Regency Surrender: Notorious Secrets: The Soldier's Dark Secret / The Soldier's Rebel Lover. Marguerite Kaye

      ‘Then there’s this school you attended in Paris. It sounds as if it was a good one.’

      Celeste frowned. ‘The girls were from good families. Titled, mostly, or very wealthy. Or both. That was one of the problems I had to deal with, being neither.’

      ‘You mean you were bullied?’ Jack’s hand tightened on his pencil. ‘I don’t know why, but I assumed that sort of thing was confined to boys.’

      ‘If you mean fighting, then it most likely is. Girls are more subtle,’ Celeste said grimly. ‘It doesn’t matter, I learned to hold my own. Besides, I cannot believe it was really so grand a school,’ she rushed on, having no desire to recall how effective the bullying had been. ‘We were not permitted a fire except in the dead of winter and then never in the dormitory. And the bed sheets were almost threadbare. It was hardly luxurious.’

      ‘Which confirms my point,’ Jack said with a tight smile. ‘My so-called exclusive prep school had dormitories that would have delighted a Spartan. Such privations don’t come cheap. Then there is her knowledge of dinner-party etiquette. And the comment about—what was it—a woman’s reputation. Your mother could draw and paint, but she couldn’t cook. Could she sew?’

      ‘She taught me to embroider.’

      ‘Precisely.’

      Jack looked pleased. Celeste was unconvinced. ‘I never thought much about my mother’s origins. Why should I, when Maman was so determined that she had none? She would have preferred me to believe she had been baked like dough in an oven.’ Blind baked, Celeste added to herself, a brittle pastry with a hard crust.

      She pushed back her chair and went over to her favourite spot at the window. Was she being unfair? Maman had been cold, distant, aloof. Certainly stern, and yet at other times she had looked...

      Just as Jack had done that first morning at the lake.

      Despair? Anguish? Whatever label one put on it, it was obvious now that her mother had indeed suffered. And she, Celeste, had been oblivious to it. All the signs had been right in front of her nose, and she had not noticed them. She shook her head in disgust at herself. ‘I have been an idiot! For an artist, quite the blind woman. Thinking I was the poor little schoolgirl, when really it was a case of all the other little schoolgirls being so very rich.’

      Her fingers went to the locket around her neck. ‘That’s another thing,’ Jack said almost apologetically. ‘I doubt very much that your locket is a trinket. In fact I think you’ll find it’s made of diamonds and sapphire, not glass. There’s a maker’s mark. I’ll show you.’

      Celeste took the locket off obediently. There it was. She looked at the portraits inside, painted in such a way that her mother gazed across at her. Lovingly? Her mother, who had claimed in her last letter, that she had always loved her. Was this locket proof as Jack said? Celeste found this almost impossible to believe.

      Almost? She touched the miniature of her mother with the tip of her finger, an echo of Jack’s gesture with his own mother’s picture in the portrait gallery, she realised. But his had been one of unmistakable affection and love. Was hers?

      She looked up, smiling faintly at Jack. ‘You have given me a great deal to think about,’ she said, snapping the locket shut.

      A rap on the door heralded the arrival of her patrons. Celeste quickly made the final touches to her arrangement of sketches, ensuring the ones she favoured were most prominent, but when the door opened, it was to reveal Lady Eleanor alone.

      * * *

      ‘My husband sends his apologies, Mademoiselle, he will be unable to join us this morning, but he desired me to make some preliminary selections from your work. I trust this is satisfactory?’

      Without waiting for an answer, her ladyship made straight for the table where the sketches were laid out and began sifting through them. Jack cast Celeste an eloquent glance, and began unobtrusively to push the preferred drawings towards his brother’s wife.

      ‘Of course, these are just very rudimentary sketches to give you an idea of what the finished work would look like,’ Celeste said, ‘but I hope they are sufficient to allow you to make some decisions on the sequence in which you would like me to paint the formal gardens.’

      Lady Eleanor examined the sketches carefully. It had always amused Celeste to witness her patrons’ reactions at this stage. Seeing their estates spread out before them on paper almost always made them view their properties afresh, made them somehow grander, more magnificent, which in turn added to their own sense of consequence.

      Lady Eleanor was no different. ‘I must say, I had not appreciated the epic sweep of the estate. You have managed to cover a great deal of ground in a very short time.’

      ‘Thank you. Monsieur Trestain has been most helpful. He has an excellent eye for the most pleasing views.’

      ‘Well, it is comforting to know that he has managed to occupy himself gainfully,’ Lady Eleanor said pointedly. ‘I expect you, Mademoiselle, being a—a woman of the world are rather more equipped to deal with Jack’s outbursts than a child. Robert,’ she continued, addressing Jack directly, ‘was sobbing his little heart out the other day after his encounter with you.’

      Jack blanched. Celeste felt her fists curl. ‘If you do not mind me saying,’ she said, ‘when Jack refused Robert’s request in a perfectly reasonable manner, it was the child who threw the tantrum, not Jack.’

      ‘Celeste.’ Jack held up his hand to quiet her. ‘I am very sorry if I upset Robert, Eleanor.’

      ‘My son, like all small boys, is obsessed with all things military,’ her ladyship replied, her stiff manner giving way to a plaintive one. ‘He would hang on your every word for a first-hand account of Waterloo. Your brother tells me I must try to stop him bothering you, but Robert is such a naturally inquisitive little chap.’

      ‘He reminds me very much of Charlie at that age,’ Jack said. ‘Mad keen on fishing.’

      ‘And equally eager to hear his uncle’s account of what is our nation’s greatest victory. No disrespect intended, Mademoiselle. Really, Jack, is that too much to ask? Frankly, I’m at a loss to fathom you these days. I remember a time when you were more than happy to sit up until dawn, regaling Charles with your exploits. I know you are still recovering from your wounds, and that we must all make allowances for your—your— For the anguish you are suffering at having witnessed the deaths of so many of your comrades, but...’

      ‘Is that what Charlie thinks it is?’ Jack shook his head when Lady Eleanor made to answer. ‘No matter. I am sorry to have upset him, but I cannot— The days of my boasting of my army exploits are over, Eleanor, but I am more than happy to take Robert fishing instead.’

      ‘But I do not see...’ Making an obvious effort, Lady Eleanor bit back her remonstration. ‘That is kind of you, Jack.’

      ‘It is nothing. I do care for the boy, you know, regardless of how it may appear.’ Jack picked up some of Celeste’s sketches. ‘In the meantime, let us concentrate on your selections. Look at this study of the Topiary Garden. Do you not think that it is a great shame to have it cut down? When you see it afresh like this, through Mademoiselle’s clever eye, it really is quite lovely and wants only a little tidying up to bring it back to its former glory.’

      ‘Rather more than a little tidying up,’ Lady Eleanor replied, ‘and it is so very gloomy.’

      Jack picked up another view of the Topiary Garden. ‘Look at this, though. Mademoiselle Marmion was telling me that though she’s painted some of the grandest estates in France, the Trestain Manor Topiary Garden is one of the finest examples she has ever seen.’

      Lady Eleanor looked doubtfully at the sketch. ‘Really? I had no idea. Is this true, Mademoiselle?’

      ‘Why, yes,’ Celeste replied, intensely relieved that Jack had managed to