Luke nodded. “And the lady showed her gratitude?”
Damian frowned and smoothed back his hair with both hands. “She is not a lightskirt, Luke, but a lady. I was glad to help her.”
Luke gazed at him thoughtfully. “And came away a little bruised, I suspect.”
“Perhaps. Let’s speak of other things.”
The footman brought in a tray with ham pie, bread and butter, and one of Cook’s special puddings. Damian rubbed his hands. “Ah, I’m ravenous. Fetch me a glass of that claret on the sideboard, Luke, and tell me how things stand here. What did the bailiff have to say about the last sitting of the Assizes?”
Some hours later, Damian settled into bed. He found sleep elusive, his mind dwelling on his last moments alone with Diana. It would not be so easy to pick up the threads of his life now after what had happened between them.
The next morning, after breakfast, Damian rode over the estate with Luke, Max following at the horses’ heels, relishing the familiar scents of trees and grasses, and the dank smell of the river. When he returned to the house he found his orders had arrived. He was to liaise with British spies in a small village on the French coast and make his way to Paris. The British intelligence officer, Colquhoun Grant, who had been posted on the Iberian Peninsula under the command of Arthur Wellesley, had been captured by the French. In full uniform, he had been treated as a fellow officer and sent to Paris, where he secretly sent and received messages from captivity. Suspected of spying, Marshal Auguste de Marmont refused to swap him for a French prisoner, keeping him there for interrogation.
Damian’s mission was to join some Englishmen to aid in Grant’s escape. He had his bag packed for France.
About to enter the carriage bound for the Horse Guards, Luke stood on the drive, Max sitting beside him, tongue lolling. Luke assured Damian he was not to spare a thought either about the estate or him.
Damian grinned. “I hadn’t intended to.”
“But you would have, anyway,” Luke said. “I haven’t told you about the improvements to my social life.”
Damian paused on the step. “Oh? And you tell me now?”
“To avoid any degree of interrogation,” his annoying brother said. “I have attended some assemblies. Dined with neighbors and met some interesting people.”
“Any of the female variety?”
Luke looked evasive. “One or two.”
“Ah.” Damian nodded.
“Best not keep the horses standing.” Luke stepped back and smiled at him. “Stay safe, brother. Don’t be a hero.”
As the carriage continued down the drive, Damian turned to glance back. He felt heartened by Luke’s news. It appeared, although still cautiously guarding his heart, that his brother was finally coming to terms with his tragic past. What would the future hold for him? Or either of them, for that matter. Damian would sail on the tide, and this was the most dangerous mission he had ever undertaken.
Chapter Seventeen
By the timethe carriage had drawn up outside Diana’s home, she was in a fever of expectation. A disturbing monologue kept running through her head. Was her father angry? Had he become aware of her deceit? She doubted he would hear of it from her loyal maid, Tims, who kept her secrets. And Diana had sworn the coachman, groom, and footman to secrecy when they had left Tims at her parents’ home and dropped off Diana alone before her meeting with Damian. The coachman and footman knew her well, the two of them having been in her father’s employ for some years, and she was sure at least two of them would keep her secret, but she was not sure of their new groom, Peter.
Diana should have been ashamed to have gone behind her father’s back, but she wasn’t. She had found Anne, and her dear friend was happy. And that meant a great deal to her, even though she must never speak of it.
Those precious hours alone with Ballantine she would hold forever in her heart.
Anticipating the worrying scene with her father, Diana sighed deeply as she walked along the corridor to his studio and knocked on the door.
“Come.”
Diana entered, finding him alone, sketching at his easel. “You sent for me, Papa?”
He swiveled on his stool and cast a baleful eye over her, then beckoned her closer.
She hurried across the rug and kissed his cheek, breathing in his familiar lemony shaving soap blending into the room with the usual smells of turpentine and oil paint. He looked tired, the grooves beside his mouth deeper than she remembered. Struggling with a guilty conscience and sympathy, she could only hope his tiredness was due to his working late by candlelight and not worry about her.
“You left your maid with her family in Combe Down and traveled on without her? Why?”
“She wished to visit her mother,” Diana said. “She joined me at Penny’s soon afterward.”
“It appears I must watch everything you do more closely. You’re too old for a governess. Must I employ a companion for you? Some widow of good sense to accompany you everywhere?”