Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Dilly Court 2019

Jacket Photographs: © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (Girl); Claire Ward (building); Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Dilly Court asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008287719

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008287726

Version: 2019-03-08

Dedication

For my great-granddaughter,

Marcy Charlotte-Ann Avant.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Dilly Court

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Covent Garden, 1875

Robert Carroll appeared in the doorway of his attic studio, wiping his hands on his already paint-stained smock. A streak of Rose Madder appeared like a livid gash on his forehead. ‘Nettie, I want you to go to Winsor and Newton in Rathbone Place and get me some more Cobalt Blue, Indian Yellow and Zinc White. I can’t finish this painting without them.’

Nettie looked up from the garment she had been mending. ‘Do you need them urgently, Pa? I promised to finish this for Madame Fabron. It’s the opening night of her play at the Adelphi, and she must have her gown.’

‘And I have to finish this commission, or I won’t get paid and we’ll find ourselves homeless. We’re already behind with the rent, and Ma Burton isn’t the most reasonable of souls.’

‘All right, Pa. I’ll go, but I thought we didn’t have any money, which was why we had nothing but onions for supper last night.’ Reluctantly, Nettie laid her sewing aside.

‘Food is not important when art is concerned, Nettie,’ Robert said severely. ‘I can’t finish my work without paint, and if I don’t get this canvas to Dexter by tomorrow there’ll be trouble.’ He took some coins from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. ‘Go now, and hurry.’

‘I know you think the world of Duke Dexter, but how do you know that the copies you make of old masters’ works aren’t passed off as the real thing?’ Nettie pocketed the money. ‘You only have Duke’s word for the fact that he sells your canvases as reproductions.’

‘Nonsense, Nettie. Duke is a respectable art dealer with a gallery in Paris as well as in London.’ Robert ran his hand through his hair, leaving it more untidy than ever. ‘And even if he weren’t an honest dealer, what would you have me do? Commissions don’t come my way often enough to support us, even in this rat-infested attic.’

‘I still think you ought to check up on him, Pa.’

‘Stop preaching at me, Nettie. Be a good girl and get the paint or we’ll both starve to death.’

‘You have such talent, Pa,’ Nettie said sadly. ‘It’s a pity to squander it by making copies of other people’s work.’ She snatched up her bonnet and shawl and left her father to get on as best he could until she returned with the urgently needed paints. Everything was always done in a panic, and their way of living had been one of extremes ever since she could remember. When Robert Carroll sold one of his canvases they lived well and, despite Nettie’s attempts to save something for the lean times to come, her father had a habit of spending freely without any thought to the future.

Nettie made her way down the narrow, twisting staircase to the second floor, where the two rooms were shared by the friends who had kept her spirits up during the worst of hard times. Byron Horton, whom she thought of as a much-loved big brother, was employed as a clerk by a firm in Lincoln’s Inn. Nettie had been tempted to tell him that she suspected Marmaduke Dexter of being a fraud, but that might incriminate her father and so she had kept her worries to herself. The other two young men were Philip Ransome, known fondly as Pip, who worked in the same law office as Byron, and Ted Jones, whose tender heart had been broken so many times by his choice of lady friend that it had become a standing joke. Ted worked for the Midland Railway Company, and was currently suffering from yet another potentially disastrous romantic entanglement.

Nettie hurried down the stairs, past the rooms where the family of actors resided when they were in town, as was now the case. Madame Fabron had a small part in the play Notre-Dame, or The Gypsy Girl of Paris, at the Adelphi Theatre, with Monsieur Fabron in a walk-on role, and their daughter, Amelie, was understudy to the leading lady, Teresa Furtado, who was playing Esmeralda. The Fabrons were of French origin, but they had been born and bred in Poplar. They adopted strong French accents whenever they left the building in the same way that others put on their overcoats, but this affectation obviously went well in the theatrical world as they were rarely out of work. Fortunately for Nettie, neither Madame nor her daughter could sew, and Nettie was kept busy mending the garments they wore on and off stage.

She continued down the stairs to the ground floor, where sickly Josephine Lorimer lived with her husband, a journalist, who was more often away from home than he was resident, and a young maidservant, Biddy, a child plucked from an orphanage. Nettie quickened her pace, not wanting to get caught by Biddy, who invariably asked for help with one thing or another, and was obviously at her wits’ end when trying to cope with her ailing mistress. Not that she had many wits in the first place, according to Robert Carroll, who said she was a simpleton. Nettie knew this to be untrue, but today she was in a hurry and she was desperate to avoid their landlady, Ma Burton, who inhabited the basement like a huge spider clad in black bombazine, waiting for her prey to wander into her web. Ma Burton was a skinflint, who knew how to squeeze the last penny out of any situation, and her cronies were shadowy figures who came and went in the hours of darkness. Added to that, Ma Burton’s sons were rumoured to be vicious bare-knuckle fighters, who brought terror to the streets of Seven Dials and beyond. It was well known that they were up for hire by any gang willing to pay for their services. It was best not to upset Ma and incur the wrath of her infamous offspring and their equally brutal friends.

Nettie escaped from the house overlooking the piazza of Covent Garden and St Paul’s, the actors’ church, and was momentarily dazzled by the sunshine reflecting off the wet cobblestones. She had missed a heavy April shower, and she had to sidestep a large puddle as she made her way down Southampton Street. It would have been quicker to cut through Seven Dials, but that was a rough area, even in daytime; after dark no one in their right mind would venture into the narrow alleys and courts that radiated off the seventeenth-century sundial, not even the police. Nettie stopped to count the coins her father had given her and decided there was enough for her bus fare to the Tottenham Court Road end of Oxford Street, and from there it was a short walk to the art shop in Rathbone Place. She must make haste – Violet Fabron would expect her gown to be finished well before curtain-up.

Nettie spotted a horse-drawn omnibus drawing to a halt in the Strand and she picked up her skirts and ran. The street was crowded with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, and with pedestrians milling about in a reckless manner, but this enabled Nettie to jump on board. As luck would have it, she found a vacant seat. One day, when she was rich, she would have her own carriage and she would sit back against velvet squabs, watching the rest of the population going about their business, but for now it was the rackety omnibus that bumped over the cobblestones and swayed from side to side like a ship on a stormy ocean, stopping to let passengers alight and taking on fresh human cargo. Steam rose from damp clothing, and the smell of wet wool and muddy boots combined with the sweat of humans and horseflesh. Nettie closed her mind to the rank odours and sat back, enjoying the freedom of being away from her cramped living quarters, if only for an hour or so.

Two hours later, Nettie returned home with the paints and two baked potatoes that she had purchased from a street vendor in Covent Garden.

Robert studied the small amount of change she had just given him. ‘The price of paint hasn’t gone up, has it?’

Nettie took off her bonnet and laid it on a chair in the living room. ‘No, Pa. I bought the potatoes because we need to eat. I’m so hungry that my stomach hurts.’

‘There should be more change than this.’

‘I had a cup of coffee, Pa. Surely you don’t begrudge me that?’

Robert shook his head. ‘No, of course not. I’m hungry, too. Thank you, dear.’ He took the potato and disappeared into his room.

Nettie sighed with relief as the door closed behind her father. She reached under her shawl and produced the new notebook that she had purchased in Oxford Street. It had cost every penny that she had earned from mending a tear in Monsieur Fabron’s best shirt, and she had supplemented it with a threepenny bit from the coins that her father had given her for his art supplies. Perhaps she should have spent the threepence on food, but she considered it money well spent, and paper, pen and ink were her only extravagance. Writing a romantic novel was more than a guilty pleasure; Nettie had been working on her story for over a year, and she hoped one day to see it published. But she dare not reveal the truth to Pa – he would tell her that she was wasting valuable time. No one in their right mind would want to pay good money for a work written by a twenty-year-old girl with very little experience of life and love. She knew exactly what Pa thought about ‘penny dreadfuls’ and he would be mortified if he thought that his daughter aspired to write popular fiction. It was her secret and she had told nobody, not even Byron or Pip, and Ted could not keep a secret to save his life. Poor Ted was still nursing a broken heart after being jilted by the young woman who worked in the nearby bakery; he wore black and had grown his hair long in the hope that he looked like a poet with a tragic past. Nettie had met the love of his life, Pearl Biggs, just the once, and that was enough to convince her that Ted was better off remaining a bachelor than tied to a woman who was no better than she should be.

Nettie hid the new notebook, along with two others already filled, beneath the cushions on the sofa, where she slept each night. She was in the middle of her story, and the characters played out their lives in her imagination while she went about her daily chores. Sometimes they intruded in her thoughts when she was least expecting it, but occasionally they refused to co-operate and she found herself with her pen poised and nothing to say.

She put the potato on a clean plate and went to sit on a chair in the window to enjoy the hot buttery flesh and the crisp outer skin, licking her fingers after each tasty bite. When she had eaten the last tiny morsel, she wiped her hands on a napkin and picked up her sewing. She concentrated on Madame Fabron’s gown, using tiny stitches to ensure that the darn was barely visible. Having finished, she put on her outdoor things and wrapped the gown in a length of butter muslin. She opened the door to her father’s studio.

‘I’m off to the theatre, Pa.’

‘The theatre?’

‘Yes, Pa. You remember, Madame Fabron needs her gown for the performance this evening.’

‘Oh, that. Yes, I do. Wretched woman thinks she can act. I’ve seen more talented performing horses. Don’t be long, Nettie. I want you to take a message to Duke. You’ll need to make full use of your feminine wiles because this painting won’t be finished today. He can come and view it, if he so wishes.’

‘Yes, Pa. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Once again, Nettie left their rooms and made her way downstairs. She was tiptoeing past the Lorimers’ door when it opened and Biddy leaped out at her.

‘I heard you coming. I need help, Nettie. Mrs Lorimer’s having one of her funny turns.’

‘I’m sorry, Biddy. But I’m in a hurry.’

Biddy clutched Nettie’s arm. ‘Oh, please. I dunno what to do. She’s weeping and throwing things. I’m scared to death.’

‘All right, but I can only spare a couple of minutes.’ Nettie stepped inside the dark hallway and Biddy rushed past her to open the sitting-room door. The curtains were drawn and a fire burned in the grate, creating a fug. The smell of sickness lingered in the air. It took Nettie a moment to accustom her eyes to the gloom, but she could see Josephine Lorimer’s prostate figure on a chaise longue in front of the fire. She had one arm flung over her face and the other hanging limp over the side of the couch. Unearthly keening issued from her pale lips.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs Lorimer?’

Josephine moved her arm away from her face. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Nettie Carroll from upstairs. Biddy says you are unwell.’

‘I’m very ill. I think I’m dying and nobody cares.’

Nettie laid her hand on Josephine’s forehead, which was clammy but cool. ‘You don’t appear to have a fever. Perhaps if you sit up and try to keep calm you might feel better.’

‘How can I be calm when I am all alone in this dark room?’

Biddy shrank back into the shadows. ‘Is she dying?’

Nettie walked over to the window and drew the curtains, allowing a shaft of pale sunlight to filter in through the grimy windowpanes. ‘Mrs Lorimer would be better for a cup of tea and something to eat, Biddy. Have you anything prepared for her luncheon?’

‘There’s soup downstairs on the old witch’s range, but I’m scared to go down there. She’ll put me in a pot and boil me for her dinner.’

Josephine groaned and turned her head away. ‘Have you ever heard such nonsense? I’m supposed to be looked after by that stupid girl.’

‘I’m not stupid, missis,’ Biddy muttered.

‘Come with me,’ Nettie said firmly. ‘We’ll go down together. Ma Burton may be an old witch, but she doesn’t eat people.’

Biddy backed away, but a fierce look from Josephine sent her scurrying for the door. ‘All right, I’ll go, but you must come with me, miss.’

‘We’ll be back in two ticks.’ Nettie lowered her voice. ‘She’s just a child and she’s scared.’

Josephine’s lips trembled. ‘I need someone like you – someone capable and caring, not a silly little girl.’

Nettie gave up her attempt to reason with the irritable patient and followed Biddy from the room.

Ma Burton was tucking into a bowl of soup with evident enjoyment. Nettie suspected that Ma had helped herself from the Lorimers’ saucepan, but it would cause trouble if anything was said. Biddy kept so close to Nettie that she might have been mistaken for her shadow, but Ma Burton was too busy eating to make a fuss. To Nettie’s astonishment, she allowed them to take the pan and leave without adding anything extra to the usual charge of one penny for use of the range.

‘There, you see, she’s not so bad after all,’ Nettie said as they climbed the stairs to the ground floor.

With the hot pan wrapped in her apron, Biddy was careful not to spill a drop. ‘The missis will probably throw the soup at me – that’s what she did last time. I had bits of carrot stuck in me hair for days afterwards.’

‘I’ll make sure she behaves better today.’ Nettie struggled to keep a straight face. She could understand the frustration on both sides: Biddy was a child, taken from the orphanage because she was cheap labour; Josephine was the unhappy wife of a neglectful husband, with no recourse other than to play on her delicate constitution in order to gain attention. Nettie resigned herself to taking charge of the situation until Josephine was fed and comfortable, and, Nettie hoped, in a better mood. Biddy would no doubt improve out of all recognition if someone took her in hand, but that was unlikely to happen in the Lorimer household.

If Josephine was grateful for the food and Nettie’s undivided attention, she hid it well. She complained that the soup was too hot, and that it was too salty. She nibbled a slice of bread and butter Nettie prepared for her and then threw herself back on the cushions, complaining of a headache.

‘Fetch my medicine, girl,’ Josephine said feebly. ‘I need laudanum. Hurry up, you silly child.’

Biddy stood on tiptoe to reach the brown glass bottle set up high on the mantelshelf. ‘I’m doing it as fast as I can.’

‘There, you see what I have to put up with, Nettie.’ Josephine held her hand out. ‘Give me the bottle, girl, and pour me some water. Not too much.’

Nettie took the laudanum from Biddy. ‘Has the doctor prescribed this, Mrs Lorimer?’

‘Mind your own business and give it to me.’

‘I have a better idea,’ Nettie said, glancing out of the window. ‘The sun is shining so why don’t you come for a walk with me? I’m delivering this gown to Madame Fabron at the theatre. Wouldn’t you like to see them in rehearsal?’

Josephine clutched her hands to her bosom. ‘I haven’t been outside these rooms for over a year.’

‘But you can walk,’ Nettie said firmly. ‘You aren’t in pain.’

‘I have pain everywhere, and I am so tired, but I can’t sleep at night.’

‘She is always saying that,’ Biddy added, nodding vigorously. ‘She is always complaining.’

‘Be quiet,’ Josephine snapped. ‘Who asked you, girl?’

‘It isn’t far to walk to the stage door of the Adelphi. Why not make an effort, Mrs Lorimer? The fresh air will do you good, and maybe you’ll feel a little better. You might even see Miss Furtado rehearsing, if you’re lucky.’

Josephine raised herself to a sitting position. ‘I saw Teresa Furtado perform at Drury Lane. We used to go to the theatre often before I became ill.’

‘If Biddy will fetch your outdoor things, we’ll see if you can manage to get that far. You won’t know unless you try. We’ll help you.’

It took twice as long to get to the stage door than it would have done had Nettie been on her own, but between them, she and Biddy managed to cajole, bully and half-carry a reluctant Josephine Lorimer to the theatre. Once inside there seemed to be a minor miracle and Josephine was suddenly alert and smiling. She walked unaided to the dressing room that Madame Fabron shared with all the minor female characters, and when Amelie Fabron appeared and offered to take them into the auditorium to watch the dress rehearsal, Josephine accepted eagerly. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes alight with excitement. It was a complete transformation, and she sat in the front row of the stalls, gazing in delight at the stage.

‘I have to do an errand for my father,’ Nettie said in a low voice.

‘Shhh!’ Josephine held her finger to her lips.

Nettie sighed and turned to Biddy, who seemed equally thrilled with the rehearsal. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you here?’

‘Isn’t Miss Furtado beautiful?’ Biddy breathed, dreamy-eyed.

Nettie could see that she was getting nowhere and she left them enraptured and in a world of their own. She would happily have remained with them, but she needed to find Duke Dexter as a matter of urgency. It was fortunate that Ma Burton had, for once, been more interested in her food than in demanding the rent arrears, but that situation would not last, and Ma’s boys used methods of persuasion that were brutal and very effective. As Pa said, ‘What use is an artist with a broken hand or missing fingers?’ They were not in that position as yet, but that could change.

