The Wolf's Promise

‘Only because they put me in a room with half rotten window-frames,’ she said caustically.

It was quite late when Angelica finally went downstairs. She was wearing a deep rose-pink travelling dress, with a soft shawl thrown around her shoulders in deference to the winter draughts.

Despite her uncertainty about the situation, she looked much brighter and less anxious than she had done the previous evening. There was a warm glow in her cheeks and a sparkle in her blue eyes. She moved with the vibrant sense of purpose which normally characterised her. Martha’s gossip had intrigued rather than alarmed her, and for the first time in months she had something other than her father’s problems to think about.

There were two doors at the front of the hall. She knew one led into the dining-room, and she was about to go over to it when she heard voices coming from the other room. The door had been left slightly ajar and she recognised Benoît’s voice immediately. The other voice sounded familiar, but it was only when Benoît referred to him by name that she realised he was talking to Sir William Hopwood.

She caught her breath in horrified consternation. Her first thought was that her father had sent him to fetch her back, but then reason reasserted itself.

There would hardly have been time for the Earl to get a message to Sir William. Besides, her father had cut himself off from the rest of the world so thoroughly that he was unlikely to think of calling upon his old friend for such assistance.

Her second thought was that it would be extremely embarrassing if she did meet Sir William. It would be very difficult to provide an unexceptional explanation for her presence to him, and he was bound to be surprised and suspicious. She was about to hurry back upstairs when she suddenly realised that the subject of their conversation was of profound interest to her.

‘My men are sure one of the ruffians escaped in this direction,’ said Sir William gruffly. ‘They’re equally sure one of the others was hurt when he was thrown from his horse, but the fools lost track of them in the storm. Did you hear anything last night, Faulkener?’

‘I regret not,’ said Benoît coolly. ‘Apart from the wind, of course.’

‘Dammit! I wish I could believe you,’ Sir William growled.

‘Are you suggesting I’m lying, sir?’ Benoît demanded, but he sounded more amused than outraged.

‘You know damn well I am,’ Sir William retorted. ‘Not that it’ll do me any good. There were times when I thought I’d caught Toby, fair and square—but somehow he always managed to outwit those porridge-brained men of mine. And you’re as slippery as a greased pig.’

‘What a flattering comparison,’ said Benoît appreciatively. ‘I’m sorry you don’t find your men entirely to your satisfaction. I’m sure I could pick out some sharp-witted fellows to take their places.’

‘I dare say you could,’ said Sir William grimly. ‘But I’ll thank you not to interfere in my business.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of being so impertinent,’ Benoît responded smoothly. ‘Are you positive you won’t take some refreshment?’

‘Dammit! Faulkener! Why do you persist in siding with these villains?’ Sir William burst out. ‘If only a few of us made a stand, we could stamp out this infernal business in no time!’

‘Who am I to go against tradition?’ said Benoît lightly.

‘Tradition!’ Sir William exploded. ‘A tradition of murder, terror, blackmail…treason!’

‘Treason?’

‘What do you call trading with the enemy? My God! I’ve even heard that smugglers row over to France from Dover with belts of guineas round their waists to pay for Bonaparte’s armies. Don’t you call that treason? When good English gold is being used to equip our enemies?’

‘I won’t argue with you on that point,’ said Benoît coldly. ‘But you might ask yourself, who supplies the guineas? Not the poor men who risk their lives in the Strait of Dover. It’s merchants in the City—men who may never come within a mile of the coast—who send the gold to Napoleon. Why don’t you discuss the subject of treason with them?’

‘My God! Faulkener! How can you excuse the villainy of these base scoundrels by laying the blame on others?’ Sir William demanded fiercely. ‘If I had my way, every merchant or banker who sent gold to Bonaparte would be stripped of his possessions—but that doesn’t justify what the local men do. They’re lazy, workshy, and they’d rather spend the night dishonestly landing raw spirit than doing a decent day’s work.’

‘Perhaps if they were paid a decent day’s wage for a decent day’s work, they might not be so keen to risk their lives and their health on the beaches,’ Benoît retorted sharply.

‘By heaven, sir! I might have known you’d have a revolutionary spirit in you,’ Sir William breathed, horrified. ‘It’s your French blood. Next you will be telling me that all men are equal and the government should be overturned. You’re in league with the Frogs!’

Benoît laughed.

‘My good sir,’ he said, chuckling, ‘when I take it into my head to overthrow His Majesty’s government, you will be the first to know. In the meantime, I regret I cannot help you with your current problem.’

Angelica had been standing, transfixed, at the foot of the stairs, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. But now she suddenly realised Sir William was about to leave and she was in grave danger of being discovered. She hurried back upstairs, nearly tripping over her skirt, as Benoît and Sir William emerged into the hall.

