by Lucy Ashford
Josh was nodding. ‘And there’s something else, Captain. A rider from London told me Lord Franklin is on his way to Bircham Hall. He has guests travelling with him—important guests from the look of the carriages—and there’s an armed guard, too.’
‘Then I’d guess they’ll be government men,’ breathed Luke. ‘Men of the highest rank, coming here to discuss in absolute privacy what to do about Napoleon. It sounds as if you might be right, Josh. It could be that the war is about to start all over again, one way or another.’
Tom’s expression was sorrowful. ‘So much for the wine and women in Spain.’
Luke nodded. ‘It looks,’ he said, ‘as if you’ll have to forget that particular dream for a while.’
Tom and Josh started talking earnestly to one another, but Luke stood apart. If Anthony was still alive—a prisoner of the French—and if the war was about to break out anew, he was aware that Anthony’s chances of survival were low. He had to act, and act soon.
And then—there was Ellie. How could he protect Ellie from the consequences of his own selfishness in dragging her into all this? You must let me help you, she’d said in her sweet, clear voice.
He couldn’t let her. He’d already put her at grave risk by telling her too much, and he ought to get her to a place of safety, away from Lord Franklin’s clutches. But he had to find Anthony. It was imperative that he find Anthony; he couldn’t imagine a future without knowing that he’d done everything he could to save his brother.
Yet neither could he imagine a future without Ellie at his side. And that was impossible, he told himself. Impossible.
Chapter Twenty
When Ellie heard that Lord Franklin would be arriving at Bircham Hall that evening, she felt a cold sense of impending dread.
Not for herself—but for Luke.
She could not forget Lord Franklin’s chilling threat. To have Danbury at large, especially in the present circumstances, is intolerable. Something must be done. She couldn’t forget the soldiers who’d searched Luke’s home and manhandled him. She thought of Monique and Harry—both mother and child so terribly vulnerable. So dependent on Luke.
Joseph had let her into the house that morning and got her safely up to her room. Mary had been a little quiet when she came to Ellie with her breakfast tray at eight, hurt no doubt to have been told last night by the maid Sarah that Ellie didn’t need her. But later in the day Mary was distracted by the topic that now engaged the whole household. Indeed, the news that Lord Franklin was arriving here again threw all the staff into a state of near panic, especially as this time Mr Huffley had informed them that he wasn’t coming alone, but with important guests.
They were due to arrive, Mary told Ellie excitedly, in the early evening—a rider had come from London to tell them so, soon after lunch. Footmen and bootboys, parlour maids and scullery maids; all had been set to clean and dust, to scrub floors and polish silver. Lady Charlotte spent the rest of the afternoon being wheeled around each of the reception rooms by her attendant footmen, giving the housekeeper her personal instructions about which flowers were to be brought in from the hothouse and generally glowing with self-importance.
‘Bircham Hall,’ she informed Ellie, ‘has often hosted the grandest parties. And this time my son, I believe, will be bringing no lesser personages than the Home Secretary and the head of the Admiralty—they are all personal friends of his. “Bircham to me is a home from home, Lady Charlotte,” the Foreign Secretary once said to me. Indeed, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Franklin had told me that the prime minister himself was coming. He was here last year for two nights and he told me the hospitality at Bircham was incomparable—that was his precise word. Incomparable.’ She looked around with satisfaction.
Miss Pringle followed Ellie around in nervous distraction. ‘So wonderful,’ she kept murmuring to Ellie, ‘that his lordship is to be here again.’
* * *
Later that afternoon, Ellie retreated to her room, trying to read but unable to concentrate on a word. Since lunchtime, heavy clouds had swept in from the west, and outside the rain was pouring down—there would be no walks in the garden today.
Lord Franklin’s visit must mean danger for Luke.
All day, she’d hardly stopped thinking about what had happened at his house last night. She wanted to be alone with her memories of him and that kiss. She knew there could have been much more than a kiss. All the time, she’d wanted more with every fibre of her being.