Dexter’s gallery was in fashionable Dover Street, patronised by the rich and famous. Nettie hesitated before entering, smoothing her creased gown and straightening her bonnet. The fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen looked at her askance as they strolled past, and she felt dowdy and out of place. Then, out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a man lurking in a doorway further up the street. His battered top hat and oversized black jacket both had the green tinge of age, and his lank hair hung loose around his shoulders. Nettie observed all these details in the brief moment before he ducked out of sight, but his appearance had disturbed her and her active imagination had him marked as someone up to no good. She took a deep breath and let herself into the gallery.

The elegant interior was furnished with antique chairs and Persian carpets, and the walls were adorned with gilt-framed paintings. Bowls of spring flowers scented the air and clients were greeted by Pendleton, a thin, balding man dressed in a black frock coat, neatly pressed pinstripe trousers and a dazzlingly white shirt. The lack of hair on his pate was compensated for by a wildly curling ginger moustache, the waxed tips of which quivered every time he spoke. Nettie found herself mesmerised by his facial hair, which seemed to have a life of its own.

‘How may I be of service, Miss Carroll?’ Pendleton raised his hand to twirl his moustache with delicate twists of his long fingers.

It was a routine they enacted each time Nettie entered the gallery. ‘I’d like to see Mr Dexter on a matter of business.’

Pendleton’s tea-coloured eyes met hers with a condescending smile. ‘Are you a purchaser or a vendor today, Miss Carroll?’

She was tempted to tell him to mind his own business, but that would only make matters worse. Pendleton was in his own little kingdom and, if he so wished, he could prevent her from seeing Dexter even if his employer was on the premises.

‘I have something that Mr Dexter wants, Mr Pendleton.’

‘I’ll see if he’s in his office. Excuse me, miss.’ Pendleton bowed and walked away at a leisurely pace.

Nettie glanced round anxiously. She was even more conscious of her shabby clothes and down-at-heel boots, and she was aware of the curious glances of the well-dressed clientele who were wandering about, studying the works of art that were presented on easels or hanging from the walls.

Pendleton reappeared after what felt like an eternity. ‘Mr Dexter can spare you a moment or two, Miss Carroll.’

‘Thank you, I know the way.’ Nettie hesitated. ‘It may be nothing, Mr Pendleton, but I saw someone acting suspiciously just a few doors down from here. He seemed to be watching the gallery.’

Pendleton was suddenly alert. ‘Describe him, if you please.’ He listened intently. ‘Wegg, he said tersely. ‘Samson Wegg – he’s a private detective – a police informer with a long-held and very bitter grudge against Mr Dexter. Don’t have anything to do with him, miss. Wegg is a nasty piece of work.’

‘I’m not likely to speak to someone like that, Mr Pendleton.’

‘Quite right. Wegg is trouble, so I suggest you leave now, miss.’

‘But I must see Mr Dexter. I won’t take up much of his time.’ Nettie pushed past Pendleton and headed for a door that led downstairs to the basement. It was here that Duke Dexter stored the most valuable works in his collection, and the copies that he sold to art lovers who could not afford to purchase the originals. Nettie negotiated the narrow stairs, ending in a room below street level where some daylight filtered in from a barred window set high in the wall, but the main light source in the room came from a gasolier in the centre of the ceiling. Duke was using a magnifying glass to examine an oil painting in minute detail.

‘Come in, Nettie, my dear.’ He turned to her with the smile that she had seen him use on his wealthy patrons when he wished to charm them out of large sums of money. His dark eyes set beneath winged eyebrows gave him a saturnine look, which vanished when a slow smile curved his lips. He was a handsome man, who knew how to use his looks and fine figure to best advantage when it came to charming prospective customers, but Nettie could not rid herself of the nagging suspicion that he was secretly laughing at her and her father. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, my dear, but you seem to have arrived empty handed.’

‘You know very well that I couldn’t carry a wet oil painting through the streets, let alone climb on board an omnibus with it in my hands.’

He placed the magnifying glass on a table nearby and turned to her with eyebrows raised. ‘The canvas ought to have been delivered to me three weeks ago. I suppose that’s why Robert sent you to brave the lion in his den. More excuses, I suppose?’

Nettie put her head on one side. ‘I don’t think of you as a lion, Duke. You’re more of a panther, sleek and dangerous and best avoided. I wish my father had never met you.’

‘I’m only dangerous to those who attempt to deceive me or do me harm.’ He pulled up a chair. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’

‘Thank you, but I’d rather stand.’ Nettie faced him with a defiant stare. ‘Pa is still working on the painting. He sent me to tell you that it won’t be finished for another day or two.’

‘Your father has let me down several times and it won’t do.’

‘He’s an artist, and he’s a brilliant one. He’s too good for this sort of thing, and you could help him more if you set your mind to it.’

Duke’s eyes narrowed and his winged brows drew together over the bridge of his nose. ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion, and I don’t take kindly to criticism when, in fact, I’ve saved your father from bankruptcy several times over.’

‘Then why don’t you hang his original works in your gallery? Why are you encouraging him to make copies?’

‘The truth, if you want to hear it, is that your father is a second-rate painter, but a first-rate copyist. My wealthy clients are prepared to pay handsomely for works that they believe are original. It makes them happy and we all benefit.’

‘I thought as much. You take their money under false pretences,’ Nettie countered angrily. ‘You give Pa a small fraction of what you take and, he doesn’t realise it, but he’s risking imprisonment and ruin if he’s found out.’

‘I have the contacts and I am a businessman first and foremost.’

‘You are a criminal and a trickster.’

‘I dare say you’re right, but Robert is in this too deep to stop now. Or perhaps you’d rather see your father lose everything, including his reputation?’

‘No, of course not,’ Nettie said angrily. ‘I’m going to tell him what you’re up to.’

Duke moved closer so that she could feel the heat of his body, and the scent of spice, citrus and maleness filled her head with dizzying effect. He leaned towards her so that their faces were inches apart. ‘You can’t prove it and I will deny everything. Robert will believe me because he needs me. Either you accept the situation and do your best to keep him out of trouble, or you face the consequences brought about by your father’s frailty. It’s your choice, Nettie. What’s it to be?’

She looked into his dark eyes and knew that he had won this time, but she was not beaten. ‘What do you want me to do?’

He backed away, smiling. ‘That’s better. That wasn’t too difficult, was it?’ He picked up the magnifying glass and turned away to study the painting. ‘Tell Robert to bring it to me when he’s satisfied that it will pass the closest scrutiny, but I want it soon or there’s no deal, and I’ll find someone who will work faster.’

‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’ Nettie faced him angrily. ‘You could come to our rooms and see the painting as it is now. You know very well that it will take weeks, if not months to dry.’

‘Which is why I want to have it and keep it safe.’ Duke leaned towards her, narrowing his eyes. ‘Your father is paid to do as I say. He’d do well to remember that, and so would you.’

‘One day you’ll meet your match, Duke.’ Nettie walked away without waiting for a response.

Chapter Two

‘Don’t take it to heart, Nettie,’ Robert said calmly when she finished recounting her experience in the art gallery. ‘Duke is like that with everyone. I wouldn’t normally associate with someone like him, but he pays well.’

‘He’s a criminal, Pa. He’s exploiting your talent for his own ends. He gives you a pittance for your work and makes a fortune for himself. I don’t agree with what you’re doing.’

Robert put his palette down and sighed. ‘You’re wrong, my dear. Duke has kept us out of the workhouse and he pays well. One day I will get one of my original paintings accepted by the Royal Academy and I’ll never have to make another copy.’

Nettie sighed and shook her head. ‘Do you know a man called Samson Wegg? He was hanging around outside the gallery. Pendleton said he’s a police informer.’

‘I don’t know the fellow personally, Nettie. Duke has upset a great many people in the past, and I suspect that Wegg is one of them. It’s nothing to do with us.’

She knew that it was useless to argue. ‘I’ll leave you to get on, Pa. Just remember that Dexter wants the painting urgently.’

‘It’s nearly finished, and I’m going to the Lamb and Flag for some refreshment.’

‘Must you, Pa? We owe Ma Burton three weeks’ rent.’

‘I’ve been working hard, Nettie. A pint of ale won’t bankrupt us.’

Nettie bit back a sharp retort. There was no reasoning with Pa when he was in this mood. ‘What shall I do about supper?’

Robert stripped off his smock and reached for his jacket and hat. ‘Don’t worry about me, dear. I’ll get something at the pub. You should have enough change from the paint to buy yourself a pie.’ He kissed her on the cheek and sauntered from the room.

Nettie stared after him, shaking her head. Duke Dexter was undoubtedly a ruthless criminal who had led her father into a life of crime, and Pa was both feckless and easily duped, but she herself must take some of the blame for the fact that she had no money for food. She should not have spent so much on the notebook, and she could have walked from Piccadilly in order to save the bus fare. Yet again she would go to bed hungry – unless there was good news from the publishing house. It was some weeks since she had submitted the manuscript of her first novella, Arabella’s Dilemma, a gothic tale of passion and revenge, which was as good, she hoped, as anything that Ann Radcliffe had penned in The Mysteries of Udolpho, or Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Nettie had changed her style since writing about Arabella’s adventures, but if the story was accepted it would give her a measure of independence, and relieve the pressure on her father to become ever more involved with Duke. There was nothing for it but to put on her bonnet and shawl and venture out again, although this time it was on an errand of her own. She set off for Soho and the small publishing house that had been her last resort. All the major publishers had rejected her manuscript, but Dorning and Lacey were yet to reply.

Nettie left the office in Frith Street with the manuscript tucked under her shawl. The clerk behind the desk had been sympathetic, but was obviously practised in dealing with disappointed authors. The rejection letter was similar to the others she had received for previous attempts at writing fiction, giving her little hope of furthering her ambition to see her work in print. It had begun to rain, and although it was probably just an April shower, it was heavy enough to soak her to the skin in a few minutes, adding to her frustration, and she was hungry. Perhaps this was her punishment for squandering money instead of putting it towards the rent arrears.

She arrived home at the same time as Byron. He took one look at her and his smile of welcome faded. ‘Good Lord, Nettie. Where’ve you been? You look like a drowned rat – I mean,’ he added quickly, ‘you don’t actually look like a rat – it’s just an expression, but you are very bedraggled.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ Nettie said ruefully. ‘I got caught in a shower.’

He opened the door and held it for her. ‘You’d better get out of those wet things before you catch cold.’

She put her finger to her lips. ‘Tiptoe or Biddy will leap out and ask for help. I’ve been caught once like that today.’

Byron followed her, treading as softly as was possible for a tall young man who looked as though he would be more at home on the cricket pitch or playing a game of tennis than working in the city. However, despite his boyish appearance, he was the person Nettie trusted the most.

They managed to get past the Lorimers’ door without being waylaid, and Nettie could only hope that the outing to the theatre might have done sickly Josephine some good. They continued up the next flight in silence, but when they reached the second floor and Nettie was about to say goodbye to Byron, he caught her by the hand.

‘Before you go upstairs, I wanted to ask you to join us for dinner tonight, Nettie. It’s my birthday and I’m treating the chaps to dinner at the Gaiety Restaurant – I’d be honoured if you’d come, too.’

The mere thought of a decent meal made Nettie’s mouth water, but the Gaiety was expensive and she knew that Byron earned little enough without making extravagant gestures. ‘That sounds wonderful, but can you afford it? I mean, dining there isn’t cheap.’

He winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies,’ he said, laughing. ‘Don’t look so worried, Nettie. I had the winning ticket in a sweepstake at work. I can’t think of a better way to spend the money than to treat my best friends.’

Nettie put on her best gown of pale blue silk with a modest décolleté. Four years ago her father had had a run of good fortune. He had promised to take her to Paris to see the works of art in the Louvre and had even gone to the trouble of obtaining passports. Added to that, in a sudden fit of generosity, he had taken her to a fashionable salon and had chosen the outfit himself, but styles had changed subtly since then. Nettie had had to use all her sewing skills to bring the garment up to date, but when they entered the smart Gaiety Restaurant she felt like a sparrow amongst brightly coloured birds of paradise. She was dowdy in comparison to the elegant ladies present, but if Byron, Pip and Ted were not as smartly dressed as the other gentlemen they did not seem to know or to care. Their appearances passed largely unnoticed, whereas Nettie could feel the patronising and sometimes pitying glances from other women. They would know almost to the day when her gown had been bought, and probably the very salon from which it had been purchased.

Despite her discomfort, Nettie held her head high as Byron led the way past a table where several young men in evening suits were enjoying themselves noisily.

‘Students. More money than sense.’ Ted moved on swiftly, but one of the party had apparently overhead his remark and the young man staggered to his feet.

‘What did you say, sir?’

‘Sit down, Rufus.’ One of his friends caught him by the arm. ‘We’ll get thrown out if you don’t behave.’

‘The fellow just insulted us, Percy.’ Rufus steadied himself, and his belligerent expression was wiped away by a slightly lopsided smile as he spotted Nettie. ‘A thousand pardons, most beautiful lady.’

‘Shut up, Norwood. You’re drunk.’ Percy tried to stand but fell back on his chair.

‘Drunk or sober, I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, ma’am.’ Rufus Norwood seized Nettie’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Will you and your party join us, fair lady?’

She met his gaze and realised with a shock that he was not nearly as drunk as he made out. His lips were smiling but his hazel eyes danced with amusement. She snatched her hand away and hurried on before Byron had a chance to intervene.

‘Do you know that fellow?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘If he upset you I’ll go and sort him out.’

‘I’ve never met him before in my life,’ Nettie said hastily. ‘Ignore them; they’re all tipsy.’

‘I may be a trifle inebriated,’ Rufus said with a courtly bow, ‘but I would never insult a lady.’

‘Sit down and stop being such a bore.’ Percy tugged at his friend’s coat-tails.

Nettie walked away and took her seat at the table with her head held high; she had no intention of letting anything or anyone spoil the evening, and it was Byron’s birthday – he was the most important person present.

But her enjoyment was short lived. Just as they were about to finish their main course, who should walk through the door but Duke Dexter, and the young woman who clung to his arm, laughing and flirting outrageously, was none other than Amelie Fabron. They were accompanied by two other couples, who were equally loud and very drunk. It was obvious that Duke was a regular customer as the waiters fawned upon him, rushing around to clear a table in the centre of the restaurant, pulling up chairs and wafting clean napkins in the air before laying them on their patrons’ laps.

‘Who the hell is that?’ Pip demanded, chuckling. ‘You’d think that fellow was a royal.’

‘He’s an art dealer,’ Byron said in a low voice. ‘One of our clients tried to sue him and failed. Everyone knows he’s a criminal, but so far the police haven’t been able to pin anything on him. He’s as slippery as an eel.’

‘And twice as ugly,’ Pip added. ‘I’d call him vulgar. Look at the gold rings he wears on both hands.’

Ted sighed heavily. ‘It doesn’t seem to worry that young lady – she’s beautiful. What does she see in him?’

‘What’s the matter with all of you?’ Nettie leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘You must have seen her often enough. That’s Amelie, the Fabrons’ daughter. She’s in the play at the Adelphi, or rather she’s an understudy, so I don’t know what she’s doing here.’

Byron turned his head to take another look. ‘By Jove, so it is. I’ve only seen her in passing and she always puts her head down and scuttles by as if she thinks I’ll bite. Look at her now.’

‘I’ve a good mind to tell her father,’ Ted said angrily. ‘That fellow is up to no good. Look at the way he’s running his fingers up and down her arm. I ought to go over there and give him a piece of my mind.’

Nettie reached out and laid her hand on his clenched fist. ‘It has nothing to do with us, Ted. She’s not like your lady friend from the bakery – Amelie is her parents’ problem, not yours.’ She glanced at Duke and felt the blood rush to her cheeks as their eyes met. Even worse, he rose to his feet and was coming towards them. Nettie looked around for a way of escape, but there was none.

Duke came to a halt beside her. ‘Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to see you here this evening, Miss Carroll.’

Byron rose to his feet. ‘Do you know this man, Nettie?’

‘Of course she does,’ Duke said smoothly. ‘How would I be aware of her name if we weren’t acquainted?’

‘This is Mr Dexter who has an art gallery in Dover Street,’ Nettie said stiffly. ‘I’ve visited it with Pa.’

