‘Phoebe!’
She leapt to her feet, spilling her wine. ‘Pascal!’
‘Who the hell is this?’
Mr Harrington was on his feet, making a bow. ‘Owen Harrington. I met Miss Brannagh quite by accident, but it was a happy coincidence, for I was able to bring her news of her sister, the Countess of Fearnoch, with whom I am acquainted. How do you do, Monsieur Solignac.’
Pascal gave a short bow. He was frowning suspiciously at Mr Harrington. ‘Mr Harrington didn’t like the idea of my sitting alone so late at night,’ Phoebe said. ‘He was kindly keeping me company until you arrived.’
‘I am grateful to him, but I am here now.’
Mortified by his aggressive tone, Phoebe would have remonstrated, but Mr Harrington was already taking his leave. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, making a brief bow. ‘Miss Brannagh,’ he said, pressing her hand briefly. ‘Adieu.’
He threw some notes on to the table, enough to have paid for all the wine for the entire room for the evening, then with a curt nod, he left.
Despite her lover’s arrival, Phoebe was suddenly despondent, and disappointed to have her encounter with Mr Harrington cut short in such a brusque manner. ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘It’s very late, I’ve had more than enough wine and I want to go home.’
London —October 1830
Phoebe stepped out of the hackney cab that had transported her from the posting house and gazed apprehensively at the imposing town house. The front door was painted a glossy black, the brass knocker and bell pull brightly polished. She shivered, pulling her cloak around her. It had been sunny when she left Paris, but the rain had set in at Calais, and had poured down relentlessly ever since, reflecting her mood.
She checked her watch needlessly. It was just after ten in the morning. Far too early to be calling on anyone. The shutters of the town house were not closed, which meant someone was in residence, but not necessarily the person she sought. So much could have happened in the intervening two years. He might have changed address. He could be married and settled. It was perfectly possible he was still travelling the world.
He could even be dead, for all she knew. After all, he hadn’t turned up at the Procope café in August as arranged. She’d told herself that it was ridiculous of her to expect him to, that their so-called assignation had been light-hearted banter, nothing more, but she’d gone anyway, three nights in a row. When each night ended without him making an appearance she had been bitterly and quite disproportionately disappointed. She had been so eager to hear what he’d made of his life, fervently hoping it would counterbalance the disaster which constituted her own. She had tried hard not to attach undue significance to his failure to turn up, but it had felt like the last straw, a signal to cut and run. Though she had struggled on for another few weeks, in her head, his non-appearance marked the end of her dream.
Which was one of the reasons why she was here, hoping against hope that Mr Harrington had succeeded where she had so signally failed. Though he probably wouldn’t even remember their brief encounter in Paris, she thought despondently. If by some miracle he was in residence and did agree to see her, there was every chance that he’d look straight through her, as if confronted by a complete stranger. Which, in essence, she was.
A footman was eyeing her cagily from the steps of a house across the street. She probably looked suspicious loitering in this genteel locale unaccompanied. Phoebe climbed the first step. If Mr Harrington was not here—oh, God, no, she couldn’t bear to think of the alternative. Please let him be here, she whispered to herself. Please.
The footman was making his way across the street to accost her. Phoebe climbed the remainder of the shallow steps and rang the bell.
The door was opened just a crack by a stern, elderly servant. ‘May I help you?’ he asked, making it clear that he thought it very unlikely that he could.
She held out the worn card which had lain in the recesses of her reticule for over two years. ‘Does Mr Harrington still live here?’
‘Yes, but I’m afraid he does not receive visitors.’
Startled, she was about to ask why ever not, when the man made to close the door in her face. ‘Please, will you ask him if he will make an exception for me?’ Phoebe said urgently. ‘My name is Miss Phoebe Brannagh. From Paris, tell him, the young lady from the Procope Café.’
* * *
‘Phoebe Brannagh,’ Owen repeated.
‘The young lady wasn’t sure if you would remember her,’ his butler informed him, careful to keep his expression bland. ‘You met in Paris, apparently.’
Not long before his life had changed for ever, in fact. ‘Our paths did cross,’ Owen said, ‘but I can’t possibly see her.’
Propped up in bed, his hands hidden under the sheets, he rubbed the extensive scarring on the backs of them compulsively. Phoebe Brannagh! His thoughts often drifted back to their encounter in the Procope. Beautiful, passionate, ambitious and determined, she was unforgettable. He had left the café that night inspired, invigorated, full of optimism for the future, not exactly full of plans but certainly full of determination. He had recalled, many times since, her words of caution when he had so foolishly bemoaned his privileged lifestyle. ‘You should be careful what you wish for, Mr Harrington,’ she had said, ‘and grateful for what you have.’
Such prescient words. In the months which followed, in the aftermath, how often he had wished he’d heeded them earlier, returned to London, satisfied with his lot. He might have remained feckless and shallow, but at least he’d have still been himself.
‘No,’ he repeated, ‘I can’t possibly see her, it is out of the question.’
‘Very well, sir. Shall I convey the usual message?’
The usual message. That Mr Harrington was not at home to callers under any circumstances. Owen hesitated on the brink of assent. What on earth was she doing here, in London? He had wondered, back in August, if she had honoured their assignation. Though it was impossible for him to make the journey he’d still felt guilty, picturing her sitting on her own up in that top room of the Procope sipping wine and waiting for him, just as she had waited patiently, night after night, for Solignac. Had she realised her dream of opening her own restaurant? Were she and the chef who had her under his spell still sharing both a kitchen and a bed? For his part, he fervently hoped not the latter. The little he’d seen and heard of the man had made him certain Miss Brannagh deserved a great deal better.
Why was she here now? It was ludicrous to imagine her concern for him, sparked by his failure to turn up in August as agreed, had brought her all the way to England, though if the boot had been on the other foot, he might well have done just that, for he had imagined their second meeting countless times. During the darkest days, when the memory of her zest for life had been a small beacon of light, he had imagined himself well, fit, successful. Happy. He had dreamed up endless versions of how his life had turned out, picturing himself recounting them to her in the cosy light of the Procope, a pichet of wine and two half-empty glasses on the table.
What had she achieved in the last two years? Now he had the opportunity to find out, was he really going to pass it up? He was genuinely curious, which was a refreshing change from his increasing indifference to the world and its inhabitants. Miss Phoebe Brannagh, she had declared herself, though that didn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t married, merely that it was the name he would recognise. The chances that she had abandoned the kitchens for an easier, more prosaic life were high, but Owen hoped Phoebe had remained true to her highly individual self, and beaten