hands tightly together at her waist. “What if something happens before the three days are out and I must get in touch with you?”
He slung one leg over the sill and perched there a moment while he drew on his gloves.
“If you need me,” he said slowly, “for any reason … go to the post in Coventry . Speak to the clerk who writes letters for people who cannot write themselves. Have him put up a notice on the public board addressed to Jeffrey Bartholemew, advising him to collect his carriage wheels at once or they will be sold to recompense his debt.”
“Jeffrey … is that your name?”
“No.”
“May I know your name, m’sieur?” she asked in a whisper.
“May I know yours?”
She hesitated only fractionally. He knew the house, he knew who owned it; it would only take a question or two to discover the identity of the Française in residence.
“It is d’Anton. Renée d’Anton.”
“Then I bid you keep well, Renée d’Anton, until we meet again.”
He gave a small salute and with a swirl of dark wool, he was over the ledge and gone. She hurried to the window and looked out over the sill, but managed only to catch a fleeting glimpse of the bat-winged shape after he reached the ground and vanished into the darkness below.
She continued to search the shadows, trying to track his movements, but her efforts were in vain. There was nothing to see but the patterned dappling of moonlight where it sliced through the gently swaying boughs of the trees.
The press of cool, damp air on the flimsy satin of her robe spurred her into shutting and latching the window behind him, but she leaned against it for several more minutes waiting for her heartbeat to slow, for her pulse to stop racing, for the warm and insistent throbbing in her lips to fade.
CHAPTER SIX
R obert Dudley was waiting with the horses and muttering under his breath when Tyrone appeared suddenly at his side.
“High bloody time,” he protested, relinquishing Ares’ reins to Hart’s outstretched hand. “I wasn’t sure whether I should storm the bastions or simply give you up as lost.”
“We had an interesting chat. It went on a good deal longer than I expected, is all.”
“A chat? As in … conversation? Social discourse? An exchange of pleasantries? Or did you actually find out what you wanted to know?”
Tyrone glanced up through the trees to the barely visible outline of Harwood’s steep roofs and slanted gables. “I found out … she is an exceptionally fetching creature without her clothes on.”
Dudley ’s eyes narrowed. “You couldn’t possibly have had time to—”
“Haul your mind out of the gutter, Robbie. I only meant she had dispensed with the heavy cloak and hood. Mind you,” he cast a crooked grin over his shoulder as he steered Ares back through the woods toward the open road, “another five minutes or so and I might have been able to impress you with my prowess.”
“You impress me every day,” Dudley said dryly, following close behind. “Dare I ask what you talked about?”
“Her upcoming marriage to Edgar Vincent, among other things.”
Dudley, who had been concentrating on the ground to steer his horse around a knot of roots, looked up so suddenly, the branch skimmed the top of his head and would have carried off his hat if he had not reached up in time to grab it. His horse, startled by the sudden struggle for balance, danced forward several steps before being reined to an abrupt halt.
“Did you say Edgar Vincent?”
“I did. Apparently he is the lucky groom our lovely little French minx plans to leave standing at the altar with nothing but his hat in his hand.”
Dudley muttered, “Christ,” then swivelled around in his saddle and said, “Christ!” again as if it was just occurring to him who owned the Gloomy Retreat.
“Exactly,” Tyrone murmured. “She claims to be Lord Paxton’s niece; she is engaged to Edgar Vincent; and she is apparently helping Colonel Bertrand
He slung one leg over the sill and perched there a moment while he drew on his gloves.
“If you need me,” he said slowly, “for any reason … go to the post in Coventry . Speak to the clerk who writes letters for people who cannot write themselves. Have him put up a notice on the public board addressed to Jeffrey Bartholemew, advising him to collect his carriage wheels at once or they will be sold to recompense his debt.”
“Jeffrey … is that your name?”
“No.”
“May I know your name, m’sieur?” she asked in a whisper.
“May I know yours?”
She hesitated only fractionally. He knew the house, he knew who owned it; it would only take a question or two to discover the identity of the Française in residence.
“It is d’Anton. Renée d’Anton.”
“Then I bid you keep well, Renée d’Anton, until we meet again.”
He gave a small salute and with a swirl of dark wool, he was over the ledge and gone. She hurried to the window and looked out over the sill, but managed only to catch a fleeting glimpse of the bat-winged shape after he reached the ground and vanished into the darkness below.
She continued to search the shadows, trying to track his movements, but her efforts were in vain. There was nothing to see but the patterned dappling of moonlight where it sliced through the gently swaying boughs of the trees.
The press of cool, damp air on the flimsy satin of her robe spurred her into shutting and latching the window behind him, but she leaned against it for several more minutes waiting for her heartbeat to slow, for her pulse to stop racing, for the warm and insistent throbbing in her lips to fade.
CHAPTER SIX
R obert Dudley was waiting with the horses and muttering under his breath when Tyrone appeared suddenly at his side.
“High bloody time,” he protested, relinquishing Ares’ reins to Hart’s outstretched hand. “I wasn’t sure whether I should storm the bastions or simply give you up as lost.”
“We had an interesting chat. It went on a good deal longer than I expected, is all.”
“A chat? As in … conversation? Social discourse? An exchange of pleasantries? Or did you actually find out what you wanted to know?”
Tyrone glanced up through the trees to the barely visible outline of Harwood’s steep roofs and slanted gables. “I found out … she is an exceptionally fetching creature without her clothes on.”
Dudley ’s eyes narrowed. “You couldn’t possibly have had time to—”
“Haul your mind out of the gutter, Robbie. I only meant she had dispensed with the heavy cloak and hood. Mind you,” he cast a crooked grin over his shoulder as he steered Ares back through the woods toward the open road, “another five minutes or so and I might have been able to impress you with my prowess.”
“You impress me every day,” Dudley said dryly, following close behind. “Dare I ask what you talked about?”
“Her upcoming marriage to Edgar Vincent, among other things.”
Dudley, who had been concentrating on the ground to steer his horse around a knot of roots, looked up so suddenly, the branch skimmed the top of his head and would have carried off his hat if he had not reached up in time to grab it. His horse, startled by the sudden struggle for balance, danced forward several steps before being reined to an abrupt halt.
“Did you say Edgar Vincent?”
“I did. Apparently he is the lucky groom our lovely little French minx plans to leave standing at the altar with nothing but his hat in his hand.”
Dudley muttered, “Christ,” then swivelled around in his saddle and said, “Christ!” again as if it was just occurring to him who owned the Gloomy Retreat.
“Exactly,” Tyrone murmured. “She claims to be Lord Paxton’s niece; she is engaged to Edgar Vincent; and she is apparently helping Colonel Bertrand
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