The Caged Countess. Joanna Fulford
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deny that this is mere amusement.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’
‘Genet employs me because I am good at what I do.’
‘You still required rescuing.’
‘And of course no-one else ever does.’ The sarcastic tone was an exact imitation of his. ‘In the entire history of espionage I’m the first.’
‘I don’t know about the first, but I’d wager that you’re the most argumentative.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. A woman mustn’t do that, must she?’
The lowered eyes and dulcet tone didn’t fool him for a minute. Her manner was impudent and provocative in equal measure, the kind of quiet insubordination that would have been easy to deal with in a man. In this case the options were severely limited.
‘I cannot imagine what is troubling you,’ he replied.
‘It doesn’t.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘May I ask how you came to be involved in all of this?’
He was tempted to refuse; the past was an area he preferred to leave alone. However, she had been open with him to a surprising degree.
‘Originally I was with Wellington in Spain,’ he said, ‘but then I was injured and rendered unfit for active service.’
For a brief instant he was back in the field hospital after Vittoria, lying on the makeshift operating table in the surgeon’s tent where the air was heavy with the stench of blood and sweat and fear. Through the red haze of pain he could hear the screams of the poor wretches under the knife and the saw. He’d lost an eye that day along with half his face and a large quantity of blood from the sabre slashes to his shoulder and arm. They’d stanched the bleeding and sewn him up as best they could. Initially, he had lost much of the function in his left arm, although time and careful exercise had mended it eventually. Nevertheless it was the end of his army career in the Peninsula.
‘Do you miss it?’ she asked. ‘Active service, I mean?’
‘At the time it was a blow, but there is no point in lamenting what cannot be changed.’
He had understated the case. Separated from his erstwhile comrades and the life he had loved it had been like a form of exile. Having to deal with men like Genet did nothing to enhance the experience. Even so, what was the alternative; to go back to England? To go home? He hardly thought he’d be welcome there, given the circumstances. In any case it was too late to mend fences now.
Although she could not follow his thoughts, Claudine sensed the tension in him and sought to change the subject.
‘Have you relatives in England?’
‘Yes, though I have not seen them for some years.’
‘That must be hard.’
‘There was little affection in our family, especially not between me and my father. Besides, he is dead now and I am quite sure that my absence has occasioned little heartache for the rest of my relations.’
The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact tone but, again, she had the sensation of having moved into dangerous territory.
‘Families ought to be united, although I know it is not always the case.’
‘Have you any other brothers, or sisters perhaps?’ he asked.
‘None who survived into adulthood.’
‘Then you must have been all the more precious to your parents.’
‘My mother died when I was eight. My father hired a governess and considered his paternal duty done. It wasn’t until I grew older that he took any interest in me, and then only as a commodity in the marriage market.’
‘He arranged a match for you?’
‘Yes. I had no say in the matter.’
The words sounded quite dispassionate but he sensed anger beneath them. His curiosity increased. There were so many things he wanted to ask, all of them intrusive. It was none of his business. Arranged matches were commonplace, and, if love followed, the couple might consider themselves fortunate. If not they made shift as best they could, as he knew all too well.
‘And your husband?’
‘He was likewise compelled to the match by his family.’
The story was so similar to his own that it struck a chord. Yet, in spite of her outspokenness and misguided thirst for adventure, there could be few men who would complain about gaining such a wife; unless of course their affections were engaged elsewhere. However, Duval wasn’t about to delve there. To do so would be to awaken sleeping dogs. At the same time he could empathise with her situation; it seemed they had a surprising amount in common.
‘Even so, he could not willingly have left you.’
The tone brought warm colour to her face. ‘He went without a backward glance. I think he could scarcely wait to go. Oh, we exchange dutiful letters from time to time, but he has never given any indication of the desire or intention to return.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. He has his life and I have mine.’
Again Duval felt the words chime, but then it was familiar territory. ‘Did you never feel lonely?’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted, ‘in the early days, but not now. Besides, I have grown accustomed to having my own independence and would not willingly relinquish it.’
‘I can see why you might not wish to, but the war in Spain is over.’
The implication brought with it a twinge of unease. She had meant it when she said that she valued her independence. The advent of a husband after all this time was distinctly unwelcome. Had there ever been the least affection or esteem in the case, anything on which they might have founded a hope for the future, she might have been willing to try and build bridges. However, there was no shared experience to build on, no affection, nothing to bind them but a piece of paper. She found it hard now even to recall what Anthony looked like. Besides, time had a way of changing people. What he had looked like then might not be what he looked like now. He was a stranger to her in every way.
Although he could not follow her thoughts Duval could see the inner disquiet that they created. Had she disliked the thought so much? If so, her husband had much to answer for. Not that it was any of his business. Nor did he have any right to criticise.
‘We have lived separate lives up to now,’ she replied. ‘I see no reason why we cannot continue to do so.’
‘The situation is not unknown.’
‘No.’
He saw the fleeting expression of bleakness in her face and with it her vulnerability.
Both touched him more deeply than he had expected. The future she described was bleak indeed; an ocean of emptiness in which love and fulfilment had no place. The years would claim her youth and her good looks but they would not offer the consolations of a loving relationship and children. It was, he thought, a criminal waste.
‘You might take a lover,’ he said.
Claudine reddened. Ordinarily the very suggestion would have been an insult to a lady, but a second’s reflection showed he hadn’t intended it that way. The words had been spoken with casual ease and they served to underline what he thought her to be. Under the circumstances she could hardly blame him though. To express indignation now would sound like total hypocrisy.
‘And leap from the frying pan into the fire?’ She shook her head. ‘The thought does not appeal.’
Her reply surprised him, not least because it had sounded genuine. He searched her face but could see no trace of duplicity there, only a very attractive blush. That surprised him too. All the same, it was hard to believe that she had never taken advantage of the