She knew it was stupid of her, she knew it was wrong of her to give way to her feelings. But when her skin was still tingling from the memory of his touch, and her heart still shaking and her brain as scattered as the gusts of rain now battering against her window pane—then knowing what she should do was another matter entirely.
She’d truly hungered for him. Her body had been strung as tight as a violin string—not from dread or revulsion, but from the sheer longing that pounded in her veins as his beautiful mouth closed in on hers.
But he’d turned her down. He’d turned her down. Hadn’t it been the only sensible thing to do? ‘I’m sorry, Ellie,’ he’d said, in a voice that chilled her to the bone because of the way he was distancing himself from her, drawing himself away. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. It was wrong of me. It was a mistake.’
Now she paced her room, hands clasped together in anguish. A bad mistake indeed, on her part—she’d been mad to let herself start feeling what she did for him, because he would not return her feelings. He’d known love in the past. Been let down by love, and now his brother was what mattered above all to him.
But last night it had seemed so easy to obliterate both past and future. Last night it would have been easy to forget everything, in that moment when his lips were on hers and his body hard against hers. His caresses had been soft as silk, but her knees had almost gone from under her as he drew her closer and his mouth moved against hers, warm and strong, and her breasts ached and a wave of pleasure rolled through her—pleasure so intense that she thought it might carry her away.
And, yes—she could no more have stopped herself from going to wherever his kisses were leading her than to stop breathing.
As well, then, she thought with bitter self-reproach, that he ended it—because she certainly couldn’t have done.
* * *
It was almost six o’clock when Mary came in, full of excitement. ‘Oh, miss. More news! Cook heard Mr Huffley talking to Mr Appleby. And Mr Appleby said that Napoleon’s escaped!’
‘But that’s impossible, Mary...’
‘No, miss! Mr Appleby says it will be in all the newspapers by tomorrow. And soon we’ll be at war again, Mr Huffley says.’
Ellie clenched her hands, remembering what her father once said. ‘At first, I thought Napoleon went to war simply to defend France from its enemies. But the fighting and the conquests went on and on, with thousands upon thousands dead. There must be an end to this war. There must be...’
She rose suddenly to her feet. This would be why Lord Franklin and his government friends were coming so suddenly to Bircham Hall. To talk in privacy about Napoleon. To talk about...war. Did Luke know? Would Luke be in danger? Would he try to do anything rash?
She realised that Mary was putting away some of Ellie’s freshly laundered clothes and was saying, ‘Now, miss, have you thought yet about what you’re going to wear when Lord Franklin arrives? You’ll surely want to look your best for his lordship’s important guests. Perhaps you’ll wear one of your fine London gowns?’
‘No.’ Ellie strove to keep her voice calm. ‘I’ll wear the grey gown.’
‘Really, miss? You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
Mary looked briefly crestfallen, but her face lit up with excitement again when Miss Pringle knocked on the door and hurried into the room. ‘Elise? Oh, Elise, Lord Fra
nklin has arrived with all his guests! And he wishes to introduce you to them. ‘
‘Now? Before dinner?’
‘Yes, indeed—you must come downstairs immediately!’
* * *
Lord Franklin saw Ellie the moment she walked into the drawing room and he came towards her with his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Ah, Elise!’ he called.
‘My lord.’ She curtsied and stayed where she was, but he quickly took her hand and led her to his companions.
‘Elise,’ he told them, ‘is an orphaned relative of mine—a refugee from the turmoil in France. I was so very glad to be able to offer her a home here.’
‘So generous of you, Lord Franklin,’ she heard them all responding. ‘So typically generous!’ Though their eyes flickered over her with remarkably little interest and she was glad that in her drab gown, with her scraped-back hair and lowered eyes, there was little enough to hold their attention. I can cope with this, she told herself. Soon they will forget I am here and I’ll be able to slip away. She barely registered any of their names or faces—until she saw him.
