‘I’m sure you found it fascinating,’ Jack Trestain said, returning her look unblinking, ‘though perhaps you will prefer to admire the view in the afternoon sunshine, in future.’
She could not mistake the warning tone in his voice. With some difficulty, Celeste swallowed the spark of temper which it provoked. She had been completely at fault, but this man was taking deliberate pleasure in her discomfort. She nodded curtly and took a sip of coffee to prevent herself from being tempted into a retort.
‘Well,’ Sir Charles said, casting a sideways glance at his brother, obviously perplexed by the animosity reverberating from him. ‘Well, now. Perhaps Jack’s right, the afternoon sunshine would provide the best light for capturing the views. What is your opinion, my love?’
The rather desperate look Sir Charles cast his wife intrigued Celeste. The way in which Lady Eleanor commandeered the conversation, launching into a long and detailed description of the various changes which her landscaper planned, and the possible studies Celeste could make, spoke of considerable practice in changing the subject. Jack Trestain, leaning back in his chair, ignoring the plate of ham and eggs set before him, watched with a sardonic smile on his face, obviously perfectly aware of the diversionary tactics being deployed, equally aware that he was being excluded from the conversation lest he cause further offence.
Lady Eleanor, running out of steam on one subject, switched, with barely a moment to take breath, to another. ‘You are admiring our dining room, I see,’ she said to Celeste, who had actually been staring down at her plate. ‘It is quite a contrast to the rest of the house, you were no doubt thinking. Very true, but we did feel, Sir Charles and I, that it was important to preserve at least one of the original rooms when we carried out our refurbishment. The wall covering is Spanish Cordova leather, you know. I believe it dates from the late sixteenth century. When Sir Charles and I decided—’
‘You don’t look like an artist.’
Lady Eleanor bristled. ‘Jack, really, I was in the middle of...’
‘...delivering a history lesson,’ he finished for her. ‘You might at least wait until we’ve finished eating before you do so.’
Her ladyship looked pointedly at her brother-in-law’s full plate. ‘So you were, for once, planning on actually eating your breakfast, were you?’
‘Eleanor, my love, there is no need to— If Jack is not hungry he need not...’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charlie, there’s no need to be perpetually walking on eggshells around me.’
A long, uncomfortable silence greeted this remark, broken eventually by Jack Trestain himself. ‘I beg your pardon, Eleanor,’ he said stiffly, ‘I got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.’
‘Happens to us all on occasion. No need for apologies, Brother—that is, I am sure that Eleanor...’
‘Apology accepted, Jack,’ Lady Eleanor said quickly, pressing her husband’s hand.
Celeste took another sip of coffee. Jack Trestain put a small piece of ham onto his fork, though he made no attempt to eat it.
‘I confess, Mademoiselle Marmion was not what I was expecting either,’ Sir Charles said with another of his placatory smiles. ‘Your reputation, you know, I expected someone older, more experienced.’
‘I am five-and-twenty, Sir Charles.’
‘Oh, please, I did not mean— One must never ask a lady her age.’
‘I am not embarrassed by my age, Monsieur. My first commission I received seven years ago from the Comte de St Verain. I am proud to say that I have been able to support myself with my painting ever since.’
‘And are your commissions all similar in nature to our own?’ Lady Eleanor enquired.
Celeste nodded. ‘Very similar. In France, many of the great houses were seized during the Revolution and the grounds badly neglected. The families who have managed to reclaim them employ me to paint the gardens once they are restored to their former glory.’
‘While you and I, my dear, are rather contrarily commissioning Mademoiselle Marmion to paint our estate before it is enhanced a deal beyond its current state.’ Sir Charles beamed, seemingly pleased by the thought of being a little unconventional.
‘And you, Monsieur Trestain,’ Celeste enquired, turning to his brother, ‘will you be remaining here to witness this transformation?’
‘I have no idea, Mademoiselle. Nor any notion why it should concern you.’
‘Until recently, our Jack was in the military, a career soldier at that,’ Sir Charles intervened hastily.
Celeste’s jaw dropped unbecomingly. ‘You are a soldier!’
‘A lieutenant-colonel, no less,’ Sir Charles said, with a hint of pride, sliding an anxious look at his silent brother.
‘Indeed,’ Lady Eleanor chimed in with a prim smile, ‘Jack was one of the Duke of Wellington’s most valued officers. He was mentioned several times in despatches.’
‘And Jack has mentioned more than several times that he is no longer a soldier,’ Jack Trestain said with a steely look in his eyes. ‘In any event, I expect Mademoiselle Marmion is more likely to admire Napoleon than Wellington, Eleanor.’
The scars. She should have realised they were battle scars. And that also explained his animosity towards her. How many years had Britain and France been at war? Celeste pushed her chair back, preparatory to leaving the table. ‘I am sorry. It did not occur to me that— I was so delighted to be here in England, so happy that hostilities between our countries had ended, that I did not consider the fact that I am—was until recently—no doubt still am in your eyes, Monsieur, the enemy.’
‘Mademoiselle, please do not distress yourself,’ Sir Charles said rather desperately. ‘My brother did not mean— You have it quite wrong, does she not, Jack?’
‘Entirely wrong. I have no objection to your being French,’ Jack Trestain said in a tone that left it clear that he still objected to her having spied on him. ‘I repeat, I am no longer a soldier, Mademoiselle.’
‘But you were until recently?’ Appalled, thinking back to the horrific reports she had read in the newspapers, Celeste forgot all about Jack Trestain’s rudeness. ‘You were at Waterloo? Mon Dieu, of course you were. Your arm,’ she exclaimed, wondering that she had been so foolish not to have guessed.
‘How did you know about Jack’s arm?’
Sir Charles was frowning at her. Celeste gaped. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say in explanation.
‘Mademoiselle obviously noticed that I’m favouring my left arm at the moment,’ Jack Trestain said, stepping in unexpectedly to cover her gaffe. ‘Being an artist, I am sure she is rather more observant than most.’
She was surprised by his fleeting smile. The man’s mood seemed to change with the wind. When he smiled, he looked so very different. He did not look as if he smiled often. He was a battle-hardened soldier. Those terrible scars. Realising all three pairs of eyes were on her, Celeste rallied. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, nodding furiously, ‘Monsieur Trestain has hit the nail on the head.’
He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement and flashed her another smile, one that lit his dark-brown eyes this time, and she felt absurdly gratified.
‘Well now,’ Sir Charles said, after receiving an encouraging nod from his wife, ‘the day’s getting on. I have a meeting with my lawyer in town at noon, Mademoiselle Marmion, but I thought I could give you a quick run through of our plans for the new gardens, just to give you an idea of where the most extensive changes will be, for it is these areas we wish to have immortalised by you on canvas, so to speak. What do you say?’
‘If