‘Of course you have.’ Duke took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘I’m delighted to see you again after all this time, Miss Carroll. Please remember me to your father and tell him that I look forward to seeing his latest work – sooner rather than later.’ He bowed and strolled back to his table.

Amelie turned to stare at them and looked away quickly, but not before Nettie had seen panic in the girl’s eyes, giving her the appearance of a startled fawn.

‘Someone ought to tell her father,’ Ted insisted sulkily. ‘She’s too young for him, and he’s obviously a libertine.’

‘She is young,’ Nettie said slowly, ‘but she was brought up in the theatre. I’m sure she’s got his measure, but I’ll speak to her if it will make you feel better, Ted.’

He shrugged and pushed his plate away. ‘I suppose it’s none of my business, but I don’t like the look of that man.’

‘Neither do I,’ Pip added with feeling. ‘I’ve met his ilk often enough when they need someone to represent them in court. They think their ill-earned money can buy anything and anyone.’

Byron picked up the wine bottle and refilled Ted’s glass. ‘Drink up, everyone. It’s my birthday, so let’s enjoy ourselves. Who’s for pudding?’

Pip smiled and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Byron. Happy birthday, and I’d love something sweet.’ He nudged Ted, grinning widely. ‘I’m sure you would, too, if only you’d stop drooling over young Amelie. Anyone would think you’d never seen a pretty girl before.’

‘I’ve never seen her looking like that,’ Ted muttered.

‘Don’t tease him,’ Nettie said, smiling. ‘He’s just being protective.’

‘That’s right, I am,’ Ted murmured. ‘Women need to be protected.’

‘That’s very gallant, Ted.’ Nettie raised her glass. ‘Let’s remember that we’re here to celebrate Byron’s good fortune and his special day. Happy birthday, Byron.’ She sipped her wine but she was aware that Duke was staring at her, and she looked away quickly.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, Nettie?’

She turned to see Byron leaning close and smiling. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s a lovely restaurant and delicious food.’

‘You looked so far away just now.’

‘I was just wondering how I was going to convince Amelie that Duke Dexter is not the sort of man she should associate with.’

‘What do you know about him, Nettie?’

She lowered her voice. ‘I think he passes off the copies Pa makes as originals, although I can’t prove it. I’ve mentioned it to Pa, but he refuses to believe ill of Duke, and he says he has to sell his work wherever he can. It’s hard enough to find commissions, never mind worrying about the dealer’s reputation.’

‘If that’s the case, Mr Carroll would be well advised to steer clear of Dexter. You ought to be firm with him, Nettie.’

She twisted her lips into a smile. ‘You know my pa, Byron. He won’t listen.’

‘Here comes the waiter,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What are you all having?’

The rest of the meal passed off uneventfully, and they were all in good spirits as they prepared to leave the restaurant, but when Nettie passed the table where the young men were behaving even more badly than before, she could not resist a quick glance in Rufus Norwood’s direction. Once again their eyes met, but it was a fleeting encounter and she left the restaurant accompanied by her friends.

For the first time ever Nettie came home to find her father had returned from the pub early. He was seated by the fire, reading in the light of a single candle. He looked up, scowling. ‘Where have you been? I didn’t give you permission to go out.’

Nettie took off her cape and hung it on a peg behind the door. ‘I’m twenty, Pa. Surely I don’t have to ask you if I can go out for dinner with my friends.’

‘What friends? Of course I should know where you’re going and with whom.’

She crossed the floor and took a seat opposite him, resting her booted feet on the fender. ‘It was Byron’s birthday. He treated us to a meal at the Gaiety, and very nice it was, too.’

‘Well, you should have told me. I was imagining all sorts of things.’

She studied his face and realised with a jolt of surprise that he meant what he said. ‘What’s brought this on, Pa?’

‘I should have gone to see Duke myself, Nettie. He has a certain reputation when it comes to women, especially young and pretty ones like yourself.’

‘How could you think that I would have anything to do with someone like him?’

‘I know he’s waiting for the painting, and he can be ruthless when it comes to getting his own way.’

‘Put your mind at ease, Pa. Duke isn’t interested in me. We saw him in the restaurant this evening, and he had Amelie Fabron on his arm. I intend to warn her about him.’

‘That would be courting trouble, my love. She would be sure to tell Dexter and then we would be in an even worse position. Don’t underestimate him, Nettie. He’s charming when it suits him, and he’s always been good to me, but I know that Duke can be vicious if he’s crossed.’

‘Why do you continue to work for him then, Pa?’

‘We have to pay our way, Nettie. All I’m saying is, take care.’

Nettie rose to her feet and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I’ll be very careful, Pa. I’m really tired, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll make myself ready for bed.’

‘I’ll have an early night and be up first thing, ready to complete the painting, and I’ll take it to Dover Street myself. Good night, my dear.’

‘Sweet dreams, Pa, and don’t worry about me. I have Duke’s measure.’

Several days passed, and despite her best efforts, Nettie was finding it almost impossible to have a quiet word with Amelie, but she felt compelled to warn her against getting too close to Duke Dexter. Madame Fabron had nothing for her in the way of mending or alterations, which made it difficult to approach the family without raising their suspicions, and Amelie was always accompanied by one or other of her parents. Besides which, Nettie had problems of her own. Her father had finally taken the completed work to Dover Street and she waited anxiously for his return. He had been gone for three hours, and she could only hope that was a good sign. Despite her misgivings, the money from Dexter should be enough to see them through the next few weeks, and it would give Pa the chance to produce a work of his own. Such talent as his must surely be recognised eventually. Nettie had faith in him, if only he would apply himself instead of waiting for inspiration or a lucrative commission to fall into his lap.

She opened the new notebook and sat with her pencil poised above the blank page, but her thoughts strayed and she found it impossible to concentrate. Her young heroine, the daughter of a country parson, had fallen in love with a wastrel and was on the brink of leaving home to run away with the man her parents had forbidden her ever to see again, but Nettie was having difficulty picturing the scene between father and daughter. She closed her eyes, attempting to bring her characters to life, and failing miserably.

All she could think of was her empty belly and the fact that Ma Burton had threatened them with eviction if the arrears in rent were not forthcoming. Just that morning she had given them until six o’clock to come up with all or part of the money owing. She had not needed to elaborate on what would happen if they could not pay.

Nettie jumped to her feet as the door opened. ‘How did it go, Pa? Did he pay you?’

‘You’d best start packing, my dear. I’m afraid we have to make a move and do it quickly.’ Robert rushed into his studio. ‘We’ll have to travel light, so take only what you need.’

Nettie stood in the doorway, watching helplessly as he began tossing his paints and brushes into a leather bag. ‘What happened? What’s wrong, Pa?’

‘You were right all along, Nettie. Duke has been selling the reproductions as originals and Wegg has reported his dealings to the police. Duke has cut and run and, according to Pendleton, I’d do well to follow suit unless I want to go to prison. I swear I thought what I was doing was legitimate – at least I did until you put doubts in my head.’

‘I know you were taken in by him, Pa. You were always convinced that Duke Dexter was an honest art dealer.’

‘I still find it hard to believe that Duke misled me deliberately. I keep thinking it’s all some horrible mistake, but Pendleton was in the middle of telling me all this when the police arrived. I was questioned by a big burly sergeant, who didn’t seem to believe a word I said. He took my name and address and told me not to leave town.’

‘I did try to warn you, Pa.’

‘I know you did, my love. I didn’t want to think ill of Duke, and I made those copies in good faith, but it seems that Wegg has done his worst. He was determined to ruin Duke and it seems that he’s succeeded.’

‘Think hard, Pa,’ Nettie said urgently. ‘Is there any way the police could prove you were the artist concerned?’

‘I had to leave my painting behind. An expert would soon realise that there are other works in the gallery made by the same copyist, and it won’t take long before the police put two and two together. I’m afraid if I don’t make a run for it, I’ll end up in prison. But you’re innocent and you don’t deserve to be dragged down by me.’

‘That’s nonsense, Pa. We’re in this together.’

‘You’ve stood by me even though you suspected that what I was doing was illegal,’ Robert said with a wry smile. ‘But it’s time you made a life for yourself. I want you to go to your aunt Prudence in Wales. You’d be safe there.’

‘I’d rather be on the run with you, Pa. Aunt Prudence lives on a mountain surrounded by sheep. Anyway, you need me to look after you.’ Nettie went to the dresser and began searching the drawers. ‘Where did I put the passports you obtained for us last year? You remember, Pa. It was for the trip to Paris we never made because we couldn’t afford it.’

Robert pulled a face. ‘Don’t remind me of my past misdeeds, Nettie. That horse was a certainty, or so I thought. We would have visited the Louvre and Montmartre, the artists’ quarter, if that animal had won.’

‘Never mind that now, Pa. I’ve found them.’ Nettie closed the drawer and tucked the documents into her reticule.

‘You’re a good girl, Nettie. I don’t deserve you.’

‘There’s one problem, though. We haven’t any money.’

‘Duke must have a conscience of sorts: he left payment for my last canvas. As luck would have it, Pendleton handed it over before the police arrived.’

‘But you didn’t sign the copies,’ Nettie said slowly. ‘Even experts could be mistaken. If you had a good solicitor you might be able to prove that you knew nothing of Duke’s business deals.’

‘Everyone in the art world knows that I’ve been involved with Dexter for years, and I don’t trust Pendleton to keep his mouth shut. He’ll tell the police anything they want to know in order to save his own skin. I’m afraid there’s no alternative but to leave the country until all this blows over.’

‘Where will we go, Pa?’

‘We’ll head for Dover and catch the ferry to Calais. I don’t know where we’ll go from there. We’ll take it day by day.’

‘I must tell my friends. I can’t leave without saying anything to Byron and the others.’

‘You mustn’t do that, Nettie. It’s not fair to involve them. The less they know, the better. You can see that, can’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Good. Now pack your things. We’ll leave the rent money on the table. I’m not so dishonest that I’d rob an old woman, even a harridan like Ma Burton.’

Nettie experienced a moment of panic as she packed a valise with all her worldly possessions, starting with the manuscript of her rejected novel. Moving in a hurry was nothing new, and leaving rented accommodation had often involved a moonlight flit, but it was the friends she had made in Ma Burton’s house that Nettie would miss the most. She wondered who would help young Biddy when she was at a loss to know how to cope with her invalid mistress. Who would have the patience to mend Madame Fabron’s torn garments? Who would spend hours listening to Ted agonising over his broken romance? Who would play cards with Pip when he was feeling bored, and who would laugh at Byron’s terrible jokes? Leaving Byron was the hardest thing of all.

‘Come on, Nettie. We must leave now.’

Nettie fastened the leather straps on the valise and took one last look around the room that had been home for almost three years. The hunger and cold were forgotten and she could only remember the good times, and the bonds of friendship that she had made and shared. She would miss these two attic rooms in Covent Garden more than she could ever have thought possible. She had made a home wherever they happened to be in the past, whether it was a smart town house or a leaky attic in Hoxton, but leaving here hurt her heart, and going without saying goodbye to those whom she had grown to love was the most painful part of the whole sorry business.

She followed her father downstairs, tiptoeing past the closed doors, but when Robert let them out into the street they came face to face with Byron and Ted.

‘What’s going on?’ Byron demanded.

‘Keep your voice down,’ Robert said in a stage whisper.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Nettie reached out to grasp Byron’s hand. ‘We have to leave.’

‘Why?’ Ted asked. ‘If it’s the rent, we could help out.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Byron added hastily. ‘We’ll chip in, Mr Carroll.’

Robert shook his head. ‘Thanks, but the rent is the least of our problems. Say goodbye, Nettie.’ He strode off, leaving Nettie little alternative but to follow him.

‘Where are you going?’ Byron fell into step beside her. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Victoria Station,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You don’t want to be involved in this, Byron. Please keep out of it, for your sake if not for mine.’ She hurried on, but Byron kept pace with them.

‘I’m not giving up until you tell me what’s happened.’

‘I can’t tell you.’ Nettie broke into a run in an attempt to keep up with her father’s long strides, but she was hampered by the weight of her case.

‘Let me have that.’ Byron took it from her hand, but Robert had come to a halt as he reached the Strand, and he stood on the edge of the kerb.

‘Leave us alone, Horton.’ Robert waved frantically at a passing cab, but it passed by. ‘We have to leave London and that’s all you need to know.’

‘Now I know there’s something seriously wrong.’ Byron laid his hand on Nettie’s shoulder. ‘I’m your friend. If you’re in trouble maybe I can help.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but thank you anyway. Please go away and forget about us. We’re leaving the country.’

‘Nettie!’ Robert turned to her, scowling. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘I’m sorry, Pa, but Byron deserves an explanation.’

‘He works for lawyers. He would feel bound to tell the police everything he knows about us.’ Robert raised his hand again and this time a hackney carriage drew to a halt at the kerb. ‘Get in, Nettie.’ He tossed the cases in after her. ‘Victoria Station, cabby.’ He leaped into the cab and slammed the door.

Nettie peered out of the window, raising her hand in a final farewell to Byron.

‘Did you have to treat him like that, Pa?’

‘Yes, I did. And I hope he doesn’t tell anyone where we’re headed, because if the police find out they’ll know we’re trying to leave the country. I wasn’t supposed to leave London.’

‘But you’re not implicated yet,’ Nettie said slowly. ‘It will take some time for the law officers to work out that you made the copies, and it’s Dexter they’re after, not you. Couldn’t we simply move to another town, as we’ve always done, and wait until all this blows over?’

‘This time it’s different, my love. Our previous moves have been to escape my creditors, and the sums owed were relatively small. The police were never involved, but once this gets out I’ll be ruined. No one will ever buy my work again.’ He leaned forward to take her hand in his. ‘But you can still go to North Wales. I’ll give you half the money that Dexter paid me, and you can start afresh with Prudence. She’s not a bad old thing when you get to know her, and she’ll look after you. I know she will.’

‘No, Pa. That’s out of the question. I’ll go wherever you go. Maybe you’ll find your work more appreciated in France. I believe they love artists there.’

‘Let’s hope so, Nettie.’

The last train had left the station some hours ago, and there was nothing they could do other than take a seat in the waiting room. According to the timetable the first train for Dover left early in the morning, and they made themselves as comfortable as was possible on hard wooden benches. One of the cleaners took pity on them and brought them cups of tea, for which Robert tipped her handsomely.

Nettie stretched out and managed to get some sleep, but it was not the most comfortable bed she had ever slept on, and when she awakened to the sound of movement outside it was a relief to stand up and ease her cramped limbs. A train had just pulled into the station, emitting great gusts of steam, and slowly the station came to life. Porters pushed their trolleys along the platform, loading and unloading the guard’s van, and bleary-eyed passengers stumbled towards the barrier, fumbling in their pockets for their tickets.

Nettie shook her father by the shoulder and he awakened with a start. ‘What time is it?’

‘I’m not sure. I can’t see the clock from here, but a train has just pulled into the station. Would it be ours?’

Robert sat up slowly, taking the silver watch from his waistcoat pocket and peering at it in the half-light. ‘It’s half-past five. Our train leaves at six. I’ll go to the ticket office and hope that it’s open.’ He stood up, adjusting his clothing and brushing his tumbled hair back from his brow. ‘Wait here, Nettie. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He shrugged on his overcoat and made a move towards the door but it opened suddenly and Byron rushed into the waiting room, followed by Pip and Ted.

‘What the hell is this?’ Robert demanded angrily.

‘We’ve come to beg you not to involve Nettie in this, sir.’ Byron faced him with a stubborn set to his jaw. ‘We won’t stand by and see her life ruined because of something you’ve done.’

‘That’s right.’ Ted stood behind Byron, and Pip leaned against the door, preventing anyone from entering or leaving.

‘Get out of my way,’ Robert said through clenched teeth. ‘This has nothing to do with you. Nettie is my daughter and she’s a minor. She does as I say.’

‘So you’ll drag her into a life of poverty in a foreign country, will you? Is that what a good father would do?’

Nettie stepped in between them. ‘Stop this, both of you. I choose to go with my father, Byron. What sort of daughter would I be if I abandoned him now?’

‘I’d say you were being sensible.’ Ted laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come back with us, Nettie? We’ll sort something out between us.’