He was standing with his back to her. But when he turned round, her blood ran cold. For it was the man with the pale eyes and the pale hair—the man she’d kept seeing in Brussels, whenever she ventured out of their attic apartment above Madame Gavroche’s shop. The man she’d felt sure was following her.
He stepped forward and made a low bow as Lord Franklin introduced him to her. ‘This is my secretary, Elise,’ Lord Franklin was saying in a hearty voice. ‘Gerald Malone.’
‘Mam’selle,’ said Gerald Malone softly. ‘What a pleasure to meet you.’
* * *
This was the worst moment yet. The worst discovery yet.
Somehow, Ellie was able to hold herself steady. Somehow, she was able to acknowledge the man with the slightest of nods, as if she had not the slightest interest in him.
But this changed everything. This meant that not Napoleon’s men, but Lord Franklin himself had been pursuing her and her father in Brussels.
By now Ellie was able to stay in the background, since Lady Charlotte was completely dominating Lord Franklin’s guests with her strident account of the many comforts of Bircham Hall. ‘You will find this place a true haven,’ she declared. Ellie counted the moments until she was able to slip out unnoticed and make her way to the stairs. She had to get to the privacy of her room. To give herself time to think, before dinner was served.
But she halted on passing the library door, because to her surprise she could see it was open and the room was brightly lit. And someone was in there, standing by the bookshelves—Mr Huffley, the butler.
He looked up and saw her figure in the doorway. ‘Miss Duchamp,’ he said. He looked even more harassed than usual. ‘Are you searching for his lordship? I do believe he’s in the drawing room.’
He was standing, she saw, by the shelves she’d examined yesterday. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I’ve just come from there—I’ve already met Lord Franklin and his guests. You and your staff will be having a busy time, I fear, Mr Huffley.’
The butler sighed a little. ‘Indeed. Such short notice. And what’s more—’ he waved his hand at the library shelves ‘—I’ve just been told by his lordship’s business secretary that Lord Franklin needs to take certain files back to London when he returns—why, I’ve no idea. “The files for 1813,” Mr Malone said to me, curt as you please. “The autumn of 1813.” Mr Malone said I was to transfer them to these boxes—’ he indicated some packing cases on the floor ‘—and that he would check with me tomorrow morning that the right ones were packed. As if I can’t be trusted with the task myself!’
He was muttering to himself by now, aware perhaps of his indiscretion in talking to her about Lord Franklin’s secretary. But Ellie had heard enough. Her pulse was racing. Those files were to go to London? The very ones Luke wanted?
Mr Huffley looked at his watch and let out an exclamation. ‘My goodness, is that really the time? Dinner will have to be served soon, and I haven’t checked yet that the footmen have finished polishing the silver, or that the wine has been put out. I’ll have to return to this later...’
Already he was hurrying towards the door, ushering Ellie out before him, turning the key in the lock. Outside in the corridor he mopped his brow. ‘Miss Duchamp, may I ask you to take this key along to the housekeeper’s room?’
‘Of course,’ Ellie said. ‘Of course I will.’ The butler hurried off towards the servants’ staircase and Ellie stood alone, gazing at the big, cold key sitting in the palm of her hand. The vital evidence Luke needed was being taken from the library and sent back to London. Out of his reach, forever—unless she helped him.
* * *
Candles glimmered in the dining hall of Higham House, where Mrs Bartlett had just cleared away the remains of the evening meal. It was seven o’clock, and Luke and his men—Tom, the Wattersons and some of his chief tenants, men like Ned Rawling—had been studying maps of the Danbury lands and listening to Luke’s plans for the fields which were to be ploughed and planted in the coming weeks.
But now Luke’s men were talking about war. As an ex-soldier, Ned Rawling was anxious. ‘If they’re sending the British army to deal with Napoleon, Captain Luke, I might get called up again. I don’t mind doing my duty. But there’s the farm to think of now, and I’ve got my wife and little ones to care for.’
