She looked down at them silently.
Jack cleared his throat.
‘He asked me to tell you…to be happy.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
She placed the ring on her right hand. Jack remembered it had been a tight fit for Lord Allyngham: it had been a struggle to remove it, but now the signet ring looked big and cumbersome on the lady’s dainty finger. He watched her open the locket and stare for a long time at the tiny portraits. At last she said, ‘I had this painted for Tony when we first married. He would not let me accompany him when he went off to war, so I thought he might like it…’ Her voice tailed off and she hunted for her handkerchief.
Jack sat down.
‘He was a very courageous soldier,’ he said quietly. ‘We fought together in the Peninsula: he saved my life at Talavera.’
She looked up and he saw that her eyes were shining with unshed tears.
‘You knew him well, Major Clifton?’
He shrugged.
‘As well as anyone, I think. We drank together, fought together—he spoke very fondly of you, madam, and of Allyngham. I think he missed his home.’
‘His letters to me were very brief; he mentioned few of his fellow officers by name.’
‘He kept very much to himself,’ replied Jack.
She nodded, twisting her hands together in her lap.
‘He was a very private man.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘Forgive me, Major Clifton. I know it is more than a year since Waterloo, but still…’ She drew a steadying breath. ‘How…how did he die?’
Jack hesitated. There was no easy way to explain.
‘Artillery fire,’ he said shortly. ‘A cannon ball hit him in the chest. It was very quick.’
Her blue eyes rebuked him.
‘How could that be? You said he had time to ask you to bring these things to me.’
He held her gaze steadily.
‘He was past any pain by then.’ He saw her eyes widen. The colour fled from her cheeks and she swayed slightly in her chair. He said quickly, ‘I beg your pardon, madam, I should not have told you—’
She put up her hand.
‘No, I wanted to know the truth.’ She closed the locket and placed it on the table beside her, then rose and held out her hand, dismissing him. ‘Thank you, Major. I am very grateful to you.’
Jack bowed over her fingers. He hesitated and found she was watching him, a question in her eyes.
‘Forgive me, ma’am, but…’ How the devil was he to phrase this?
‘What is it you wish to say to me, Major Clifton?’
‘I beg your pardon, my lady. Lord Allyngham having given me this commission, I feel an obligation to him. To his memory.’
‘What sort of obligation, Major?’
He shot a look at her from under his brows.
‘You know what people are saying, about you and Mortimer?’
She recoiled a little.
‘I neither know nor care,’ she retorted.
‘I would not have you dishonour your husband’s name, madam.’
Her eyes darkened angrily.
‘How dare you suggest I would do that!’
He frowned, annoyed by her disingenuous answer. Did she think him a fool?
‘But you will not deny that Mortimer is your lover—it is the talk of London!’
She glared at him, angry colour flooding her cheeks.
‘Oh, and gossip must always be true, I suppose!’
Her eyes darted fire and she moved forwards as if to engage with him. Jack could not look away: his gaze was locked with hers and he felt as if he was drowning in the blue depths of her eyes. She was so close that her perfume filled his head, suspending reason. A sudden, fierce desire coursed through him. He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her close and as her lips parted to object he captured them with his own. He felt her tremble in his arms, then she was still, her mouth yielding and compliant beneath the onslaught of his kiss. For a heady, dizzying instant he felt the connection. The shock of it sent him reeling with much the same effect as being too close to the big guns on the battlefield, but it lasted only for a moment. The next she was fighting against him and as sanity returned he let her go. She pushed away from him and brought her hand up to deal him a ringing slap across his cheek.
He flinched.
‘Madam, I beg your pardon.’
She stepped aside, clinging to the back of a chair as she stared at him, outraged.
‘Get out,’ she ordered him, her voice shaking with fury. ‘Get out now before I have you thrown out!’
‘Let me explain—’ Jack had an insane desire to laugh as he uttered the words. How could he explain the madness that had come over him, the all-encompassing, uncontrollable desire. Dear heaven, how could he have been so crass?
Eloise was frantically tugging at the bell-pull, her face as white as the lace around her shoulders.
‘Have no fear, my lady, I am leaving.’ With a stiff little bow he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, but as he closed the door behind him he had the impression of the lady collapsing on to the sofa and heard her first anguished sob.
Eloise cried unrestrainedly for several minutes, but such violence could not be sustained. Yet even when her tears had abated the feeling of outrage remained. She left the sofa and began to stride to and fro about the room.
How dare he abuse her in such a way! He had insinuated himself into her house and she had treated him with courtesy. How had he repaid her? First he had accused her of having a lover, then he had molested her as if she had been a common strumpet! She stopped her pacing and clenched her fists, giving a little scream of anger and frustration.
‘Such behaviour may be acceptable in Paris, Major Clifton, but it is not how a gentleman behaves in London!’
She resumed her pacing, jerking her handkerchief between her fingers. Rage welled up again, like steam in a pot, and with an unladylike oath she scooped up a little Sèvres dish from the table and hurled it into the fireplace, where it shattered with a most satisfying smash. The noise brought her butler hurrying into the room.
‘Madam, I beg your pardon, but I heard…’
The anxiety in his usually calm voice brought Eloise to her senses. She turned away and drew a deep breath before replying.
‘Yes, Noyes, I have broken a dish. You had best send the maid to clear it up: but tell her to be careful, the edges are sharp, and I would not like anyone to cut themselves because of my carelessness.’
When the butler had withdrawn Eloise returned to her chair. Her rage had subsided, but the outpouring of emotion had left her feeling drained and depressed. She could not deny that Major Clifton had some excuse for thinking that Alex was her lover. They had never made any attempt to deny the rumours and Eloise had been content with the situation. Until now.
She was shocked to realise how much Major Clifton’s disapproval had wounded her, and he had had the audacity to compound her distress by attacking her in that disgusting way. She bit her lip. No, she had to be honest: it was not his actions that