‘Ted’s right,’ Byron added earnestly. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

Chapter Three

‘Nettie, are you going to allow these three idiots to dictate to you?’ Robert edged past Byron and Ted, but Pip folded his arms across his chest and refused to move from the doorway.

‘Stop this, all of you, and that includes you, Pa.’ Nettie reached for her cape and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I intend to see this through. I love my father and I’ll stand by him, no matter what trouble he’s in. I care for all of you, but I know what I must do, so I’m asking you to let us leave without causing a fuss.’

Byron and Ted exchanged weary glances and Pip moved away from the door.

‘Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for, Nettie?’ Byron asked in a low voice. ‘You’ll be in a foreign country, unable to speak the language, trying to eke out an existence on what your father can get for his paintings. If he can’t earn his living honestly in London, how do you think you’ll manage abroad?’

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Robert said impatiently. ‘Don’t listen to them, Nettie. I’m going to buy our tickets and I want you to take the luggage and wait for me on the platform. Our train will be in soon.’ Robert swept past Byron and Ted, elbowing Pip out of the way as he left the waiting room.

Nettie faced them with a tremulous smile. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful, but you must see that I have no choice. I’ve been looking after Pa since I was a child, and he needs me even more now.’

‘He’s using you, Nettie,’ Byron said urgently.

‘Maybe, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he’s my father and I have to stand by him.’

‘If you say so.’ Ted gave her a hug. ‘But I’ll miss you, Nettie. Who’s going to listen to me when I get so miserable that I feel like crying?’

‘You’ll get over her in time.’ Nettie returned the embrace. ‘You deserve someone much nicer than Pearl. I won’t forget you, Ted.’

‘We’ll all miss you.’ Pip managed a smile. ‘Look after yourself, Nettie.’ He picked up Robert’s luggage and took it out onto the platform, leaving Nettie and Byron facing each other.

‘I suppose nothing I say will make you change your mind?’

‘Don’t make this even harder than it is, Byron.’

He brushed her cheek with a kiss and turned away. ‘I’ll go now. I hate goodbyes. Take care of yourself, Nettie.’

She followed him out of the waiting room and watched him stride away, passing Robert, who was returning with the tickets clutched in his hand. He waved to Nettie.

‘Our train leaves in five minutes. We’d better hurry.’

It was still early morning when they arrived in Dover, and after making enquiries, Robert announced that the next ferry was due to sail at midday. This gave them time to have breakfast in a hotel close to the harbour and to rest before the crossing. Nettie sat on the terrace enjoying the warm spring sunshine with only a slight breeze to ruffle the feathery tops of the pampas grass that towered over the neatly kept flowerbeds. The air was so fresh and clean after the soot and smoke of the city, and the scent of spring flowers was sharpened by a salty tang from the sea. Nettie would have been happy to remain here all day, but she had to face the fact that they would be leaving soon and might never return. It was a disturbing thought. She sat back and closed her eyes – the sound of birdsong and the mewling of seagulls was a pleasant change from the clatter of boots on cobbled streets and the rumble of cartwheels, the shouts of costermongers and the porters bellowing at each other in Covent Garden as they went about their work. She was slipping into a deep sleep when she was awakened by someone shaking her shoulder.

‘Is it time to leave, Pa?’ she asked sleepily.

‘It’s me, Nettie.’

She opened her eyes and sat up straight. ‘Byron. What are you doing here?’

He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘You don’t mean it.’

‘Yes, I do. I hate my job at the law firm. It’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life, and I don’t trust Mr Carroll to take proper care of you.’

‘But I don’t know where we’re going, or how we’ll live.’

‘All the more reason for coming with you. I’m strong and I can earn money doing manual labour, if necessary. I won’t allow your father to drag you into poverty, and I’ve always wanted to travel, so this is a good opportunity. Besides which, there’s something you don’t know about me.’

Nettie gazed at him in amazement. ‘What is it, Byron?’

‘My mother was French. She left home when I was very young and I never saw her again, but my first language was French.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘It didn’t seem important. When I was younger I tried not to think about the mother who’d deserted me, but recently I’ve been considering going to France to look for my French relations. I even have a passport.’

Nettie gazed at him, too stunned to put her thoughts into words. ‘That’s so strange, but how did you know we were here?’

‘The cabby who picked me up at the railway station had taken a fare to this hotel, and when he described the pretty, dark-haired young lady and a much older man, I knew it must be you – or at least I hoped it was – and I was right. Here I am and here I stay. I’ve paid for my passage and I’m ready to go.’

‘I don’t know what Pa will say about this, Byron.’

‘There’s not much he can do about it. I’m free to do as I like, and I intend to travel to France.’ He hailed a passing waiter. ‘A pot of coffee, if you please, and some bread and cheese. I didn’t have time for breakfast.’

Nettie waited until the food arrived. ‘I think my father is in the hotel lounge. I’m going to tell him you’re here, Byron. If he comes upon us together he’ll be angry and the last thing we need is a scene. If the cabby remembers dropping us off here it won’t be hard for the police to trace us and, if Pendleton talks, I don’t think it will take them long to associate Pa with the forgeries.’

Byron had just bitten off a chunk of bread and cheese and he nodded wordlessly. Nettie would have gone anyway, regardless of anything that he might have said. The main thing was to keep her father behaving in a manner that would not draw attention to them, which was difficult for someone who loved being the centre of attention.

It was sad to stand on deck watching the white cliffs fade into the distance, but in some ways it was also a relief, and Nettie began to relax. Her father had been angry at first, but he had been quick to admit that having Byron with them might prove advantageous. Nettie did not enquire further, but she suspected that her father would happily devote himself to his art, leaving Byron and herself to support him.

‘A penny for them?’ Byron appeared at her side.

‘I was just thinking that we’ve done it now. We’re on our way to goodness knows where. It’s not the first time I’ve been homeless, but at least everyone at home speaks English.’

‘Then it’s just as well I decided to join you.’ Byron leaned on the railings, staring at the rapidly disappearing shoreline. ‘I’ll translate for you.’

‘Tell me about your mother. How did your parents meet?’

‘Father was a medical student, and he went to Paris to attend a series of lectures. He was out one evening with friends and they saw a man beating a young girl. They intervened and took her back to her lodgings in a poor quarter, but Father was concerned for her welfare and he returned next day to make sure she was all right.’

‘And they fell in love at first sight. How romantic,’ Nettie sighed and closed her eyes. ‘It sounds like a fairy tale.’ She could see it all in her imagination; it would make a wonderful start to her next story.

‘Not really. It didn’t have a happy ending,’ Byron said with a wry smile. ‘I was only four when my mother left home. I remember her putting me to bed one night, and I can still smell her perfume when she kissed me and told me to be a good boy. She was gone next morning and I never understood why she had deserted me.’

Nettie reached out to lay her hand on his. ‘Byron, that’s so sad. It’s amazing that you still remember how to speak her native tongue.’

‘We always spoke in French together, and when I went to school I told my teacher that I wanted to learn the language. She loaned me the books and I studied French on my own. It made me feel closer to Maman.’

‘How brave of you, Byron. It must have been such a difficult time.’

‘I don’t think my father ever really got over it. He never remarried and he devoted himself to his patients in one of the poorest parts of the East End.’

‘He sounds like a very good man.’

‘He was, but he passed away five years ago. I think he died of exhaustion, because he gave so much to others.’

Nettie slipped her arm around his shoulders. ‘I am so sorry, Byron. I wish I could have known him.’

‘It’s all in the past, but you can understand why I have no ties in London, which leaves me free to accompany you and see that you’re kept safe.’

‘And you might find your mother’s family.’

‘Yes. I doubt if I’ll ever see my mother again, but I’d like to learn more about her and why she left us like she did.’ He glanced up at the darkening sky. ‘Let’s go to the saloon. I’m hungry and a cup of coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘I expect Pa’s there already. He’ll probably have found an audience to impress with his tales of his life as an important artist. He likes to tell people that he’s been all over the world, although, in fact, he’s never been any further south than Dover.’

‘Let’s hope there aren’t any off-duty policemen on board,’ Byron said, chuckling.

As Nettie had predicted, they found Robert seated at a table in the saloon, surrounded by an admiring audience.

‘Nettie, my dear. Come and sit down. You, too, Byron. I want you to meet my new friends. I’ve been telling them of our plans to take Paris by storm. I intend to have an exhibition of my latest works somewhere in Montmartre. I haven’t decided the exact location as yet, but I hope you will all come.’

Nettie sat down beside him. ‘Pa, we need to have a serious talk.’

‘I fear that I’m in trouble, ladies and gentlemen,’ Robert said, smiling. ‘As you see I am under petticoat government. I submit, Nettie. What have you to say?’

Nettie felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but the onlookers rose to their feet and shuffled off to their respective tables. ‘Pa, how could you?’ she whispered. ‘That was very embarrassing.’

‘You simply don’t know how to enjoy yourself, my love.’ Robert raised his glass and sipped the wine. ‘What did you wish to discuss?’

Byron took a seat beside Nettie. ‘We’ll be in Calais soon, sir. Have you any plans from there?’

‘We will go where the wind takes us,’ Robert said airily. ‘We’re free now, my boy. Free from the restraints of living in London, and we can live as we please.’

Nettie stared pointedly at her father’s empty wine glass. ‘How many of those have you had, Pa?’

‘Not enough, my darling.’ Robert leaned towards Byron, grinning tipsily. ‘Get me another, dear boy. My throat is dry.’

‘No, Pa,’ Nettie said firmly. ‘This isn’t a holiday. We’re on the run,’ she added, lowering her voice. ‘We need a plan.’

‘I can’t be bothered with details like that. I’ll set up a studio somewhere and make a good living. The French appreciate art.’ Robert leaned back against the padded seat. ‘Wake me up when we get there.’ He closed his eyes and his head lolled to one side.

‘He’s drunk,’ Nettie said crossly. ‘Would you believe it, Byron?’

‘Did you expect anything else? You ought to be used to your father’s ways by now, Nettie.’

‘I suppose so, but I keep hoping that one day he’ll stop acting like a ten-year-old and take some responsibility for his actions. Who knows what sort of bother he’d get into if I deserted him?’

Byron gave her a long look. ‘Your father wants to stay the night in Calais, although if it were left to me I’d suggest we went on to Paris. It would be easier to lose ourselves in the crowded city street, but we need to make a plan and we can’t do that until your father sobers up.’

‘Will you stay with him while I get some fresh air?’ Nettie rose to her feet. ‘It’s so stuffy in here.’

‘You mustn’t worry, Nettie. We’ll sort something out.’

She flashed him a grateful smile as she left the saloon and went out on deck. The wind whipped around her, dragging strands of hair from beneath her bonnet and tugging at her skirt. The sea was choppy and the paddle steamer ploughed through the waves, churning up the water and sending plumes of spray into the air, drenching the unwary. People hurried for the shelter of the saloon or down the companionway to the lower deck where cabins were available for those who could afford to pay extra. Nettie staggered as the vessel pitched and she collided with someone who had come up behind her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said breathlessly as she attempted to stand unaided, but the ship yawed and she would have fallen if he had not grasped her firmly.

‘Well, then. I didn’t expect to find you here, Miss Carroll. Least of all being thrown into my arms.’

Nettie reached out and grabbed the ship’s rail. ‘Duke!’

‘Hush! Not so loud, Nettie, my dear. I’m incognito for reasons that you will appreciate.’

‘You’re on the run from the police and so is my pa, thanks to you.’

‘Now, now, that’s not fair. I didn’t force Robert to work for me. He was eager to earn money and I put him in the way of several decent commissions. I was informed on by a man who has a personal grudge against me and will stop at nothing until he sees me ruined.’

‘What you did was illegal,’ Nettie countered. ‘You used my father’s talents to make money for yourself.’

‘That, my dear, is business.’ He eyed her curiously. ‘What I don’t understand is why you chose to accompany him. Haven’t you any relations who would take you in and look after you?’

‘I’m not a child, Duke.’

‘Quite.’ He shrugged and turned away. ‘Well, good luck. That’s all I can say.’ He turned back to give her a quizzical smile. ‘But what will you do when the money runs out? Will you beg on the streets or sell yourself in order to keep your feckless father in comfort?’

‘Neither,’ Nettie said angrily. ‘We’ll find a way.’

He hesitated, frowning. ‘I suppose I do bear some responsibility for what has happened to you, although it pains me to say so. I must be getting soft in my old age.’

Suddenly curious, Nettie gave him a searching look. ‘You can’t be more than thirty-five.’

‘As a matter of fact, I’m thirty-four. Riotous living must be starting to mar my good looks.’ He put his hand in his breast pocket and took out a silver card case. He flicked it open and produced a gilt-edged visiting card. ‘This is the one I use when in Paris. You will see that I go by the name Gaillard when in France. I have many identities, Nettie, but if you are in trouble you can find me at this address. I might even have work for your father, if he’s so minded.’ Duke walked away, adapting to the movement of the ship as if he had spent his life at sea.

Nettie tossed the card overboard, but the wind caught it and deposited it at her feet. Despite her misgivings, she bent down, picked it up and tucked it in her reticule. Duke Dexter was on the run just the same as they were, but Marc Gaillard, the Parisian art dealer, might be useful, if they were desperate.

She felt a sudden change in the tone of the ship’s engine and she caught sight of land. She hurried back to the saloon to tell her father and Byron that they were nearing Calais, but she would keep Duke’s presence on board a secret.

Robert had changed his mind about staying the night in Calais, or perhaps Byron had changed it for him, but in the end they took the train to Paris. It was an uneventful and reasonably comfortable journey, and when they reached their destination Robert insisted on hiring a fiacre to take them to Montmartre, where he was convinced he would meet like-minded people and his talent would be recognised. He seemed to be happy to sit back and allow Byron to do all the talking, and Nettie was quietly impressed by her friend’s fluent French as he told the cab driver where they wanted to go. They were dropped off in a quiet backstreet close to a small square filled with flower stalls, fruit sellers and cafés where people sat at small tables in the shade of trees, which were bursting into leaf.

Byron paid the driver. ‘He says we can get cheap lodgings here,’ he said as the fiacre pulled away from the kerb.

Robert held out his arms, smiling as he took deep breaths of the air scented with French tobacco, wine and garlic, which barely masked the smell of drains and overflowing privies.

‘I am in my spiritual home,’ he said gleefully. ‘It is here, in Paris, that I will do my best work. I was duped by Duke Dexter, but now I am free from his demands, and I will start afresh.’

Nettie said nothing, but the cab had driven along the street named on Duke’s visiting card and she was uneasy. The last thing she wanted was for her father to get involved with the man who had led him into crime in the first place. It would be all too easy for him to go that way again when their money ran out, but she decided to talk it over with Byron at the first opportunity. Their most pressing need was for somewhere to stay, and Byron was making enquiries at the door of a house with a sign in the window advertising vacancies.

‘Byron is a handy chap to have around,’ Robert said grudgingly. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen him as a travelling companion, but he’s proving useful.’

‘We would be in a pickle without him, Pa. I can’t speak a word of French, and neither can you.’

‘I know how to communicate with people, Nettie. But we’ll put up with him for a while and then he can go on his way. I don’t want you getting too close to a fellow who has little or no prospects.’

Nettie stared at him, speechless. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind Pa that he was the fugitive from justice and Byron was here to help them, but she knew it would be futile. Once her father had an idea in his head it was almost impossible to make him see reason.

‘She has two rooms,’ Byron said as he hurried back to them. ‘They’re in the attic, but she says there’s another couple who are interested so we have to give her an answer right away.’

‘The woman is probably bluffing.’ Robert was about to walk away when Nettie caught him by the sleeve.

‘It’s getting late, Pa. We need to have somewhere to sleep.’ She turned to Byron. ‘How much rent is she asking?’

‘About twice as much as we were paying Ma Burton.’

‘Daylight robbery,’ Robert said, frowning. ‘We’ll look elsewhere.’

Nettie tightened her grip on her father’s arm. ‘Think about it, Pa. If we can’t find somewhere quickly we’ll have to pay for three hotel rooms. What would that cost?’

‘All right.’ Robert gave in graciously. ‘We’ll take the rooms for a week, and in the meantime we can look for something more reasonable.’ He picked up the bag containing his paints and brushes, leaving Byron to carry his case. ‘Lead on. I want to see what you’ve let us in for, Mr Horton.’

