fingers went to the locket around her neck. ‘That’s another thing,’ Jack said almost apologetically. ‘I doubt very much that your locket is a trinket. In fact I think you’ll find it’s made of diamonds and sapphire, not glass. There’s a maker’s mark. I’ll show you.’

Celeste took the locket off obediently. There it was. She looked at the portraits inside, painted in such a way that her mother gazed across at her. Lovingly? Her mother, who had claimed in her last letter, that she had always loved her. Was this locket proof as Jack said? Celeste found this almost impossible to believe.

Almost? She touched the miniature of her mother with the tip of her finger, an echo of Jack’s gesture with his own mother’s picture in the portrait gallery, she realised. But his had been one of unmistakable affection and love. Was hers?

She looked up, smiling faintly at Jack. ‘You have given me a great deal to think about,’ she said, snapping the locket shut.

A rap on the door heralded the arrival of her patrons. Celeste quickly made the final touches to her arrangement of sketches, ensuring the ones she favoured were most prominent, but when the door opened, it was to reveal Lady Eleanor alone.

* * *

‘My husband sends his apologies, Mademoiselle, he will be unable to join us this morning, but he desired me to make some preliminary selections from your work. I trust this is satisfactory?’

Without waiting for an answer, her ladyship made straight for the table where the sketches were laid out and began sifting through them. Jack cast Celeste an eloquent glance, and began unobtrusively to push the preferred drawings towards his brother’s wife.

‘Of course, these are just very rudimentary sketches to give you an idea of what the finished work would look like,’ Celeste said, ‘but I hope they are sufficient to allow you to make some decisions on the sequence in which you would like me to paint the formal gardens.’

Lady Eleanor examined the sketches carefully. It had always amused Celeste to witness her patrons’ reactions at this stage. Seeing their estates spread out before them on paper almost always made them view their properties afresh, made them somehow grander, more magnificent, which in turn added to their own sense of consequence.

Lady Eleanor was no different. ‘I must say, I had not appreciated the epic sweep of the estate. You have managed to cover a great deal of ground in a very short time.’

‘Thank you. Monsieur Trestain has been most helpful. He has an excellent eye for the most pleasing views.’

‘Well, it is comforting to know that he has managed to occupy himself gainfully,’ Lady Eleanor said pointedly. ‘I expect you, Mademoiselle, being a—a woman of the world are rather more equipped to deal with Jack’s outbursts than a child. Robert,’ she continued, addressing Jack directly, ‘was sobbing his little heart out the other day after his encounter with you.’

Jack blanched. Celeste felt her fists curl. ‘If you do not mind me saying,’ she said, ‘when Jack refused Robert’s request in a perfectly reasonable manner, it was the child who threw the tantrum, not Jack.’

‘Celeste.’ Jack held up his hand to quiet her. ‘I am very sorry if I upset Robert, Eleanor.’

‘My son, like all small boys, is obsessed with all things military,’ her ladyship replied, her stiff manner giving way to a plaintive one. ‘He would hang on your every word for a first-hand account of Waterloo. Your brother tells me I must try to stop him bothering you, but Robert is such a naturally inquisitive little chap.’

‘He reminds me very much of Charlie at that age,’ Jack said. ‘Mad keen on fishing.’

‘And equally eager to hear his uncle’s account of what is our nation’s greatest victory. No disrespect intended, Mademoiselle. Really, Jack, is that too much to ask? Frankly, I’m at a loss to fathom you these days. I remember a time when you were more than happy to sit up until dawn, regaling Charles with your exploits. I know you are still recovering from your wounds, and that we must all make allowances for your—your— For the anguish you are suffering at having witnessed the deaths of so many of your comrades, but...’

‘Is that what Charlie thinks it is?’ Jack shook his head when Lady Eleanor made to answer. ‘No matter. I am sorry to have upset him, but I cannot— The days of my boasting of my army exploits are over, Eleanor, but I am more than happy to take Robert fishing instead.’

‘But I do not see...’ Making an obvious effort, Lady Eleanor bit back her remonstration. ‘That is kind of you, Jack.’

‘It is nothing. I do care for the boy, you know, regardless of how it may appear.’ Jack picked up some of Celeste’s sketches. ‘In the meantime, let us concentrate on your selections. Look at this study of the Topiary Garden. Do you not think that it is a great shame to have it cut down? When you see it afresh like this, through Mademoiselle’s clever eye, it really is quite lovely and wants only a little tidying up to bring it back to its former glory.’

