The Reluctant Bride by Beverley Eikli Page A

and the few traits that he believed recommended him: he was tenacious, discreet and he could sleep anywhere. But he was a terrible sailor, and by God the crossing had been slow and rough.
    The Delons lived in a handsome stone house in the centre of the pretty Cathedral town of Saint-Omer, twenty-eight miles, or three hours’ travel from Calais. French aristocrats, they’d survived the Reign of Terror, fleeing Paris twenty years before, making connections in England, and then being reaccepted by France’s new regime. Monsieur Delon was a canny local politician and, Angus had been informed, a secret campaigner for a Bourbon restoration, a goal shared by the English bureaucrats who’d recruited him.
    Peace
. Angus had spent too much of his life at war and he relished his role in this mission. He remembered the euphoria that had gripped him and his countrymen eleven years before when the Treaty of Amiens had brought short-lived peace. As an eager art student he’d been on the verge of seizing the opportunity to indulge his passions when suddenly the treaty was dissolved and hostilities were again the order of the day. As one son amongst so many, the army had offered him a livelihood.
    Since then he’d seen too much horror. The thought he might in some way contribute to a more permanent peace between warring nations would make him feel his life had been good for something.
    The house was silent as Angus was led by the parlour maid to an elegantly decorated drawing room. He recalled Emily’s mention of the Delon daughter, Madeleine, and listened for the sounds of playing. The thick stone walls filtered the noise from outside and he could have heard a pin drop, indoors. Madeleine must have no boisterous brothers. He knew nothing about girls but supposed that one small one, alone, would make little impression on a household like this.
    The silence of the Delon residence, disturbed only by the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, reminded him of the Micklen household, but he was relieved that his greeting from Monsieur Delon was a good deal warmer.
    As the parlour maid announced him, the exquisitely attired Monsieur Delon rose from his wing-back chair before the fireplace, declaring in perfect, accented English that any foe of Napoleon was a friend of his.
    â€˜A message came last night that we were to expect you, Monsieur McCartney.’ From beneath Monsieur Delon’s elegant, grey eyebrows a pair of bright eyes regarded him with interest and good humour. ‘My daughter and I have been eagerly anticipating your visit.’
    Angus judged him to be in his sixties. He spoke with pride of his daughter, before outlining his plans to present Angus later that evening to the most important figure in their operation. ‘Count Levinne heads
Le Congregation de la Roi
and we greatly anticipate that your delivery of the necessary documents on such short notice is a prelude to greater involvement in an operation that aids a cause which we hope is as close to your heart as it is to ours: freedom and peace. Ah, Madeleine, our guest has arrived.’
    Angus turned as his nostrils were assailed by a waft of peony scent, the assault on his senses intensified as he beheld an exquisite apparition in white, her lovely pale arms holding an arrangement of hothouse blooms which she placed on the sideboard, her long dark hair simply bound in an ivory comb. Smiling, she swept back an escaped tendril.
    For a moment Angus was speechless, the sudden constriction of his airways forcing him to straighten while he composed his features into registering nothing but neutral, courteous interest. Meanwhile his mind whirled and the surface of his skin tingled with an extraordinary combination of admiration and disgust.
    Madeleine Delon was remarkably like Emily on first glance, with her glossy dark hair, clear-eyed gaze and perfect skin and features. She was also at least a dozen years older than the child he had been