‘I’d remind you that you are the one fleeing the law, Mr Carroll. And since you cannot speak the language you are at a definite disadvantage.’ Byron dropped the suitcase at Robert’s feet. ‘I came as a friend, not as a servant.’ He took Nettie’s valise from her hand and led the way into the house.

‘You asked for that, Pa,’ Nettie said softly. ‘Don’t underestimate Byron, and remember that we need him if we’re to get on in this country.’

‘When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it.’ Robert stomped past her and followed the landlady up the stairs.

Madame was not a young woman, but she was obviously used to negotiating five flights of steep stairs and she was barely out of breath when they reached the attics. Robert, however, was red in the face and gasping for breath. Nettie’s knees were aching, but she could see that her father was genuinely suffering.

Madame unlocked the door and ushered them into the room. She addressed Byron, speaking rapidly and waving her hands about as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

‘She wants a week’s rent in advance and she’s put the price up,’ Byron said hastily. ‘I think she suspects something, so it might be as well to pay her and keep her happy.’

‘Blackmail is the same in any language.’ Robert took a leather pouch from his pocket and handed it to Byron. ‘Pay the old hag, but we won’t be staying here for long. That I promise you.’ He glanced around the low-ceilinged room with bare floorboards and the minimum of furniture.

All smiles now, Madame left them, closing the door behind her.

‘I get the feeling she’s had the best of that deal,’ Byron said grimly.

Nettie examined the iron bed with a thin flock-filled mattress, and the washstand with a cracked basin and a jug with a chipped handle. A single chair and a low table were the only other items of furniture, and it was much the same in the larger room, although it boasted a double bed and two chairs. She was quick to notice that one of them had a broken leg.

‘How am I supposed to work here?’ Robert demanded. ‘I suppose I will have to let you share with me, Horton, unless you can persuade Madame to supply another bed.’

Nettie turned on him, frowning. ‘Stop complaining, Pa. At least we have a roof over our heads, and it gives us time to look round for something better. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Robert said apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Nettie. I am being selfish and thoughtless. Let’s try that café we saw in the square. Maybe I can drum up some custom for sketching portraits in charcoal. That means cash on the nail.’

Nettie shook her head. ‘Pa, you’re unbelievable.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, my dear,’ Robert said, smiling. ‘Lead on, Horton. No hard feelings, old man. We’re in this together now and I’m very grateful to you for using your linguistic abilities to our advantage.’

Nettie and Byron exchanged amused glances, saying nothing. Nettie was used to her father’s mercurial temperament, and she was relieved to see that Byron did not take him too seriously.

‘Let me wash my hands and face first,’ Nettie said hastily. ‘I need to brush my hair and make myself presentable.’

‘Very well.’ Robert sighed heavily. ‘If you must.’

Nettie took off her gloves and laid them on the single bed before going to the washstand, but the pitcher was empty.

‘I thought there would be water in the jug, but it’s empty.’

Byron stuck his head round the door. ‘Madame said we have to fetch it from the pump in the back yard. I’ll go, Nettie.’

‘Don’t worry, Byron. I’ll wash later. Let’s get something to eat first.’

It was almost dark when they reached the café in the square, but it was packed with customers, and they were lucky to find a table outside.

‘We must have wine to celebrate our first night of freedom,’ Robert said grandly. ‘A good claret, I think. You can order it, Horton, and I’ll have a steak. I don’t want any of their foreign food.’

‘We have to budget our money, Pa,’ Nettie said in a low voice.

‘I have to eat, dear girl. I cannot produce my best work if I am hungry, and a man needs red meat. I don’t suppose they do chops or steak-and-kidney pudding. Order plenty of food, Horton. We won’t be short of money once I become established, and you’re a big strong fellow, I’m sure you’ll find gainful employment soon.’

Nettie glanced anxiously at Byron, who had managed to attract the attention of a waiter and was passing on the order. She leaned towards him.

‘I’ll have the dish of the day or whatever is cheapest, Byron.’

‘Too late,’ he said as the waiter hurried off into the café. ‘I’ve ordered steaks all round. You heard your father, Nettie. He’s going to earn a fortune with his sketches and paintings. We’ll be dining like this every evening.’ He sat back as another waiter arrived with a bottle of wine, and he sampled it like an expert, nodding his approval.

Nettie raised her full glass to her lips and gulped down a mouthful of the ruby-red wine, and a warm glow spread throughout her body. Suddenly her worries seemed quite trivial. After all, Pa had once been a famous artist in his own right – he could compete with any foreign painter on equal terms. The night air was relatively mild, compared to the chill in England, and the sound of chatter in a foreign language, together with gusts of laughter, made her feel as if she was a guest at a party. The savoury aroma of cooking emanated from the café, laced with wine and garlic, and everyone seemed to be smoking the exotic-smelling tobacco, even the women. Nettie felt as though she had entered another world.

‘I think I might like it here,’ she said, smiling. ‘Maybe we could discover something about your mother’s family, Byron.’ She turned to her father, who was already on his second glass of wine. ‘Did you know that Byron’s mother came from Paris?’

‘Really?’ Robert sipped his drink. ‘I wondered how you came to learn the lingo.’

‘Will you try to find your family?’ Nettie asked eagerly.

‘I doubt if I’ll have much luck,’ Byron said slowly. ‘They were what are commonly known as water gypsies – never in one place for very long. I know very little about them.’

‘That’s even more of a reason to look for them.’ Nettie rarely drank alcohol and now she felt pleasantly relaxed, and perhaps she understood a little why her father enjoyed a glass or two of wine. ‘We could make enquiries, Byron. What was your mother’s maiden name?’

‘She was called Lisette, but I never knew her maiden name. It wasn’t mentioned.’

‘Maybe we can find someone who remembers the family.’

‘It was a long time ago, nearly a quarter of a century. My grandparents might be dead, for all I know.’

‘Ah! That smells good.’ Robert brightened up as the waiter appeared with their order. ‘Let’s eat and enjoy our meal. Forget relatives, forget London.’ Robert raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Paris, and a new beginning.’

Nettie joined in the toast, but even under the mellowing influence of the wine, she had a feeling that starting afresh in a foreign country was not going to be easy.

Chapter Four

Nettie’s fears grew as the days passed and her father earned very little money despite his efforts to promote himself. He was not the only artist attempting to make a living by touting for business in the square or on the steps of the great cathedral, and those who were there before him were not particularly welcoming. The fact that he could not speak a word of French also went against him, and the only people who paid to have their likenesses executed in charcoal were English visitors to the city, who were delighted to find someone with whom they could carry on a conversation. Nettie accompanied her father for the first few days, posing as an enthusiastic subject while he sketched her portrait, but even that failed to draw in an adequate number of clients eager to part with their money.

Byron went out daily, seeking work and returning each evening with very little to show for his efforts. They dined at the café each evening, but now they chose the cheapest food and wine, and during the day they ate almost nothing. Robert continued to be optimistic, but Nettie knew in her heart that they could not afford to live in Paris. At the end of the first week, with the rent due, she was tempted to go to the address that Duke had given her and ask for his help. After all, he was responsible for their being in this dire state, and he might be able to offer some good advice. He owed them that at least.

After a particularly bad day, when a sudden downpour soaked them to the skin and ruined a pad of expensive paper, Robert retreated to the café and ordered a glass of brandy and a pot of coffee. He had been quick to learn the French for what he considered to be the necessities in life. Nettie stood beside him with rainwater dripping off her straw bonnet, which was almost certainly beyond saving, and her wet clothing was causing her to shiver even though the day was relatively warm.

‘Did you have to do that, Pa?’ she demanded crossly.

‘I need something stronger than coffee. Where would you be if I sickened and died?’

For a brief moment Nettie was tempted to tell him that she would be far better off without him, but she knew that was not true. Despite his faults she loved her father and she would do her best to protect him from a world that was proving indifferent to his undoubted talent. ‘We have to be careful with money, Pa,’ she said, making an effort to be reasonable.

‘I should remind you that it is my money, Nettie. I have to look after myself. I have a great talent that must be nurtured. They’ll acknowledge it here, eventually.’

Nettie could see that she was getting nowhere. ‘I’m going back to the room to change into something dry. Perhaps you should do the same.’

‘That’s it, run along, my love.’ Robert greeted the waiter with a smile. ‘Merci.’ He grabbed the glass of brandy and sipped it with obvious pleasure. ‘I’ll be quite all right, Nettie. I’ll see you later – and bring a fresh supply of paper, please. We’ll try again this afternoon.’

Nettie hurried back to their rooms, narrowly avoiding Madame, who was standing outside a door on the fourth floor, hammering on it with both fists. She was shouting volubly and she neither heard nor saw Nettie, making it possible for her to slip past and race up the narrow staircase to the attics. Safely inside, she stripped off her wet garments and hung them over a rope that Byron had stretched from one side of the room to the other, which served as a clothes line. When the sun shone the rooms beneath the sloping roof were like an oven, but at night the temperature dropped noticeably, and Nettie could barely imagine how cold it must be in midwinter.

She dressed quickly, choosing her best gown and mantle and her only other bonnet. Assuming that Byron had not found any work that would earn him a few centimes, there was only one path open to them now. She opened the door and tiptoed downstairs. They had one more day in which to find next week’s rent, and she was ready to sup with the devil, if necessary.

The address that Duke had given her proved to be an elegant town house, set back from the street with a small paved front garden. It looked surprisingly respectable for a man who earned his living by fraud. She tugged at the doorbell and heard its peal echoing around what she imagined to be a large entrance hall, probably marble-tiled with a sweeping staircase and elegant furniture. She was expecting a uniformed maidservant, or even a smartly dressed butler to answer her knock, but to her surprise it was a young woman who opened the door. Her fair hair was taken back from her oval face and piled high on the top of her head, cascading around her shoulders in silky curls, and her striped dimity gown was the height of fashion.

Nettie had not been prepared to meet the lady of the house, or perhaps this was the daughter, judging by this person’s youthful appearance. Had it been a servant, Nettie would have shown them the visiting card and indicated that she wished to see Monsieur Gaillard, but now she was at a loss. She took the visiting card from her reticule, holding it up for the young woman to see. ‘Monsieur Gaillard?’

‘You are English?’ The young woman spoke with a charming French accent.

Nettie could have cried with relief. ‘Yes, I am. A gentleman I know gave me this visiting card and told me to contact him if I needed his assistance.’

‘You’d better come in.’

Nettie stepped over the threshold and found herself in an entrance hall not unlike the one she had imagined. ‘My name is Nettie Carroll,’ she began shyly.

‘I’m Constance Gaillard. Perhaps I can help.’

Nettie stared at her in disbelief. ‘You have the same surname as the person who gave me this card.’

‘Marc Gaillard was my father, but sadly he is deceased. You must be speaking of Monsieur Dexter,’ Constance said with an infectious giggle. ‘Duke and my father were business partners. Come into the parlour, where we can talk in comfort.’

Nettie followed her into an elegant room where a fire burned in the grate beneath a white Carrara marble fireplace. Bowls filled with hyacinths filled the air with their scent, the delicate colour of the flowers fitting in well with the pastel theme of the soft furnishings and the matching curtains. The walls were hung with exquisite watercolours of rural scenes, and the highly polished antique side tables were set beneath elegant gilt-framed mirrors that reflected the sunlight as it streamed through tall windows.

‘How lovely,’ Nettie breathed, soaking up the luxury with a heartfelt sigh. She had almost forgotten what it was like to live in a house like this. Once, when she was much younger and her father had been painting the portraits of fashionable ladies, they had lived in a comparable style. That was before Pa’s style of painting went out of fashion, and the gradual decline in their fortune.

‘Won’t you sit down, please?’ Constance perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘You said that you needed help, but Duke was in London when I last heard from him. How do you know him?’

‘My father is an artist. He had some dealings with Mr Dexter.’ Nettie sank down onto a chaise longue, leaning back amongst satin-covered cushions. ‘Duke was on the cross-channel paddle steamer heading for Calais when he gave me his card.’

‘And you are in need of his help?’

‘It’s a long story, but yes.’

‘You look a little pale, would you like some coffee, or perhaps you’d prefer tea?’

‘Thank you. I would love some coffee. I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.’

Constance rose gracefully and rang for a servant, who appeared as quickly as if she had been standing outside the door.

‘We don’t get many visitors.’ Constance resumed her seat, having given the maid her instructions. ‘I think you are the first person to call this week.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘I have a companion, but she is old enough to be my mother and we do not have much in common. I like theatre and ballet, and I would love to go to parties, but Mademoiselle Menjou likes to play cards and gossip with her friends, who are all old and very dull. There are the servants, of course, but they keep to themselves.’

Nettie was so interested in Constance’s plight that she had almost forgotten the reason for her visit. ‘I can sympathise wholeheartedly.’

‘You have a similar problem?’

‘Not exactly. I live with my father and he’s having difficulty in finding work. I was hoping that Duke might help him to get established in Paris.’

Constance was about to answer when a timid tap on the door and the rattle of cups on saucers announced the arrival of the maid, who edged her way into the room carrying a heavy silver tray, which she placed on a low table.

‘Merci, Berthe,’ Constance said, smiling. ‘C’est tout, merci.’

Berthe hesitated in the doorway, taking one last look at Nettie. No doubt she would rush back to the kitchen and relay everything to the servants below stairs. Nettie smiled at her and Berthe scurried from the room and closed the door.

Constance sighed. ‘That girl is so nosy. One day I will have to speak sharply to her.’ She picked up the coffeepot and filled two cups, passing one to Nettie. ‘I didn’t want to say anything in front of her because it will go straight back to the other servants, but I haven’t seen Duke for months. He comes and goes as he pleases. However, he sent me a telegram from Dover, saying he’s on his way to Paris, so I expect he will call on me quite soon.’

Nettie sipped the coffee. ‘He seems quite young to be your guardian.’

‘I suppose it is unusual, but I’ve known him since I was a child. My papa owned an art gallery in Paris, and he wanted to open one in London. Duke was a young man, half my father’s age, when they first met, and eventually they went into business together.’

‘You must have been just a child at the time.’

‘I was only seven when we left Paris and went to London, and I remember the house we lived in overlooked a large park. The gallery prospered and Mama wore beautiful gowns and we had our own carriage, and servants to look after us.’ Constance’s violet-blue eyes darkened and she turned her head away. ‘We were all so happy – and then my parents were killed in a train crash. Duke took care of me and became my guardian. He brought me back to Paris and set me up in this house, and he saw to it that I had a good education. He’s always made sure that I have everything I need.’

‘Even so, you must have been very lonely at times. Haven’t you any relatives who would have taken care of you?’

‘My grandparents died some time ago and my mother was an only child. I know nothing of my father’s family, but I am very fortunate to have a nice home and a kind guardian.’ Constance replaced her cup on its saucer, eyeing Nettie curiously. ‘But you are obviously troubled. Is there anything I can do to help?’

Nettie stared into the dark liquid in her cup, seeing her own worried reflection. ‘It’s rather complicated, but you could let me know if Duke contacts you. We’re in lodgings at the moment.’

‘I will, of course.’

‘Thank you.’ Nettie managed a smile but she was disappointed and desperate.

‘Maybe we could meet again?’ Constance said eagerly. ‘I would like to get to know you better. I have so few friends.’

Nettie would have liked to hug Constance and tell her that of course she would be her friend. Her heart went out to the lonely young woman, but she was wary of getting involved with someone who was close to Duke Dexter. ‘That would be lovely, but I’m not sure what I’ll be doing.’ She could see that this was not the answer that Constance had hoped for. ‘What I meant to say was that I have to help my father. We had to leave London in a hurry and we’re rather short of money.’

‘You’re obviously in some kind of trouble or you wouldn’t be here now. I’d like to help, if I can.’ Constance’s hand flew to her throat and she rose to her feet. ‘You’ll hardly believe this, Nettie, but I’ve just seen Duke walk past the window.’

She ran from the room and Nettie realised that she would have to be careful what she said in front of Constance, who quite obviously had no idea that her guardian was a criminal. She sat very straight, sipping her coffee and straining her ears in an attempt to hear what they were saying.

Constance burst into the room, her face alight with smiles. ‘Isn’t this the most incredible good luck? You wanted to see Duke and here he is.’

Nettie put her cup down and rose slowly to her feet, turning to face Duke Dexter with a carefully controlled expression. ‘How do you do, sir?’

He greeted her with an urbane smile. ‘How do you do, Miss Carroll? To what do I owe this pleasure?’

