The Wolf's Promise by CLAIRE THORNTON Page A

circumstances, I am sure, hoping and praying I am a dastardly smuggler—and on the other hand I have Sir William berating me for not taking a more active role in the suppression of the malevolent trade. How could I ever hope to satisfy both your expectations?’
    â€˜I don’t wish you to be a smuggler,’ Angelica denied grimly. ‘I simply hoped you might have means of communicating with France… What do you mean—“monumentally”…?’
    â€˜A slip of the tongue,’ Benoît assured her instantly, but she distrusted the gleam in his eye. ‘I meant no disparagement of your character or figure. How old are you, by the way?’
    â€˜Really, sir!’ she exclaimed, affronted. ‘I don’t see what business—’
    â€˜Not much more than five-and-twenty,’ he mused, idly playing with a silver teaspoon. ‘Not on the shelf yet.’
    â€˜I’m twenty-three,’ she snapped.
    He grinned and she flushed crossly, suddenly realising how easily she had allowed him to bait her, and with the most obvious ruse in the world. She had intended to learn more about him, but instead it was he who had prodded her into an unwary disclosure.
    Before she could think of anything to say to retrieve her position, he stood up.
    â€˜I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast in peace,’ he said magnanimously. ‘I wouldn’t want any guest at Holly House to suffer from a disturbed digestion. Come into the library later. I’ll give you the letter for your father.’
    â€˜The library?’ said Angelica, raising her eyebrows in delicately disbelieving enquiry, as if wondering what a mere smuggler might know of books or learning.
    â€˜The room where you overheard me talking to Sir William,’ Benoît explained helpfully. ‘Enjoy your breakfast, Lady Angelica.’
    Angelica was too hungry to allow her confused emotions to interfere with her breakfast. She had a healthy appetite which even Benoît’s provocative manner couldn’t disturb, but she was too distracted to pay much attention to what she was eating.
    She kept remembering his conversation with Sir William, and the suggestion that perhaps his sympathies lay with the French.
    He was in many ways an infuriating man, and one with whom she would never normally have exchanged a single word.
    He had the appearance of a gentlemen but, as he had reminded her himself, he was only the son of a provincial doctor. His handsome figure and quick wit might be enough to open the doors of her fashionable world but, unless he also had the wealth to support him, he was unlikely to make a permanent niche for himself there. Perhaps an ambitious, but nameless, man might well feel post-Revolutionary France did have more to offer him.
    On the other hand, although she felt as if she’d been at an almost permanent disadvantage ever since she’d met him, he had treated her with a tolerable measure of courtesy—ifyou could discount that half-amused, half-mocking gleam in his brown eyes whenever he looked at her. It seemed incredible that he might actually be her enemy.
    â€˜Good morning, my lady.’ Mrs Faulkener came quietly into the dining room, interrupting Angelica’s speculations.
    â€˜Good morning.’
    Angelica hadn’t seen the Frenchwoman since her first meeting with Benoît. She wondered how much he’d told his mother about her reason for coming to Sussex—and what she ought to say to the woman. No mother could be happy at the possibility of her son undertaking such a difficult and potentially dangerous task; Angelica couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable in Mrs Faulkener’s presence.
    â€˜I hope you feel more rested this morning,’ said Mrs Faulkener pleasantly, nothing in her manner revealing any underlying hostility towards her guest. ‘Benoît tells me you will be going home today. Cook is preparing a basket of food for you.