Compromised Miss. Anne O'Brien
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in a polite withdrawing room. If she did not take the matter in hand, if she succumbed to cowardice, she would bid him good day and wave him from her door, as if he were not in possession of a bullet wound and an unsavoury reputation. She took a breath and stirred the mud in the bottom of the pool. ‘Are you a spy?’
The humour was quickly gone. ‘No. I am not a spy.’ There was no hesitation, but then he would be unlikely to tell the truth, even if he was. ‘Why did you think I was?’
‘Marcel—the French smuggler who brought you to my cutter—said you were associated with an individual called Jean-Jacques Noir.’
A quick frown between his brows, a thinning of lips. She saw immediately that he recognised the name. ‘I know him. But I am no spy.’
‘Marcel says he is a man of vicious character.’
‘Yes. I believe he is.’
She was getting nowhere. ‘Who is Marie-Claude?’ He certainly recognised that name. His eyes snapped to hers. ‘I don’t know.’
A lie. He had looked dangerously uneasy, but nothing to be gained in pressing him if he would not say. It was, after all, none of her concern. ‘Very well. I don’t believe you, but can’t force you to tell, except by torture!’ She walked to the door, then paused, looking back. ‘Will you tell me this, then—what is your name?’
‘Lucius Hallaston.’
It meant nothing to her. She gave a brief nod and would have left him, aware of nothing but a deep disappointment that the man who seemed for some inexplicable reason to have such a claim on her was entirely disreputable. This man who had awoken her inexperienced heart and her emotions, who had reminded her painfully of what was lacking in her loveless life, had feet of clay. The disillusion settled like a heavy stone below her heart.
On her way to the door she stopped beside him, to press her fingers against the hard flesh of his shoulder. Yes, it was cool, the fever gone. But not in her own blood. Even so slight a touch sent heat racing through her blood. This is simply physical desire! Harriette felt her face flush with shame.
‘Do you have family who will miss you?’ she demanded, curtly, to cover her embarrassment.
‘A brother in London. I won’t be missed for a little time. You, I think I remember, are Harry Lydyard.’
‘Yes.’ She repressed a little laugh of wry mirth. ‘I am Harry Lydyard.’
He still thought of her as a man. It didn’t matter. He was devious, deceitful and well on the road to recovery. She would send George to deal with his needs and there was no need for her to see him again. Within twenty-four hours he would be gone from her life.
And good riddance! But her heart trembled as if at a great loss.
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