She met his mocking gaze with a steady look, and for a moment she was tempted to shame him in front of his ward, but that would be cruel and serve no useful purpose. Nettie knew that she would have to play along with his game, whatever it was. ‘My father is in Paris and we need your help, Mr Dexter.’

‘Robert Carroll is one of my favourite artists. How may I be of service?’

Nettie clenched her hands behind her back, digging her fingernails into her palms. She wondered how Duke could stand there, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, when he had brought them to a state of near destitution. ‘He’s having some difficulty in finding a studio and suitable accommodation. I wondered if you might be able to help.’

Dexter smiled. ‘I’d be only too happy to assist in any way I can, Miss Carroll. I’ll be at the gallery for an hour or so tomorrow morning, between nine o’clock and ten o’clock, if you and my friend Robert would like to call on me. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘How splendid,’ Constance said eagerly. ‘And how fortunate that you came to see me today, Duke. You will stay awhile, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will, Connie. I couldn’t come to Paris without spending some time with my favourite ward.’

Constance’s eyes widened. ‘You have another?’

‘It’s a manner of speaking – an English eccentricity. Miss Carroll will understand.’

‘I understand a great deal,’ Nettie said, rising to her feet. ‘But I must go now. My father will be wondering where I am.’

‘I’ll see you out.’ Constance followed her to the front door. ‘You will come again, won’t you?’

‘I’ll try, but it depends on what we’re doing. We might have to leave Paris if we can’t find more suitable accommodation.’

Constance clasped her hand. ‘I’ll speak to Duke. If anyone can help you, he can. He pretends to be world-weary and cynical, but he’s a kind man at heart.’

Nettie left the house, trying hard to equate her vision of Duke Dexter with that of his adoring ward, and failing miserably. Duke was a skilled confidence trickster, a purveyor of forgeries, and behind that urbane smile she suspected lay a heart of solid stone.

‘Where have you been?’ Byron demanded. ‘Robert didn’t know where you’d gone and we were both worried that something might have happened to you.’

Nettie laid her shawl on the bed and took off her bonnet. ‘I need to find Pa. Do you know where he is?’

‘He was sitting at a table outside the café when I last saw him, but you haven’t answered my question. I was worried about you, Nettie.’

She met his angry gaze with a smile. ‘I’m not a child, Byron. I can look after myself, and I’ve been taking care of my father ever since I can remember.’ She took the visiting card from her reticule and handed it to him. ‘I didn’t tell you or Pa, but Duke Dexter was on board the ferry. I met him by chance and he gave me this card. I went to investigate.’

Byron studied it. ‘This says Marc Gaillard. Who is this person?’

‘It’s Duke using an alias.’ Nettie glanced at the bare table beneath the skylight. ‘Have we anything to eat? I’m starving.’

‘Nothing, I’m afraid. I haven’t eaten all day.’

‘Have you any money?’

‘I’ve got enough to buy us a meal tonight, but after that I’m broke. I tried to find work again today, but there was nothing.’

‘We need to catch my father before he spends what little he has left, and I have something to tell Pa. He won’t like it and neither will you, but I don’t think we’ve any alternative other than to ask Duke for help. I’ve arranged for us to meet him at the gallery tomorrow morning.’

‘Is that wise, Nettie? Dexter is nothing but trouble.’

‘And we’re fugitives from the law with little or no money, and no prospect of earning anything legally – unless you can come up with a brilliant solution, Byron, because I can’t think of anything.’

He slumped down on the rickety chair. ‘This is the time when I wish I knew how to find my mother’s family. The life of a water gypsy is becoming more and more attractive.’

Nettie eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Have you made enquiries?’

‘What’s the point? It’s over twenty years since my mother ran away from her bullying father. I expect the old man’s dead or in prison, from what my father told me about him. She had a brother, but I doubt if he’d want anything to do with me.’

‘I don’t know,’ Nettie said, giggling. ‘If you find them and tell them you’re wanted by the Metropolitan Police for aiding and abetting a criminal, they’ll probably welcome you with open arms.’

‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’ Byron spoke severely, barely disguising a chuckle. He rose to his feet. ‘If we can persuade your father to forgo wine this evening, I’ve just enough money for two bowls of soup and two cups of coffee. We’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.’

As Nettie wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and picked up her one decent bonnet, she could not help thinking of Constance living in her grand house. If only she had eaten more of the delicious cake that had been served with the coffee, she might not feel so weak and lightheaded now, but she had not wanted to appear greedy.

‘I’m coming,’ she said stoutly. ‘And I suggest that we go for a walk along the river bank after we’ve eaten. If we make enquiries we might find someone who remembers a family of bargees who had a daughter called Lisette.’

They found Robert at the café, and, as usual, he was the centre of attention, chatting volubly in English, regardless of whether his audience could understand him or not. He illustrated his life story with charcoal sketches, and Nettie was horrified to see that he had used up almost a whole pad. Paper was expensive and charcoal was not cheap, but he was using it as if the supply was inexhaustible and free.

Nettie waited for the audience to disperse before she sat down next to her father and told him how she had met Duke on board ship. Robert studied the visiting card and tossed it back at her.

‘Marc was a fool,’ he said casually. ‘I knew him well, but he was no businessman. He loved art but he would have been bankrupt if Duke had not taken him in hand. I know now that Dexter is a crook, but he’s a clever fellow.’

‘Not so clever that he didn’t get found out.’ Byron emptied his pockets of money and laid it on the table. ‘This is all I have left, Mr Carroll. What about you?’

Robert leaned forward, putting his finger to his lips. ‘Not so loud, boy. I’m travelling incognito. My name is not unknown, even in Paris.’

‘I doubt if the people here are very interested in art,’ Nettie said hastily. ‘Anyway, Pa, I’ve arranged for us to meet Duke at the gallery in the morning.’

Robert sat back in his chair, a stubborn look masking his handsome features. ‘I’m not going.’

‘But, Pa, we need help. Can you think of any other way to raise money, or to find alternative accommodation? Madame will throw us out the moment she discovers we can’t pay next week’s rent.’

‘Do you want me to spend the rest of my life working for that criminal? I believed in him, Nettie, and he betrayed my trust.’

‘I’m just trying to keep us from ending up in the gutter,’ Nettie said angrily.

Robert eyed Byron with a calculating smile. ‘You’re a strong young chap, surely you can find work, even if it isn’t scribbling away in a lawyer’s office.’

‘I’ve been trying,’ Byron snapped, ‘which is more than I can say for you, Mr Carroll.’ He snatched up a pile of discarded sketches. ‘Is this what you’ve been doing all day? Have you spent all your money on drinking with your friends?’

‘Well, I was hoping to sell some of my work,’ Robert said sulkily. He put his hand in his pocket and produced a handful of coins, which he threw onto the table. ‘Here, this is all my worldly wealth. Spend it on food and tomorrow we’ll go hungry.’

‘Tomorrow we’ll go cap in hand to Duke Dexter and ask for his help. It’s that or we end up on the streets, Pa.’ Nettie snatched up the money and handed it to Byron. ‘Is there enough for a decent meal?’

‘Soup and bread all round,’ he said, signalling to a waiter.

‘And a bottle of cheap red wine,’ Robert pleaded. ‘I must have something to calm my shattered nerves.’

‘No, Pa. We’ll ask for water. I don’t think there’s even enough for coffee.’

Robert buried his head in his hands. ‘What have I come to?’

Madame was standing outside the door to her quarters when they returned to their lodgings, and she started shouting at them before they reached the top step. Even though Nettie could not speak her language, the woman’s meaning was obvious. Byron waited until she slammed the door to her apartment, but his translation was quite unnecessary.

‘Amongst other things she said we’re to be out of here first thing in the morning, unless we can find the rent, in which case she wants two weeks’ money in advance. I don’t think the good lady trusts us.’

‘I wonder why,’ Nettie said grimly. ‘It looks as if she has our measure.’

Robert shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, my love. Duke will give me the money. He owes me some recompense for the trouble he’s caused us.’ He sauntered off in the direction of the stairs.

‘I don’t know how you’ve stood him all these years,’ Byron said, shrugging. ‘Your dad is impossible.’

‘I agree, but at least he’s come round to the idea of asking Duke Dexter for help. I can’t see any other way out of this predicament. Let’s hope tomorrow brings us better luck than today.’

The gallery was in the fashionable rue de Rivoli, but when they arrived at just after nine o’clock next morning they found it closed and shuttered. They waited for an hour, pacing up and down outside, but no one appeared.

‘I’ll have more than a few words to say to Duke when I next see him,’ Robert said angrily. ‘It was a bad day for me when I fell in with that fellow.’

‘Something must have happened, Pa.’ Nettie glanced up and down the street, but there was no sign of him. ‘I think we ought to visit Constance. She may know where he is and he might have left a message with her.’

‘We’ve got nothing to lose,’ Byron said grimly. ‘I don’t fancy sleeping on the river bank tonight. Lead on, Nettie.’

‘It’s really not good enough,’ Robert grumbled. ‘I deserve more respect. I’m a celebrated artist. People used to pay good money for my work.’

‘Come on, Pa.’ Nettie slipped her hand through the crook of her father’s arm. ‘You’ll like Constance. She’s a really nice person, but just remember that she knows nothing of Duke’s criminal activities. She thinks he’s wonderful and it would be a shame to ruin her trust in him.’

‘She’ll get to know about him soon enough when the police turn up at her door,’ Robert muttered. ‘I hope he’s there, and the least he can do is to buy us a decent breakfast.’

They walked on, stopping every now and then to ask the way, and eventually they reached the street where Constance lived. Nettie knocked on the door, but after what seemed a long wait it was opened by a middle-aged woman dressed in black. Her grey hair was scraped back into a tight chignon and her eyes were reddened, as if she had been crying.

‘I’ve come to see Miss Gaillard.’ Nettie spoke slowly, hoping that the woman would understand, but she waved her hands and raised a sodden handkerchief to her eyes.

Byron stepped forward to translate, although it made little difference and her tears flowed freely.

‘Ask her if she’s Mademoiselle Menjou,’ Nettie whispered.

Byron repeated the question in French and Mademoiselle nodded, but whatever she said was punctuated by sobs and unintelligible. Nettie was at a loss, but her father stepped forward, and to her surprise he put his arm around Mademoiselle Menjou’s shoulders, making sympathetic noises until she grew calmer.

‘Take over, Nettie. The damned woman is ruining my best jacket,’ Robert said in a stage whisper.

Nettie took his place and guided the distraught woman into the parlour. Mademoiselle Menjou sank down on the sofa, raising a tear-stained face to Byron. She spoke volubly, gesticulating to emphasise her words.

‘What’s she saying?’ Nettie demanded. ‘What’s happened, Byron?’

‘She says that Dexter turned up late last night and the next thing she knew Constance was throwing things into a valise, and Dexter paid off most of the servants. She is to remain here and keep house with the minimum of help.’

‘Tell her we’ll take care of things,’ Robert said eagerly. ‘We could stay here until something better turns up.’

Byron shook his head. ‘She mentioned the gendarmerie, Robert. The police are involved. It seems as if they’ve been here, making enquiries about Duke’s whereabouts.’

Nettie gave Mademoiselle Menjou an encouraging smile. ‘Tell her I’m sorry, Byron, and ask her if Constance left a message for me.’

In answer to his question Mademoiselle shook her head, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She buried her head in her hands and her plump shoulders shook.

‘The police might be watching the house even now,’ Nettie said urgently. ‘I think we should get away from here as quickly as possible.’

Just as they were about to leave, Mademoiselle Menjou caught hold of Nettie’s arm. ‘Château Gaillard,’ she whispered. ‘Beauaire-en-Seine.’ She scuttled off before Nettie had a chance to ask Byron to question her further.

Nettie turned to him. ‘Did you hear what she said?’

Byron nodded. ‘I think she was trying to tell you where Duke had taken Constance. If I remember my geography lessons at school, Beauaire is a small river-side town, north of Paris.’

Chapter Five

They stood on the bank of the River Seine with their worldly goods piled at their feet. A hurried departure from the lodging house had left them homeless and slightly breathless. Madame had demanded extra money for the inconvenience of having to chase them for the next week’s rent, which Robert refused angrily, but their raised voices had caused a stir amongst the other tenants. They had left the building with abuse being hurled at them, and someone threatening to call a gendarme. It seemed that wherever they went they were to fall foul of the law.

Nettie gazed into the gunmetal waters of the river as it reflected the grey of the clouds that threatened yet another April shower.

‘If only we had a boat,’ she said, sighing. ‘If Duke saw fit to leave town I think that’s what we should do, before we get into any more trouble, and if we could get to Beauaire we might be able to find Constance. It doesn’t sound as if she wanted to leave with Duke.’

‘You ought to abandon me.’ Robert moved to the water’s edge. ‘Perhaps I should fling myself into the river and set you free, Nettie dear.’

‘Don’t be silly, Pa.’ Nettie knew that he was bluffing, but even so she moved closer to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps we could find somewhere quiet in the country where no one has heard of you.’ She turned to Byron. ‘But you don’t have to stay with us. You could return to London and no one would be any the wiser.’

Byron grasped her free hand. ‘We’re in this together, and I’m not quitting now just because things are difficult. It’s not totally unselfish, anyway. I want to use this opportunity find my mother’s family.’

Robert eyed him gloomily. ‘You said yourself that it’s more than twenty years since your mother left Paris. I doubt if you’ll find anyone who knew her.’

‘I’ve been asking around and one of the older men remembers a barge called La Belle Lisette and the family were called Joubert. Even if there’s a connection, they could be anywhere after all these years.’

‘We can’t just give up,’ Nettie said firmly. ‘And I, for one, do not intend to sleep in a shop doorway or under a bridge. I’m going to start asking the boat people if they will take us anywhere away from Paris. You two can stay here and guard our things.’ She marched off in the direction of the quay where barges were being unloaded. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her father slumped down on his case, but Byron had gone off in the opposite direction and she could hear him calling out to a boatman downriver.

She walked for miles, stopping to speak to everyone she met who worked on the river, whether it was bargees, fishermen or the men who unloaded the boats, but all her enquiries, in halting French, were met with negative responses. It seemed that none of the owners of small vessels were able or willing to take passengers. Nettie suspected that some might have been more amenable had there been a generous offer of payment, but that was out of the question.

It was late afternoon when she made her way back to the place where she had left her father, and her clothes were still damp after being caught in several showers with nowhere to shelter. She was cold, hungry and exhausted, but a small flame of hope still burned within her heart. Giving up was not an option, but if they could not find cheap transport to get them away from the city, they would have to set off on foot. Tonight, however, they would need to rest, and already she could feel blisters the size of grapes forming on her heels. When she reached the spot where she had parted from Byron and her father, they were nowhere to be seen, and it had started to rain again.

‘Nettie.’

She turned at the sound of Byron’s voice, saw him emerge from a shack further along the river bank, and she hurried to join him.

‘I was wondering where you’d gone,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Did you have any luck?’

He shook his head. ‘No, unfortunately, but I found your dad in the boatmen’s café, drinking wine with some of the locals. He was sketching their portraits to pay for his food and drink.’

‘How like Pa. Here we are, doing our best to save him from being arrested, and all the time he’s enjoying himself.’

Byron tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. ‘Come on, Nettie. It’s not so bad. As a matter of fact he’s done what we set out to do. He’s been chatting to a bargee who remembers my grandfather and he thinks my family moved north to Beauaire, the town Mademoiselle Menjou mentioned.’

‘That’s marvellous, Byron. But how will we get there?’

‘Monsieur Durand, the bargee, has agreed to let us travel with him, providing we work our passage, and your father will be kept busy making sketches of the old fellow and his precious steam boat. Apparently Robert has met an art lover at last.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Nettie said wholeheartedly. ‘I don’t feel as though I can walk another step.’

‘Take my arm. The café is just over there. I’m sure your father can wheedle a cup of coffee for you. He seems well in with all of them, even though he can’t speak much French.’

Arm in arm they made their way to what was little more than a wooden shack, but when Byron opened the door Nettie was enveloped in a warm fug laced with the heady aroma of coffee, wine and the inevitable hint of garlic. Her father was seated at a long table with several others, and she could tell by his expression that he was enjoying himself. His pad of paper, slightly crumpled after its soaking, was propped up before him and he was using charcoal to sketch the proprietor. An empty cup and wineglass suggested that his artistic talents were being appreciated in the most practical way. Nettie moved to his side, greeting him with a tired smile.