‘Rather more than a little tidying up,’ Lady Eleanor replied, ‘and it is so very gloomy.’

Jack picked up another view of the Topiary Garden. ‘Look at this, though. Mademoiselle Marmion was telling me that though she’s painted some of the grandest estates in France, the Trestain Manor Topiary Garden is one of the finest examples she has ever seen.’

Lady Eleanor looked doubtfully at the sketch. ‘Really? I had no idea. Is this true, Mademoiselle?’

‘Why, yes,’ Celeste replied, intensely relieved that Jack had managed to turn the subject. ‘In France, the art of topiary is much admired. The best examples attract admirers from all over the country. I think that your garden, with only a few changes, could do the same.’

‘You would be leading the way for England,’ Jack said. ‘Your good sense in preserving the garden will be appreciated by generations of Trestains to come. Think about that, Eleanor.’

Her ladyship did, rewarding Celeste with a tight smile. ‘I wonder, Mademoiselle, if it is not too much trouble, if you could perhaps give me the benefit of your artistic eye and suggest a few enhancements. I can then discuss them with Sir Charles and our landscaper. Awarding you full credit for your contribution of course.’

Celeste nodded, slanting Jack a complicit smile. Lady Eleanor continued to sift through the drawings, laying a small selection to one side which, Celeste was pleased to note, contained most of her own favourites.

‘These are really very good, Mademoiselle,’ she said, sounding as if she meant it. ‘I am most pleased. Sir Charles will make the final selection tomorrow. You will excuse me now, I must go and speak to cook. Your Aunt Christina’s long-awaited annual gift of a haunch of prime Highland venison has finally arrived, Jack. Something of a family tradition, Mademoiselle,’ she added by way of explanation. ‘Every year we have a special banquet when it arrives. We will be celebrating the occasion tonight.’

Jack shifted uncomfortably, looking not at all enamoured by the prospect.

‘Your brother,’ Lady Eleanor said, ‘will be very much gratified by your presence. I believe that your aunt, in the accompanying letter, was most eager for you to partake of the beast, and particularly requested that Charles give her an account of the dinner—for it seems she has no hope of a letter from you.’

‘I have had my arm in a splint these past two months, Eleanor, in case it has escaped your attention.’

Her ladyship turned to Celeste, ignoring this remark. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion, I will entreat you to use any influence you have with Jack. Is it really so much to ask that he joins us en famille for a special dinner sent all the way from Scotland by his favourite relative?’

Celeste, taken aback by Lady Eleanor’s consulting her on any subject save art, found herself shaking her head.

‘You see? Mademoiselle Marmion agrees,’ her ladyship said, turning back to Jack.

‘I don’t think...’

But Celeste’s role had, it seemed, been played. ‘It is not as if we are even holding the usual grand banquet,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘Not a single guest. Not even our closest neighbours. I told Charles that they would be most offended, but he said he cared nothing for any guest save you. So I take it you will not be letting him down?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eleanor, what a damned—dashed fuss over a bite of dinner. Yes,’ Jack said, ‘I’ll be there. Satisfied?’

‘Your brother will be, and that is what matters to me. You too are cordially invited of course, Mademoiselle Marmion. Until tonight, then.’

Lady Eleanor swept from the studio. Jack stared at the door, his jaw working. ‘It is just dinner,’ Celeste said tentatively. ‘Though I am surprised Lady Eleanor thinks me worthy of your aunt’s precious venison.’

Jack grimaced. ‘Obviously, she assumes that your presence makes the chances of my attendance more likely.’

Celeste coloured. ‘Have we been indiscreet?’ Her colour deepened. ‘You do not think that someone saw us at the lake the other morning?’ It was the first time either of them had mentioned it. She wished immediately she had not. Unlike those other kisses, the memory of this one was not inflammatory, but bittersweet.

‘No,’ Jack said, ‘I’m sure no one saw us. It’s one of the things I like about that place, it’s completely private.’

‘Unless someone hides behind a hawthorn tree.’

Jack’s smile was twisted. ‘As with so many things, you are the exception that proves the rule.’

Their eyes met and held. He reached out to touch her cheek. She turned her head. Her lips brushed his palm.

‘Celeste.’ His voice was filled with the same longing she felt. He took a step towards her, then halted. ‘You must be keen to get to work, now Eleanor has made some decisions. I will see you at this blasted dinner.’

Confused, frustrated, as much by her own reaction as Jack’s, Celeste turned her back on the closed door and set about stretching some canvases.

