My Lady Angel. Joanna Maitland

explained his remarkable command of English, Angel concluded. His use of the language was almost faultless. Only the occasional tiny slip betrayed his origins.

      And the longer he talked, the less obvious it seemed to become.

      Aunt Charlotte’s tightly clasped fingers were almost as white as her face, but her back was ramrod-straight and her features were set.

      ‘Aunt, you will allow me to present our visitor,’ Angel said simply, drawing him into the room. ‘He is lately arrived from France, in spite of the winter storms. He says his name is Julien Rosevale, son of your brother, Julian.’ It was an odd way of performing an introduction, to be sure, but she was not about to accept this man’s word as to his identity. Aunt Charlotte would be in a much better position to judge the truth of his claim. ‘Sir,’ Angel continued smoothly, ‘this is my late father’s sister, Lady Charlotte Clare.’

      Aunt Charlotte had risen from her place, acknowledging the visitor’s extravagant bow with only a slight nod. She did not extend her hand. Instead, she stared intently at him. ‘You do not have the look of the Rosevales, monsieur,’ she said at last.

      ‘No, my lady. I take after my mother’s family. The d’Eury family all have…had dark hair.’

      Aunt Charlotte nodded thoughtfully and motioned the visitor to approach. ‘You are much of a height with Julian, certainly. As to the rest…’ She turned to Angel who had remained near the door, watching. ‘My dear, would you be so good as to go to my chamber for me? In the drawer beside my bed you will find a carved ivory box.’ She began to fumble inside the high neckline of her gown.

      Angel hesitated. There were servants enough to run such errands, surely?

      ‘Forgive me, my child, but I cannot entrust my box to a servant.’ She finally succeeded in extracting a fine gold chain from under her gown and detached two keys from it. ‘You will need the key,’ she said, handing the larger one to Angel.

      ‘Very well, Aunt.’ Angel felt oddly reluctant to leave the old lady with the strange new arrival. There could be no danger, of course, with so many servants about, and yet…

      ‘Thank you, Angelina,’ said Lady Charlotte, with decided emphasis, nodding in the direction of the door. It seemed she had no qualms about being alone with the Frenchman.

      Angel turned to leave. Her new-found cousin was before her, however, opening the door with a flourish. Where on earth had he learned such manners? They did not sit at all well with a child of the Revolution.

      She ran lightly up the stairs to her aunt’s bedchamber, wondering what could possibly be in this mysterious carved box. She was sure she had never set eyes on any such thing. It must have been kept well hidden.

      The table alongside Aunt Charlotte’s bed was nothing out of the ordinary. The brass key slid into the lock in the single drawer and turned easily. This drawer must have been opened many and many a time.

      The drawer contained a bundle of letters tied with a black ribbon, a pressed posy encased in a protective sleeve of finest muslin, and a beautiful carved box.

      The box was locked.

      Lifting it out, Angel was struck by the warmth of the ivory in her hand. The box was very old. It was worn, particularly around the small brass lock, where it was only just possible to make out the tiny sprays of carved flowers. What could it contain? It seemed to weigh nothing at all.

      She carefully closed and locked the drawer, casting a last glance at its contents. Such a pile of letters. And the posy looked fragile enough to shatter at a breath. Who had given it to Aunt Charlotte? Her late husband? Or was there perhaps a secret lover in the old lady’s past? It was most intriguing.

      She hurried back down to the drawing room, carrying the precious box. Willett was standing guard outside, just as before. He had been listening, of course, but he would never admit to it, not to her. If she wanted to know what had been discussed in her absence, she would have to ask her aunt.

      The Frenchman jumped to his feet the moment the door opened. He had been sitting close by Lady Charlotte on the sofa. Angel fancied he had even been holding the old lady’s hand. He was certainly quick to seize an opportunity. Angel had not been gone from the room above ten minutes.

      ‘Thank you, my love,’ said Lady Charlotte, reaching up to take the box. ‘This is just what we need.’ She busied herself with the tiny key, talking all the while. ‘I am sure that Pierre is just what he says, but I shall produce the proof in a trice.’

      ‘Pierre…?’ Angel looked enquiringly towards the Frenchman.

      ‘My family have always called me Pierre,’ he said quickly. ‘Since my father was Julian, and my sister is Julie, it seemed easier for everyone.’ He smiled at her, as if he knew she would understand. And she found that she did.

      ‘Here we are!’ said Lady Charlotte.

      The box was open. Its deeply cushioned interior contained two miniatures—of a man and a woman, both dressed in the elaborate style of the French court of decades before.

      Lady Charlotte offered the man’s portrait to Angel. ‘This is Julian Rosevale, my dear. Your uncle…and Pierre’s father.’

      So that explained the locked drawer! Aunt Charlotte must have found a way of keeping in touch with Julian, in spite of the family feud.

      The portrait showed a Rosevale, no doubt of it, in spite of the powdered wig. He looked like a younger version of Angel’s dead father. She felt a sudden sadness at the thought of her uncle’s terrible end, and the fact that she had been told almost nothing about him until now. That cursed Rosevale temper!

      ‘And this—’ Lady Charlotte handed over the second portrait ‘—this is Amalie d’Eury, Julian’s wife. And Pierre’s mother. The likeness is very strong, I think.’

      Angel studied the beautiful miniature. It was impossible to tell the colour of the lady’s hair, since it was heavily powdered, but her brows were dark and her eyes were blue. She had the same fine features as Pierre, and the same determined chin. If the portrait was a true likeness, there could be no doubt that Pierre and Amalie d’Eury were related in some way.

      And if Pierre was Julian’s legitimate son, he was the rightful Marquis of Penrose, and the Earl of Penrose besides.

      Poor Frederick, indeed!

      Lady Charlotte was plying Pierre with questions. ‘Tell me of your sister. Julie, you said? Heavens, I never learned that Julian had even one child, far less two. How old is she now?’

      Pierre was gazing fondly at the miniature. For a second, he stared into the distance. Then he blinked, and said, ‘Julie is twenty-four, madame, less than a year younger than I. She is—’ he turned to look searchingly at Angel ‘—she has a great look of your niece. Julie’s hair is perhaps not quite so silvery fair… But apart from that, they might almost be twins.’

      ‘She would not come with you? We would have been delighted to welcome her into the family, would we not, Angel?’

      Pierre looked startled. ‘Angel? Surely—?’

      ‘My name, sir, is Angelina. It became something of a family joke to call me “Angel” when I was small, since I was definitely nothing of the kind. And later, it amused my father to use it still. You were speaking of your sister, however. Pray continue.’ She refused to let herself be beguiled. As head of the family, it was her duty to judge his claim with a cool head. She must not let him change the subject. She needed a great deal more evidence before she would accept his story. He seemed to have charmed Aunt Charlotte in a trice—somehow—but he would soon learn that Angel was made of sterner stuff.

      ‘The truth is, madame, that we have very little money. There was only enough for a single passage, and it was obviously out of the question for Julie to travel alone. I have promised to send for her, as soon as I am able.’

      Angel thought he had begun to look a trifle uncomfortable.