‘You look comfortable here, Pa.’

Robert looked up at her, beaming. ‘I’ve made some wonderful friends, and I’ve been treated with the greatest hospitality.’ He signalled to the barman, pointing to Nettie and making a drinking motion with his hand. ‘Café, please, Monsieur. For my daughter.’ He glanced up at Byron. ‘What’s the French for “daughter”?’

Byron went to the counter and translated. He returned to the table moments later bringing a steaming cup of coffee for Nettie.

‘They think you’re very pretty,’ he said, smiling. ‘They show good taste.’

Robert tugged at Nettie’s sleeve. ‘I want you to meet Monsieur Durand, the gentleman who appreciates art and who is going to take us to safety.’ He turned to the man seated on his left. ‘Aristide, my friend, this is Nettie, my daughter.’

Aristide took Nettie’s hand and raised it to his lips. Such a gallant gesture seemed oddly out of place from a man more used to working the river than mixing with polite society. Aristide was dressed, like his fellow bargees, in baggy trousers and a coarse linen shirt, open at the neck. A bright red and white spotted neckerchief added a splash of colour, and a battered peaked cap lay on the bench beside him. He smiled and his shrewd blue eyes twinkled irresistibly beneath shaggy grey eyebrows. Nettie knew at that moment that she was going to like Aristide Durand and she had a feeling that he was a man to be trusted.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur,’ she said, smiling.

Later, when Aristide took them to where his vessel was moored, Nettie experienced a frisson of excitement. She had grown up within yards of the River Thames and she was accustomed to seeing vessels of all types, but there was something solid and appealing about the craft that bobbed gently on its moorings, rocking like a baby’s cradle. Aristide boarded first, followed by Robert and then Byron, who held his hand out to steady Nettie as she bundled up her long skirts and stepped onto the deck. The planking was scrubbed to bone whiteness and Aristide showed them round like a proud housewife showing off a much-loved home. The cargo was stowed in the hold beneath vaulted hatch covers on either side of a single funnel, which smoked gently like an old man seated on a park bench with a pipe clenched between his teeth.

Aristide said something to Byron, who nodded and patted him on the back. ‘Monsieur Durand says this was one of the first steam barges on the Seine.’

Robert nodded vaguely. ‘Yes, that’s all very well, but where will we sleep? Ask him that, Byron.’

After a brief conversation Byron translated yet again. ‘The accommodation is very small so we’ll have to sleep on deck.’

Nettie could see that her father was about to protest. ‘That will be exciting,’ Nettie said hurriedly. ‘Please tell Monsieur Durand that we’re very grateful to him.’

‘I need a comfortable bed, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,’ Robert said gloomily. ‘I just hope that the fellow doesn’t expect me to swab the decks.’ He wandered off to sit in the bows with his pad and charcoal and began sketching the view.

Nettie shrugged and sighed. It seemed that nothing would ever change her father; he would go through life oblivious to the chaos he caused along the way. Perhaps all creative people were like that. She could only be glad that she had not inherited her father’s artistic temperament, and she thought longingly of the blank pages in her notebook that begged to be filled with her next attempt at the novel. Maybe she would set it in Paris, or it might be a story about life on the river – that was a chapter just waiting to be told. She dragged her thoughts back to the present, wondering what Aristide was saying to Byron. They were having a long conversation, and it was obvious that Byron struggled at times in his attempt to understand Aristide’s rapid French. Then they shook hands and Aristide strolled off to speak to Robert.

‘What did he say?’ Nettie asked eagerly. ‘How are we going to pay our way? We can’t expect him to provide transport and feed us for nothing.’

‘Aristide had a youth who crewed for him, but the boy became ill and he had to send him home to his parents. I told the old man that I know nothing about sailing a barge, but he says he needs someone to stoke the boiler and work the locks. He said we can all help in one way or another.’

‘I’ll be happy to cook or clean, but doing hard physical work is a bit different from sitting in a law office copying dull documents,’ Nettie said, frowning. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’

‘It’s true that I’ve never done manual labour, but we need to get away from Paris and I want to find my mother’s family, so this seems to be the best solution all round.’

‘I’ll do what I can to help,’ Nettie said, smiling. ‘Pa will do what he always does, which is as little as possible, but I suppose I shouldn’t grumble. It was his gift with people that made Monsieur Durand offer to help us.’

‘And it was your father who got you into this mess in the first place.’

‘Yes, I know, and it’s a shame that you’ve been dragged into our affairs.’

Byron took her hand and held it in a firm grasp. ‘I knew what I was getting into, and I wanted to come to France. It was my choice.’

‘I hope we find your mother’s family, but meeting them for the first time might not be easy. After all, they turned their backs on her.’

‘I’ve thought it through and I want to find out where I came from, whether it’s good or bad. I just need to know.’

‘I understand, or at least I think I do.’

He smiled and squeezed her fingers. ‘We’re in this together, Nettie.’

‘Byron, mon ami.’ Aristide was suddenly active, marching towards them, waving his arms and shouting instructions.

Byron leaped to attention. ‘We’re off, Nettie.’ He caught the mooring line that was thrown to him from one of Aristide’s friends on the river bank. He was attempting to coil the rope when Aristide hurried up to them, and showed him how it was done. He spoke rapidly and Nettie had no idea what he was saying, but it was obvious that she was the subject of the conversation.

‘He wants to show you where he does the cooking,’ Byron said at last. ‘I think you’re to take over.’

‘That’s one thing I can do.’ Nettie nodded to Aristide, who grinned in response and headed off in the direction of the accommodation in the stern of the vessel.

Every effort had been made to use the available space, from the bench seat that pulled down into a bed, to the rows of pots and pans that hung above the tiny stove. Talking volubly and miming with dramatic gestures, Aristide managed to demonstrate what he wanted her to prepare. A large soot-blackened pan was already on the stove and when he lifted the lid the aroma of onions and garlic wafted round the cabin, but when he produced a bucket filled with live eels Nettie had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry of horror.

Aristide seemed to find this hilarious and his round belly shook with laughter. He pulled down a flap, which suddenly became a table, and he took a cleaver from the drawer and snatched a wriggling eel from the water.

Nettie backed away, shaking her head. ‘No, Monsieur. No, I can’t do that.’ She reached the door and stepped up onto the deck, gasping for air.

‘What’s the matter?’ Robert hurried towards her. ‘You’ve gone green, girl. Are you ill?’

‘No, Pa. He wants me to kill an eel and cook it.’

‘Is that all? I used to do it all the time when I was a boy. We used to set eel traps in the Thames at night and have fried eel for breakfast next morning.’ Robert pushed past her and stepped down into the accommodation. ‘Hold on, Aristide, my friend. You must forgive my daughter, she’s been brought up to be a lady, but this is something I can do.’

Nettie remained on deck until her father reappeared, wiping his hands on a bloodied cloth. ‘How satisfying. I feel like a man of the river now.’

‘I couldn’t do it, Pa. What’s happened to the eels?’

‘They’re skinned and cut up and stewing nicely in the liquor. If only he had some parsley to add to it and some mashed potato. We’ll have to do with bread. Luckily Aristide bought some fresh this morning. I’ll leave the rest to you, dear.’ He patted her on the cheek and sauntered off, edging past the smoke stack, which was now puffing clouds of black smoke into the atmosphere as the engine creaked and groaned into action. Aristide erupted from the cabin, giving Nettie a cheery wink as he returned to take over the tiller from Byron, who was looking distinctly nervous.

Nettie was equally apprehensive and she returned to the stove, but the debris had been cleared away and the eels were simmering gently in the pan. She had to brace herself in order to taste the liquor for seasoning, but it was surprisingly pleasant and the slimy eels had been transformed into meaty white chunks. She set the table, sliced the bread and waited for the eel stew to finish cooking.

That night Nettie, her father and Byron slept on deck beneath the stars. Aristide supplied them with blankets, pillows and a tarpaulin in case it rained, but Nettie was so tired that it would have taken a violent thunderstorm to rouse her. She awakened next morning to a chorus of birdsong and the gentle plashing of the water against the hull. It had been dark when they tied up for the night, but now in the gentle light of dawn she could see that they had left the city and were in a rural setting. Trees were just bursting into leaf and cattle grazed on lush green grass, while fluffy white lambs frolicked, jumping and leaping as if for joy. Born and bred in the city, Nettie was enchanted to find herself in the countryside with air that smelled fresh and sweet, in complete contrast to the noxious, smoky fumes in the city. She scrambled to her feet, taking care not to disturb her father and Byron, who were still sleeping peacefully. Her gown lay neatly folded on top of a hatch cover and she slipped it over her head. If they were to travel far on the waterways of France they would need to make better sleeping arrangements, especially in the way of cover in case of bad weather. She buttoned her bodice and sat down to put on her boots. If Aristide was up and about she could put the kettle on and make coffee, although she would have loved a cup of tea, and perhaps she could toast what was left of yesterday’s bread. She made her way towards the stern, but came to a sudden halt at the sight of Aristide, naked as the day he was born, apart from his peaked cap, boots and a red and white spotted neckerchief. He was standing on the deck, staring out over the fields with a plume of tobacco smoke rising above his head. He turned to look at her and smiled, taking the pipe from his mouth.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’

‘Er, good morning, Monsieur Durand.’ Nettie averted her eyes. ‘Breakfast,’ she said tentatively. ‘Coffee.’

He said something in rapid French, laughed and strolled off towards the cabin. Nettie followed at a distance, trying not to look at the vast expanse of pink flesh wobbling along in front of her.

‘Byron,’ she called in a hoarse whisper. ‘Wake up, please.’ But there was no sound from where her father and Byron were sleeping and she had little choice other than to follow Aristide into the accommodation. She hung back as long as possible, and when she eventually set foot in the cabin she was relieved to see that he had pulled on a pair of baggy trousers. He indicated the stove, and she could feel the heat from the doorway. A kettle was bubbling away and he pointed to a coffee grinder and a bag of beans. Nettie knew then what she must do, and she edged past him to make a start on the coffee.

He was talking to her as if she understood what he was saying and, to keep him happy, she nodded in what felt like the right places and shook her head when he paused, eyeing her expectantly. It seemed to work, and he tapped the dottle from his pipe, refilled it from his tobacco pouch and lit it with a spill from the fire. He sauntered out on deck, slipping on his shirt and leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. Nettie heaved a sigh of relief and concentrated on making a pot of coffee, and toasting the bread left over from last night’s supper on the hob. The aroma of toast and coffee must have filtered out on deck as Byron was the first to appear, followed by Robert. Both looked bleary-eyed, but Nettie suspected that it was due to the rough red wine they had consumed rather than a lack of sleep.

Nettie sat on the bench, sipping the strong black coffee. ‘We’ve left Paris and we’re headed north, is that right, Pa?’

Robert bit into a slice of dry toast and pulled a face. ‘I want some butter and marmalade.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Yes, dear. You know we had to leave Paris.’

‘Of course, and we’re trying to find Byron’s family as well as making sure that Constance is happy to be with Duke, but what then?’ Nettie looked from one to the other. ‘When we reach Beauaire, where do we go from there? Are we going back to England, or are we going to become water gypsies and go on to Le Havre with Monsieur Durand?’

‘I haven’t quite decided,’ Robert said vaguely. ‘It depends on whether the police have given up the chase. I can’t think that they would waste their time hunting for someone like me. It’s not as if I’ve committed murder or treason.’

‘So we might be going home?’

Robert picked up his cup and drank thirstily. ‘We’ll see.’

‘I’d better go back on deck.’ Byron made a move towards the doorway. ‘According to Aristide, we’re nearing a lock and that’s where I have to leap into action. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do, so it should be interesting.’

Nettie followed him out into the warm spring sunshine. ‘Everything moves so slowly on the river. We might be on this barge for weeks, so will you teach me to speak French? It will make things much easier.’

A slow smile lit Byron’s eyes. ‘Of course I will, and I’m sure that Aristide will co-operate fully. He’s not a bad chap when you get to know him.’

Nettie stifled a giggle. ‘I saw rather more of him that I wanted to this morning. He was standing in the bows, smoking his pipe and staring at the view with nothing on.’

‘You mean he was undressed?’

‘Exactly, although he was wearing his neckerchief and his cap.’

Byron’s lips twitched but his brow was creased in a frown. ‘I should speak to him. It’s not the done thing when there’s a young woman on board.’

‘You can’t tell him what to do on his own barge.’

‘He would be mortified if he knew you’d seen him naked.’

‘He saw me and he wasn’t at all embarrassed. I’ll just try to avoid him tomorrow morning. Anyway, I know now what to do for breakfast, and maybe we might have the opportunity to go ashore at some point. He must buy food from somewhere and there’s precious little in any of the cupboards.’

Nettie was about to return to the cabin when Byron caught her by the hand.

‘You don’t have to trail around after your father. Say the word and I’ll take you back to England. You’re not involved in Robert’s crimes.’

‘He’s my father, Byron. You’ve seen how he is, and heaven knows what would happen to him if I went home. I can’t desert him.’ Nettie withdrew her hand, giving him an apologetic smile. ‘You’re a good friend, Byron. I’m so glad you came with us.’

‘I do care about you, Nettie,’ he said slowly. ‘You must know how I feel about you.’

This time her smile was wholehearted. ‘I do, and it’s wonderful to have such a good friend.’ She stood on tiptoe to brush his cheek with a kiss. ‘Oh, heavens,’ she added, sniffing the air. ‘Someone has burned the toast and we were already low on bread.’ Without giving Byron a chance to respond Nettie returned to the cabin to find her father staring glumly at a slice of charred bread.

‘That’s the last of the bread, Nettie. Remind Aristide to buy some when we go ashore, although heaven knows when that will be. The fellow chatters away, but I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s saying.’ Robert took his pad and tin of charcoal from the shelf where he had placed them the previous evening. ‘I’m going out to sketch the view. Charming countryside – I think I could quite happily live in France for the rest of my days.’ He hesitated in the doorway. ‘I believe Aristide has a consignment of wine in one of the holds, and grain in the other. This is the life, my dear. I might have been born to it.’

He wandered out onto the deck, leaving Nettie to clear away the mess he had created.

Having tidied the cabin, swept the floor and the deck, Nettie found herself with nothing to do other than sit and admire the scenery. Aristide was at the tiller and Byron was kept busy stoking the boiler and cleaning the hatch covers, while Robert sat in the stern, sketching and sometimes dozing in the warm sunshine. Nettie found a secluded spot and took out her notebook. She sat for a while, chewing the end of her pencil as she tried to think of a suitable title for this new novel, and in the end she simply wrote Belinda, which was the name of her wayward heroine. Then she started to write.

Writing about the trials of the beautiful but headstrong young woman, Nettie lost track of time, but was brought back to reality by a sudden jolt as the barge bumped gently against the river bank.

‘This isn’t the time to be writing your diary,’ Robert said impatiently. ‘I’m going ashore with Aristide. Are you coming?’

Nettie tucked her book and pencil down behind a sack filled with grain and jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, Pa.’ She hitched up her skirts and reached out to take Byron’s hand as he leaned over from the top of the river bank. It was muddy and difficult to find a foothold but eventually she reached safety. The heroine of her book, Nettie decided, would break with convention and wear men’s breeches when she travelled by barge. The story would mirror her own experiences and therefore would be much more believable than a gothic fantasy. She was determined to make the publishers sit up and take notice of her. The adventures of Belinda Makepeace would captivate readers, and the public would queue up to buy her books.

‘Where are we?’ Nettie shielded her eyes from the sun, but they seemed to be on the edge of a wood and straight ahead there were fields filled with grazing cattle, stretching as far as she could see. They were in the middle of the country with no sign of habitation. ‘Why have we come ashore here, Pa?’

‘I don’t know.’ Robert scratched his head. ‘I need a straw hat. If we were near a town I could purchase one to protect my head and neck from the sun.’

Nettie turned to Byron. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here.’

Byron held up his hand. ‘Listen. That sounds like music.’

‘Music?’ Robert put his head on one side, closing his eyes. ‘Sylvan sounds. It might be fairy folk.’

‘Pa!’ Nettie said, laughing. ‘You’ve been drinking too much of the wine that Aristide hands out so liberally.’