She paused, just around the bend in the stairs, and listened to Sir William’s departure. Her heart was beating rapidly with excitement and alarm, and she tried to still her breathing to a normal rate. It would never do if Benoît suspected she’d been eavesdropping.

His argument with Sir William had given her pause for thought. Asking the help of a smuggler was one thing—but what if he really was a traitor to England? He had made no greater attempt to deny that charge than he had to deny he was involved in smuggling.

She pressed her hand to her mouth in horror. What if Benoît really was a revolutionary? Some of the things he’d said certainly implied he had radical ideas. Until this moment the fact that he was half-French had seemed important only because it meant he might be in a better position to help Harry. She had met a number of émigrés in London, and most of them heartily loathed Napoleon. It had never occurred to her that Benoît might actually support the Corsican monster.

She heard the front door close behind Sir William and took a deep breath. She had a strong desire to run back up to her bedchamber, but she could hardly spend the rest of the day hiding there. The sooner she faced Benoît the better.

She draped her shawl more becomingly around her shoulders, and walked sedately downstairs. He had been about to return to the room he had occupied with Sir William, but he looked up at her approach.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ he said politely. ‘I trust you slept well.’ She thought she detected a glint of amusement in his brown eyes, but in the dimly lit hall it was hard to tell.

‘Very well, thank you,’ she replied calmly, although her heart was beating faster than she would have wished. ‘My maid tells me there was quite a storm last night, but I’m afraid I was dead to the world.’

‘I’m glad you were comfortable,’ said Benoît. ‘Come and have some breakfast.’ He held open the dining-room door for her.

‘Thank you.’ Angelica went into the room, feeling a strange frisson of something that wasn’t quite nervousness as she passed beside him.

For a man who could only have had a few hours’ sleep, he looked surprisingly vigorous. She was profoundly disturbed by what she’d just overheard—yet she couldn’t suppress an unruly surge of excitement at being once more in his presence. There was a virile energy in his lean body which provoked an immediate response in her own ardent nature.

But she wasn’t entirely comfortable with that piece of self-awareness, so she tried to distract herself with more mundane considerations. She noticed that he was once again dressed entirely in black—apart from the white cravat. She wondered vaguely if he took it off when he went out smuggling, or whether he just took good care to cover it up. She supposed it must be very convenient for him to be always dressed for business, whatever the hour of day or night.

There was no one in the dining-room, and Benoît pulled on the bell rope. Angelica hesitated. She was feeling extremely unsettled, and she knew if she sat down at the table she would feel trapped. The curtains were open so, partly out of curiosity, partly from a desire to appear at ease, she went over to the window.

The dining-room looked out to the front of the house. After the previous night’s storm, the sky was a surprisingly bright and clear blue. She saw a holly tree close to the window, and in the distance some short-stemmed daffodils were dancing in a light breeze. They were the first she had seen that year.

‘Spring is on its way,’ said Benoît behind her, making her jump. She hadn’t realised he was so close. ‘You should have a relatively pleasant journey back to London.’

Angelica gasped, all coherent thought driven from her mind by his unexpected proximity. She was grateful she had her back to him and he couldn’t see her confusion. It would never do to let him think he had her at a disadvantage.

She bit her lip, her eyes fixed on the daffodils, at a loss for an immediate reply. She had discharged her errand and she had no real grounds for refusing to go; but she didn’t want to leave. She couldn’t abandon Harry’s fate in the hands of a man about whom she harboured such terrible suspicions.

‘It certainly is a beautiful day,’ she compromised, turning to face Benoît just as the maid came in.

It was a mistake. He was too close and she had no avenue of retreat. He looked straight into her eyes for a few seconds, almost overwhelming her with the electric force of his personality. Angelica felt as if she had been stripped naked by the unexpected intimacy of that brief contact. She struggled to appear cool and unflustered, but her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she lifted her chin almost defiantly to meet his gaze.

He smiled, and turned his head to speak to the maid.

Angelica relaxed slightly, and discovered she’d been holding her breath. She controlled a desire to drag in a shaky lungful of air, and began to breathe normally again, berating herself for acting so foolishly. Surely she was far too sophisticated to be overawed by a provincial smuggler? But she couldn’t resist the urge to watch Benoît as he spoke to the maid.

His black hair glinted blue in the bright sunlight. She could see the tiny lines around his eyes from all those times when he must have squinted to see in poorly lit conditions; but he was far more tanned than she would have expected of a man who spent most of his time working at night. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder how active a part in the smuggling trade he took. He surely wouldn’t land the kegs and carry them up the beach himself?

He glanced at her, and she felt her cooling cheeks begin to flush again. A glint of amusement flickered in the intelligent brown eyes, almost as if he had guessed what she was thinking, then he said,

‘Would you prefer tea or coffee with your breakfast, my lady?’