Luke tried to reassure him. ‘I think it could be a while before it comes to war, Ned. And there should be soldiers enough already to defeat whatever troops Napoleon can summon up. Lord Wellington will have his Austrian and Prussian allies on his side as well, remember. So you must concentrate on your farm. On sowing your spring wheat and putting your ewes and lambs out to grass.’
The others murmured their approval. Ned nodded in relief.
‘Thank you, Captain. The farm means the world to me and my wife and two little ones. Some day I’ll pay you back in full for everything, I promise.’
‘I know you will,’ said Luke quietly. ‘But get the farm up and running before you worry about money. And remember that you’re doing me a favour, too—for land that lies idle is of no use to man nor beast.’
Eagerly Luke’s companions refilled their tankards from the pitchers of ale and began to talk again of lambing and crops and yields. But for a moment Luke’s mind was far away.
Beyond the uncurtained windows, twilight was closing in, though against the darkening skies he could see the silhouettes of dozens of geese in flight, making for the nearby marshes to settle for the night. His men were immersed in plans for the future and memories of the past.
But Luke’s mind was in turmoil. He couldn’t stop thinking of the girl. Of the way she’d looked at him this morning, when he’d said to her that it was best if they didn’t meet again.
For a moment, she’d looked stunned. Then she had shrugged and looked as if she didn’t care—but Luke had seen that moment of raw fragility in her eyes and he knew what she’d be thinking. He knew she would see it as yet another rejection, another betrayal. But he had to keep telling himself that it was the only way. His only possible option.
There was a hurried knock on the door and Mrs Bartlett came in, looking agitated. ‘Captain?’
Luke went over quickly to her.
‘Captain,’ she went on, ‘Joseph’s just sent over a
messenger—a local lad—with this for you. He said to tell you that it’s urgent.’
She handed Luke a folded, sealed sheet of paper, with his name written on it in a delicate feminine hand. And Luke realised, as soon as he took it, that the letter was wrapped tightly around—a key.
Chapter Twenty-One
Keep calm. Remember to hold your head high. Trying to fight down the knots of tension that twisted in her stomach, Ellie steadily descended the stairs to the reception h
all, where Lady Charlotte had sent word that Ellie was to meet her before they went to join Lord Franklin and his guests in the dining room. The clock was chiming half past seven as Ellie reached the hall, and she saw straight away that her ladyship was already there, with her two silent footmen standing guard behind her bath chair.
There was an English expression that Ellie had once heard Mary use—She had a face on her that could turn milk sour—and how well those words described Lady Charlotte’s look of utter fury when she saw Ellie. Her ladyship was dressed with great formality, in an old-fashioned purple satin gown encrusted with embroidery, and heavy jewellery on her neck and fingers.
And she looked at Ellie and said, ‘What do you think you have done to yourself?’
Ellie made a deep, deep curtsey. ‘You are always telling me I should take more trouble with my appearance, your ladyship.’
‘Yes? Yes?’
‘So I did.’
‘Of all the impertinent, insolent—’ Lady Charlotte was searching for appropriate words to finish her tirade, but had to break off at the sound of the dinner gong being struck. Her lips pressed thinly together, she beckoned to her footmen to wheel her onwards into the dining room, with Ellie following in her wake.
And all eyes were on Ellie.
When they’d seen her earlier—when Lord Franklin had introduced her to them in the drawing room, with some vague words about her being a distant, orphaned relative—these men had let their eyes flicker over her with minimal interest—they’d been polite to her only for Lord Franklin’s sake.
It was different now.
Less than half an hour ago, Ellie had set Mary to work. And now Ellie was wearing an exquisite, dusky-rose silk gown that clung to her slender figure and revealed her bare throat and the upper part of her breasts. She’d asked Mary to pile up her long dark hair in extravagant curls and Mary, her eyes gleaming with delight, had not only done so with some skill, but had also fixed a matching rose-red ribbon in her hair. ‘Oh, miss,’ Mary had exclaimed, stepping back in awe, ‘you look beautiful!’