Aristide had been standing a little apart from them, but he became animated, shouting instructions to Byron, who leaped back onto the boat and pulled back the hatch covers.

The music grew louder. Nettie could hear singing and the voices sounded very human. A flight of startled birds erupted from the wood and the music swelled, twigs snapped underfoot, and, one thing was certain – the newcomers were not fairy folk. Nettie waited, barely daring to breathe as the hubbub rose in a crescendo …

Chapter Six

Aristide stood with open arms as the crowd burst from the darkness into the bright sunshine, their costumes ablaze with colour, curls flying, hands clapping in time to a fiddler and the beat of a drum.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Nettie whispered into her father’s ear. ‘Where did all these people come from?’

Robert grasped her hand. ‘I’ve no idea, but Aristide seems to know them. Smile, Nettie. Stop looking scared.’

She bared her teeth in an attempt at a grin. ‘I’m not frightened, Pa. I’m amazed to think that these people knew we were here, but I don’t understand why they are so pleased to see us.’

‘It’s Aristide they love,’ Robert said in a low voice. ‘We’d best keep out of the way.’ He stepped aside as the crowd of men, women and children converged on the river bank.

Aristide was at the front, holding up his hands for silence. Then, with a surprisingly athletic move for a man of his age and build, he leaped on board, and, in answer to their names being called, the onlookers stepped onto the barge, laying their contributions on the deck in return for a large bag of grain and as many bottles of wine as they could carry.

Nettie watched in awe as the gifts of bread, vegetables, meat, fruit, cheese and milk piled up on deck, and then the party began. Bottles were uncorked and Nettie found herself being offered a drink by a burly, bewhiskered French farmer. She refused at first, but realising that she had offended him, she took the bottle and held it to her lips, sipping just enough to be sociable. This seemed to be the sign that she was willing to dance with him and he whirled her around in time to the music. Soon everyone was dancing, even the small children, and the older men and women sat round chatting like old friends who had not seen each other for some considerable time.

Byron had come ashore and Nettie made the excuse of being too breathless to keep dancing, miming in a desperate attempt to convince her new beau that she needed to rest. She moved swiftly to Byron’s side, and the frolicking farmer seized another girl round the waist and danced off with her into the wood.

‘What’s going on?’ Nettie had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the noise.

‘Aristide visits here once a month, so he told me. These people come from outlying farms and it’s quite a social event.’

Nettie chuckled and nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that. But I thought he was transporting the wine from a vineyard to a wholesaler. That’s what Pa told me, and the grain is for a distillery in Le Havre.’

‘They’ll get what’s left after Aristide either drinks or barters it away. It seems to be the accepted way of life, or the way he runs things. Right or wrong, they’re all having a wonderful time.’

‘I think that pretty girl with the scarlet blouse is eyeing you, Byron. It looks as though you’ve made a conquest.’

He backed towards the edge of the bank. ‘Maybe I’d better get on board and put some of that food away before it goes off in the heat of the sun.’

‘I thought you’d be flattered,’ Nettie said, chuckling. ‘She is very attractive, Byron.’

‘I’m not a lady’s man,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve never known what to say to women.’

Nettie stared at him in surprise. ‘But you’ve never had a problem with talking to me.’

‘You’re different.’ He lowered himself onto the deck and began scooping up the perishable goods.

Nettie was about follow him when another young man tapped her on the arm. He was a year or so her junior at a guess, but he smiled shyly and she could not disappoint him by refusing to dance. As they galloped around, clapping in time to the beat of the drum, and kicking up their heels, Nettie could see that her father had taken advantage of the situation. He had retrieved his pad and charcoal and was sketching the villagers as they drank, danced and enjoyed themselves. One elderly farmer sat for his portrait and paid for it in tobacco, and another, emboldened by his friend, had his likeness sketched in exchange for his straw hat.

Nettie danced with her young admirer, but the language barrier made communication difficult, and then she was claimed by an older man with straying hands. His breath reeked of garlic and he was very drunk, but she managed to put him in his place without creating a scene, and by that time people had begun to drift away. Nettie took this as her cue to say adieu to the ageing Lothario and she joined Byron on board the barge.

‘That was a surprise,’ she said, chuckling. ‘I wonder if this will happen every time we set ashore.’

Byron picked up a sack of potatoes and slung it over his shoulder. ‘It seems to work for old Aristide, and Robert has got the hat he wanted, even if it is a bit battered.’ Byron sniffed the air as a cloud of blue smoke wafted their way. ‘But that tobacco your father is smoking smells terrible.’

Nettie glanced at her father, who was seated in his favourite place, the straw hat pulled down over his eyes as he smoked his pipe and sipped wine from a bottle. Aristide was still on the river bank, bidding a fond farewell to a voluptuous woman, who was obviously more than a passing acquaintance. With one last, lingering kiss, he released her and backed away, blowing kisses, while a youth, who bore a striking resemblance to Aristide, looked on with a disapproving scowl. Aristide stepped on board the barge, turning to wave as the boy grabbed his mother by the hand and dragged her away.

Nettie’s fertile imagination was hard at work as she tried to imagine a young, handsome Aristide falling in love with the raven-haired country girl. Perhaps their families had opposed the match, like the Capulets and Montagues in Romeo and Juliet, but Nettie abandoned the idea almost immediately. Aristide was not a romantic hero, and, from what she had just witnessed, he was illegally bartering the goods he had been entrusted to deliver. Aristide, she decided, was just as much on the wrong side of the law as Pa, and if the French police were to take an interest in his activities, Pa, Byron and herself would be in even more trouble. She glanced at her father, who looked happier than she had seen him in a long time, and she knew that he would laugh off her worries.

‘We’re leaving now, Nettie.’ Byron stepped ashore to release the mooring rope and he tossed it to her, jumping on board as the barge started to drift towards mid-channel.

Drunk as he was, Aristide took the tiller and Byron went to stoke the boiler. The engine chugged into life and, once again, they were headed downstream.

Nettie picked up the last of the food they had been given and stowed it away safely before starting to prepare the evening meal. The meat and vegetables would make a savoury stew that would cook slowly all afternoon, ready to eat in the cool of the evening. She would have time to find a secluded spot and concentrate on the trials of Belinda, her wilful heroine, and her search for true love.

A routine developed, with each day more or less the same. They all had their duties to perform, even Robert, whose job it was to sweep the deck, which he did in a half-hearted way before retiring to the bows to make even more sketches or snooze in the sunshine, his new hat pulled down over his eyes. In the evenings, when they were moored in a sheltered spot, Aristide and Robert sat and smoked their pipes after supper and drank wine, while Byron gave Nettie lessons in French. When it was fine they went ashore and walked along the river bank, but when it rained they either huddled in the cabin, or sat beneath a tarpaulin that Byron had rigged up over their sleeping area. Nettie was beginning to enjoy life as a bargee, but she could not rid herself of the nagging fear that one day the police would descend upon them and arrest both her father and Aristide.

There had been no repeat of the impromptu party that had caught Nettie by surprise, but Aristide continued to be himself, getting up early to commune with the dawn – stark naked apart from his usual accessories – and working the barge with the expertise gained from a lifetime on the river. They had to put ashore frequently in order to barter for bread and fresh produce from small farms. Aristide knew all the farmers and smallholders by name, and everyone seemed delighted to see him. The women in particular greeted him warmly, and some of the children who came to stare at them might easily be related to the amorous bargee. Nettie wondered how he had managed to survive without a jealous husband or lover taking the law into his own hands, but Aristide seemed to be universally popular. Acting as a go-between, he passed on messages from one family to another, together with titbits of gossip that made the farmers’ wives curl up with laughter or fold their arms across their chests, pursing their lips and shaking their heads. Nettie and Byron always accompanied him on these visits, mainly to help carry whatever produce was on offer, and Nettie was eager to practise the French that Byron had taught her.

Life on the river was slow and leisurely, and the late spring weather seemed to add a touch of magic to the landscape. The sun sparkled on the water and birds sang in the trees, but the undercurrent of worry was never far from Nettie’s mind, and her only escape was getting lost in Belinda’s story. It had changed slightly in content, but her heroine had become like a second self, and the ancient castle where Belinda was held prisoner became Nettie’s retreat from the world. Belinda’s only way of communicating with the man she loved was a tame pigeon that flew in her window at night carrying a message from gallant Sebastian, who was an army officer fighting under the command of the Iron Duke. Nettie had to force herself to write slowly, even as her excitement grew with every twist and turn of the plot, and she tried to avoid crossings out, where possible. There had been vague praise for the novel that had been rejected, but a note in red ink had criticised Nettie’s presentation, and she was determined not the make the same mistake again.

When she finished writing she stowed the notebook and pencil behind the sack of flour they used for cooking, safe in the knowledge that none of the men would think of attempting to make bread – although Aristide did admit to having a go, apparently with disastrous results. Byron was useless in the kitchen and Robert could barely make a pot of tea, let alone attempt anything more ambitious. Nettie had never made bread, but pancakes were her speciality, which she served with the honey that one of the farmers had swapped for two bottles of red wine.

The hours of daylight lengthened, but Aristide showed no sign of urgency in getting his cargo to its destination. He seemed to enjoy having passengers on board, and as long as his belly was full and he had enough tobacco to smoke, and plenty of wine to drink, he did not complain. Robert’s career as creator of faked masterpieces had ended with the departure of Duke Dexter, and the longer he remained free from discovery the more confident Nettie became. Perhaps they had been granted a new start and maybe life on the river was for them. She could not speak for Byron, but she knew that he was still hoping to find his mother’s family and he questioned everyone he met, although with little success. Sometimes his hopes were raised by someone who said they remembered the Joubert family, but their memories were always vague and inconclusive.

Then, suddenly, everything changed when they reached Beauaire, a charming small town set beneath high chalky cliffs. Nettie was eager to go ashore and make enquiries about the château, which was clearly visible from the river, and Robert wanted to purchase more sketching pads and charcoal. Always on the lookout to earn money, he said he hoped to sell a few portraits. Nettie suspected that this would entail her father taking residence outside a convenient café so that he could drink wine while touting for business, and no doubt Aristide would join him. They made an odd couple, as different from each other as it was possible to be, and yet they had become good friends. They managed to converse using a mixture of sign language and odd words and phrases in French and English. To an onlooker it might appear like a comic double act, but Nettie knew that her father had found someone with whom he was completely at ease. Where they differed most was their attitude to women: Aristide was a philanderer, but Nettie had never known her father to show more than a professional interest in his female clients. She had realised as a child that he had suffered greatly when her mother died and had never looked to find a replacement for his lost love. For all his failings, Nettie would have loved him if only for his devotion to her dead mother, and to herself. Selfish, self-opinionated and easily led, Robert Carroll had a faithful heart, and to Nettie that meant everything. She knew she could never love a man who played her false.

Going ashore felt like a holiday, and, true to character, Aristide and Robert chose to take a seat outside the first café they came across in the marketplace. This left Nettie and Byron to explore the narrow cobbled streets, lined with half-timbered buildings, nestling beneath a turreted castle. Nettie felt as though she had gone back in time or had landed in the middle of a fairy tale. She would not have been surprised to see characters from much-loved children’s stories roaming freely amongst the burghers and their well-dressed wives, but what was even more astonishing was the small cobbler’s shop they discovered in a back street with the name JEAN JOUBERT in bold black letters above the door.

Nettie clutched Byron’s arm. ‘Do you think Monsieur Joubert is one of your relatives?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Byron braced his shoulders and his knuckles whitened as he grasped the door handle.

‘Fingers crossed,’ Nettie whispered as she followed him into the dark interior. The smell of leather and glue was the first thing she noticed as she peered into the gloom, and then she saw a middle-aged man bent over a shoemaker’s last. He looked up, peering at them over the top of steel-rimmed spectacles.

Nettie held her breath while Byron tried to make himself understood. The older man seemed to be a little hard of hearing, and perhaps Byron’s accent was unfamiliar, but eventually the conversation became more animated, and Nettie was able to grasp a few words. It was only when the cobbler lifted the hatch in the counter and emerged to throw his arms around Byron that she was convinced that they had come to the right place.

Byron turned to her with tears in his eyes. ‘Nettie, this is my uncle Jean – my mother’s elder brother.’

Nettie bobbed a curtsey, which felt like the right thing to do in this town where dreams seemed to come true. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’ The words had barely left her lips when she found herself hugged against a leather apron, with Jean Joubert talking so fast that she could not keep up with the flow of rapid French.

He released her and hurried back behind the counter, where he opened a door and beckoned to them. Byron went first and Nettie followed him into a small parlour, which was crammed with furniture and bric-a-brac on every surface, reminding her forcibly of the cabin on Aristide’s barge. A kettle simmered on a small black-leaded range and Jean chattered volubly while he ground beans to make a pot of coffee.

‘What is he saying?’ Nettie asked in a low voice, during one of Jean’s rare pauses to catch his breath.

‘He is the only member of the family living in this town. He had to leave the river due to ill health.’ Byron’s eyes misted with emotion. ‘He’s been telling me about my mother, and why she left the barge and went to live in the city.’

Nettie thanked Jean as he handed her a steaming bowl of coffee. It was dark and bitter and she would have liked to ask for sugar, but she didn’t want to appear rude, and she sat quietly sipping the hot beverage. Byron and Jean were deep in conversation and she waited until there was a brief pause.

‘I think I should leave you to get to know your uncle,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You don’t need me here.’

‘I’m sorry, Nettie. We’ve been ignoring you.’

She rose to her feet, smiling apologetically at Jean. ‘Not at all. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve found your uncle. I’ll explore the town and I’ll meet you at the café where we left Pa and Aristide.’

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on you own?’ Byron asked anxiously. ‘You’ve never been here before and you might lose your way.’

‘I’m sure I can manage without too much difficulty, and I need to find a haberdashery where I can buy needles and thread.’

‘All right,’ Byron said reluctantly. ‘But take care.’

‘I will. Don’t worry about me.’ Nettie smiled and leaned over to kiss his tanned cheek. She turned to Jean. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur.’ He responded in kind and Nettie made her way through the shop and let herself out into the street.

After the stuffy atmosphere of the parlour and the musty darkness of the shop, it was a pleasure to step into the sunshine and take deep breaths of fresh air.

Nettie set off in search of a shop that would stock what she needed, as her limited wardrobe had suffered during her time on board the barge, and now she had several tears to mend. In a sudden burst of generosity her father had given her some of the money that he had received for his sketches, and she might even treat herself to a ribbon or two. The prospect of shopping, even for something so simple, was exciting in itself, and as Nettie roamed the backstreets in the shadow of the great castle, she could imagine her novel’s heroine, Belinda, gazing out from one of the towers, unable to enjoy such freedom. Eventually she found a shop that sold what she wanted and she managed to make herself understood with the smattering of French that Byron had taught her. When she left the shop the tempting smell of hot bread wafted from a nearby bakery, making her mouth water, and, as she returned to the square she came across market stalls laden with fresh produce. It was midday and she was hungry. She quickened her pace as she headed for the café where she had left her father.

As she had expected, Robert was surrounded by curious townsfolk, who were watching intently as he completed a sketch of a plump, well-dressed matron. He held it up for the woman to see and she put her head on one side, squinting short-sightedly at the drawing. For a moment Nettie thought the subject of the portrait was going to criticise Robert’s efforts, but even at this distance Nettie could see that her father had flattered the sitter. Gone were the wrinkles around her thin lips, which he had made fuller, and he had erased the double chin. The woman in the portrait had a gentler, more pleasing and much younger appearance, and one of the onlookers began to clap, the others joining in. Madame rose majestically to her feet and took a purse from her reticule. She paid, if rather grudgingly, and marched off, clutching the likeness of herself as she might have looked a decade earlier.

Nettie made her way through the crowd and took a seat next to Aristide, who was smoking a cigarillo. On the table in front of him was a bottle of red wine and two glasses, one full and the other almost empty. He leaned forward to refill his glass, squinting through a spiral of tobacco smoke, but at that particular moment Robert leaped to his feet, tilting the table and sending the bottle crashing onto the cobblestones. A puddle of red wine spread from the broken glass like a pool of blood, and Aristide uttered a string of words that were not in Nettie’s vocabulary, although she did not need an interpreter to tell her that he was extremely displeased. But it was her father’s startled expression that made her turn her head, and she stood up, hardly able to believe her eyes.

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