Beguiled by Her Betrayer

‘I was hoping to find you with your back turned,’ Cleo snapped back.

‘Then I shall take care to keep my back to the bulkhead all the way to England,’ Quin said as he stood up. ‘The knife is on the table,’ he added as he reached the door.

‘England?’

‘If you still want to go.’ As though he would give her a choice, he thought with a stab of conscience. There was no way he could be open with her now, she would refuse to go with him if she suspected that her destiny had been neatly arranged, he was certain of it. It is for her own good. ‘Oh, and Sir James would be pleased if you and Sir Philip would join him for dinner this evening.’

* * *

The door closed gently behind Quin. The air stirred in the draught, dust moved in the light from the windows. It was hot and quiet and suddenly, quite empty.

He will take me to England. He begins to make love to me and then he loses interest. He is kind—and then he is...not. I want him, but he, it seems, does not want me, even after he had undressed me, even after I had thrown myself at him.

But what do I know of men? I thought Thierry loved me. I believed the French general wanted to help us. I trusted Laurent and all the time he was using us. I am not able to read men at all. All I know is that they will use me for what they want and tell me what they think I want to hear in order to do so.

Cleo got out of bed and went to the closet to dip her sore hand into the water jug. Why had she hit out at Quin? She couldn’t remember now. Thierry would have struck back, but not Quin, the English gentleman. The diplomat. The liar she could not trust.

But surely he would not tell me he would take me to England and not mean it? He would have nothing to gain from that. Cleo found the arnica in her medicine box and soaked a handkerchief in it before she bandaged it on to her hand.

England. Independence. And no money to live on. Cleo took her notebook from the bag, sat down at the table and made herself think about something other than a man with blue eyes, a wicked mouth, broad shoulders and an unreadable mind. There must be something I can do that someone in England might want to employ me for.

* * *

Ensign Lloyd came to fetch her for dinner. ‘The private stationed at your door will escort you anywhere you would like to walk tomorrow,’ he said and waved a hand vaguely at the encampment. ‘There isn’t much to see, I’m afraid.’

‘So I am no longer a prisoner?’

‘It was protective custody, ma’am,’ he said, colouring up.

He showed her into another part of the house where she had met Sir James that morning, a long room, whitewashed and carpeted with layers of colourful rugs. The table was covered in a pristine cloth and two men in white turbans, trousers and tunics with coloured sashes were laying it with six places.

Cleo took a deep breath, managed not to look around for Quin, and walked in.

‘Madame Valsac.’ Sir James came forward and shook hands. When she looked up she saw Quin behind him with two other men, one in uniform. They bowed. Her father, who had been holding forth to the civilian stranger about hieroglyphs, turned, frowned and nodded at her.

The men were all immaculately turned out. The officer was in what was obviously dress uniform. The other men wore swallow-tailed coats, knee breeches and stockings and someone had even found a suit to fit her father.

Cleo felt like a drab duck amidst a party of elegant drakes. Her skirts were limp, her gown was presumably years out of fashion, and her bare feet were pushed into backless slippers. Maggie had done her best with her hair, but without any idea between the two of them what a fashionable coiffure would look like, the best she could hope was that she looked clean and tidy.

When confronting footpads, stare them down, Mama had told her one day after an unpleasant encounter in an alleyway in Constantinople. Never show fear. She drew herself up to her full height, arched her brows, looked down her nose and produced a coolly confident smile. It was not her purse or her life that was at hazard here, only her dignity, she reminded herself. She was damned if she would let Lord Quintus Deverall see how much he affected her.

No one recoiled in distaste at the sight of her, or burst out laughing. But of course, they were diplomats.

‘So glad you could join us,’ Sir James said, for all the world as though she had somehow made space in a crowded social whirl to fit in his dinner party. ‘Lord Quintus you know.’ Quin’s expression was politely bland. ‘Major Grainger is our military liaison and Dr Kent has been sent out by the Royal Society to assist with the recovery of Egyptian artefacts from the French once we have obtained their surrender. Meanwhile I am sure he and your father will find much to discuss. Gentlemen, Madame Valsac.’