The Wolf's Promise by CLAIRE THORNTON Page B

It’s a long, weary drive back to London.’
    â€˜Thank you. You’ve been very kind!’ Angelica exclaimed, touched by the Frenchwoman’s thoughtfulness. ‘I’m so sorry to have imposed myself upon you like this. I truly never intended…’
    â€˜All your thoughts were fixed on your goal,’ said Mrs Faulkener calmly. ‘That’s only natural. I hope you have found the outcome of your visit satisfactory.’
    Angelica stared at the Frenchwoman, wondering if there was some hidden meaning behind the words, but Mrs Faulkener seemed quite sincere.
    â€˜Has Mr Faulkener not explained why I came?’ she asked curiously.
    Mrs Faulkener smiled, a hint of quiet pride and amusement in her eyes.
    â€˜My son has never been one to betray someone else’s secrets,’ she said sedately. ‘Even to me. If you came here seeking help, my lady, I am sure he will be able to provide it. Excuse me, I must see how Cook is getting on.’
    Angelica gazed after her, deriving a degree of reassurance from her words. Mrs Faulkener clearly considered her son to be a man of honour, but she had also admitted that Benoît didn’t tell her all his secrets—was he likely to tell her if he really was a French spy?
    Angelica patted her lips with her napkin and stood up decisively. She wouldn’t obtain any answers dawdling over her breakfast.
    The door to the library was properly closed this time, but she turned the handle without hesitation. It was a larger room than she had anticipated, and she paused on the threshold, taken aback by its size and bright airiness. There were windows on two sides, and broad, clear beams of morning sunlight streamed in to illuminate the books and furnishings. A cheerful fire burned in the grate—but what caught her eye and completely arrested her attention was a picture over the chimney breast.
    â€˜That’s not real!’ she exclaimed, forgetful of everything else in her surprise.
    Benoît had been sitting at a large desk, but he stood up at her entrance.
    â€˜I hate to contradict you,’ he said, smiling, ‘but I’m afraid it is.’
    â€˜But those colours…’ Angelica stared at the picture. She guessed it portrayed a scene from somewhere in the Caribbean; she had seen many engravings of similar scenes. What had transfixed her were the colours. She couldn’t imagine that the sky or the sea could ever be such vivid, vibrant hues.
    â€˜I was there when the artist painted it,’ said Benoît, watching her fascinated, disbelieving expression. ‘I can assure you that it’s a faithful record of what he saw.’
    Angelica went to stand beneath the picture, half raising her hand towards it. She still found it hard to credit that such lucid, brilliant colours could be real.
    â€˜Have you never left England, my lady?’ Benoît asked quietly, coming to stand beside her.
    She shook her head mutely, unable to take her eyes off the painting. After the dark gloom of an English winter, and the bleak, anxious journey she had made the previous day, the vibrant colours seemed to sing within her, satisfying a hunger she hadn’t even known she had had.
    â€˜The quality of the light is quite different,’ said Benoît, ‘even in the Mediterranean. And the Caribbean is a whole new world. How long was Harry at sea before he was captured?’
    â€˜A year,’ said Angelica distantly. ‘He was so eager to go. He was in a frigate on the way back from the West Indies when…’
    â€˜Then when you see him again, you must ask him to verify the truth of my picture,’ said Benoît lightly.
    Angelica turned slowly, still dazzled by what she had just seen and lifted her eyes to his face. With the splendour of the Caribbean sun behind her, she suddenly realised his tanned skin could owe nothing to a dark English winter. She had been so sure he was a smuggler that she had missed