* * *

Jack put the final touches to his cravat. It was not perfect, but it would do. At times like this, he missed his faithful army batman, but Alfred was happily ensconced many hundreds of miles away as the landlord of the Bricklayer’s Arms in Leeds, and besides, the last thing Jack really wanted was proximity to any of his former comrades. Still, no one could tie a cravat like Alfred.

He pulled on his waistcoat. Grey satin stripes, and one of his best. Quite wasted in the country, but Eleanor would appreciate the effort he was making. As she’d appreciate the formality of his cutaway black coat and silk breeches. They were considerably looser on him than the last time he’d worn them to the now-infamous ball held by Lady Richmond on the eve of Waterloo. He closed his eyes, but it seemed a set of evening clothes, even one with such associations, did not trigger anything other than a vague discomfort, and that was coming from his shoes, which had always pinched.

Perhaps he was on the mend, mentally as well as physically? Perhaps this thing, this nostalgia, whatever the hell it was, would heal, as his shoulder was doing, and his arm.

‘Nostalgia,’ Jack said viciously as he shrugged himself into his coat. Such a soft, comfortable little word to describe what he felt. Was it all in his head? But the pain, the tearing blackness, the white heat of his uncontrollable fury, the terror that made him run from himself, the sweats and the shakes, and the dull ache in his head, they were all too real.

‘I am not mad.’ He jumped as the porcelain dish containing his cuff-links clattered to the floor. It was not broken, thank the Lord. He picked up the scattered links, replacing the dish carefully. If he was insane he wouldn’t recognise or understand what it was that made him feel the way he did. And that, he understood only too well. How could he fail too when he lived through it again and again, almost every night without fail?

Seated at the dressing table, a brush in one hand, he stared at his reflection. What he didn’t understand was that for two years he had functioned reasonably well. The dream had been sporadic. He’d carried on doing what he’d always done. True, there had been doubts, but none strong enough to stop him doing his duty, stop him believing that doing his duty was paramount. Only after Waterloo, when peace was indisputable, when war was over, had his symptoms escalated.

And only after Celeste arrived at Trestain Manor, had he had to cope with not only enduring the symptoms, but confronting the fact that they were in danger of ruining his life.

A flicker of rebellion kindled in his heart. He didn’t want to spend his life enduring. He wanted to have his life back. Not the old one, that was gone for ever, but something preferable to this shadow of a life. Celeste sent his head spinning, she forced him to face a good many unpalatable truths, but she also sent blood rushing to parts of him he’d thought dormant. It frightened him, the thought of giving free reign to the passion she ignited, because he had retained such a tight grip on himself for so long, it was almost impossible for him to think about letting go.

Almost. Jack picked up his other brush and set about taming his hair. Almost was better than completely. Instead of dreading tonight, what he needed to do was to see it as a test. A possible step forward on the road to recovery.

* * *

Celeste was nervous, though she couldn’t account for it. She stood clutching the obligatory small glass of Madeira wine, half-listening to Sir Charles recount a complicated anecdote which seemed to involve a miller, his wife, the village baker, a neighbouring magistrate and, if her ears were not deceiving her, a wheel of Stilton cheese. Celeste took another sip of the sweet wine and smoothed down her gown. It was one of her plainest, of russet-coloured crêpe with a deep V-shaped neckline and high puffed sleeves, the only embellishment being a corded sash tied around the high waistline. Lady Eleanor was dressed far more elaborately in lilac lace. Sir Charles was in full evening dress for the first time since her arrival. Obviously, Auntie Kirsty’s haunch of venison demanded a major effort be made to mark the auspicious occasion. She now regretted her understated choice of attire.

Jack entered the salon just as Lady Eleanor was consulting the clock on the mantel for the third time. He too wore full evening dress. His hair was tamed ruthlessly, his jaw freshly shaved. The deceptively simple cut of his coat, the stark black of the silk suited him. As he strode across the room to bow over Lady Eleanor’s hand, Celeste could not help comparing the two brothers, so similarly attired, and so very different. Sir Charles was probably more classically handsome, but Jack’s imperfections, his austere countenance, were what made him, in Celeste’s eyes, by far the more attractive of the two. She remembered thinking that first day, when she had watched him swimming naked in the lake, that he looked like a man who courted danger.

Heat flooded through her. She should not be thinking of him naked, especially not when he was bowing over her hand. Celeste dipped a formal curtsy, lowering her head to hide her flush. ‘Monsieur.’

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