The King's Evil

the window, she sat there with great self-possession as she appraised him through large pale green eyes. Christopher took note of the small crucifix which hung on a gold chain around her neck. Marie Louise Oilier was a porcelain saint. The idea that she could be entangled with a man like Sir Ambrose Northcott seemed ludicrous.

'You must excuse my uncle,' she said softly. 'He is very protective. Since my parents died, he believes that it is his duty to look after me.'

'I see.'

'He was afraid to leave me alone with you.'

'Are you afraid, mademoiselle?'

'Yes,' she admitted.

'Of me.'

'Of what you have come to tell me.'

'It is not good news, I fear.'

'I know.'

'How?'

'Because I sense it, monsieur. He has not written to me since he left for England. That is a bad sign. Something has happened. Something to stop him sending a letter. Is he unwell?' Christopher shook his head. 'Worse than that?'

'Much worse,' he whispered.

She gave a little whimper then tightened her fists as she fought to control herself. Her eyes were filled with tears and her face puckered with apprehension but she insisted on hearing the truth. Christopher broke the news to her as gently as he could. Her body convulsed and he moved across to her, fearing that she was about to faint, but she waved him away and brought a lace handkerchief up to her face. She sobbed quietly for some minutes and all that he could do was to stand and wait. When she finally mastered her grief, she found the strength to look up at him.

'Why did you come to me?' she asked.

'I felt that you had a right to be told.'

'Thank you.'

'I know how much Sir Ambrose meant to you.'

'Everything,' she murmured. 'He was everything.'

The bundle of letters suddenly became like a lead weight in his pocket. He took them guiltily out, feeling that he was intruding into a private relationship simply by holding them. He offered them to her.

'You might want these back.'

She took them sadly. 'Did you read them?' He nodded. 'They were not meant for anyone else's eyes. They were for him. Only for him.'

'I realise that, mademoiselle. But I needed to find you. It was one of the letters which brought me to Paris.'

'I am glad you came.'

'It was not a welcome undertaking.'

'You are very considerate, monsieur.' She used the handkerchief to wipe away a tear and looked at him with more interest. 'So you are the architect,' she said with a wan smile. 'Ambrose talked so much about our house. He was delighted with what you had done, Monsieur Redmayne. I was so looking forward to living in London. I dreamed of nothing else. What will happen to the house now?'

'It will probably never be built.'

'That is such a shame.'

She stroked the bundle of letters with her fingers and he noticed for the first time the handsome diamond ring on her left hand. Marie Louise Oilier went off into a reverie and he did not dare to break into it. He waited patiently until she blinked as if suddenly coming awake.

'Do please excuse me, sir.'

'There is nothing to excuse.'

'How did you find the letters?' she asked.

'I did not, mademoiselle. They were given to me.'

'By whom?'

'Sir Ambrose's daughter.'

'Daughter?' She recoiled as if from a blow. 'He had a daughter?'

'Did you not know that?'

'No, monsieur. Ambrose told me that his wife died years ago. There was no mention of any children. I was led to believe that he lived alone.'

'You were deceived, I fear,' said Christopher, distressed that he had to inflict further pain. 'Sir Ambrose owned a house in Kent which he shared with his wife and daughter. Lady Northcott did not die. I have met her and she is in good health.'

'But he was going to marry me,' she protested.

'That would not have been possible under English law.'

'Nor in the eyes of God!'

Her hand went to the crucifix and Christopher began to wonder if he had misread her letters. A close physical relationship was implied in them yet he was now getting the impression that Marie Louise Oilier was far from being an experienced lover. If that were the case, a startling paradox was revealed. After years of consorting with ladies of easy virtue, Sir Ambrose Northcott had become obsessed with a virgin. He could only attain her with a promise of marriage.

'Mademoiselle,' he said, sitting beside her. 'You told me earlier that you sensed something was amiss because Sir Ambrose had not written to you since he went to England.'

'That is so.'

'Was he recently in France, then?'

'Yes, he spent ten days here.'

'Together with you?'

'Some of the time,' she recalled. 'He stayed here at my uncle's house. Before that, he had business to transact in Calais and Boulogne. And, of course, he had to travel to the vineyard.'

'Vineyard?'

'In Bordeaux. It is owned by my family.'

'Is that where Sir Ambrose bought his wine?'

'Most of it.'

'And is that how you met?'

'No,' she said wistfully. 'We met in Calais. He was so kind to me.' She turned to Christopher. 'I know what you must think, monsieur. A young girl, being spoiled by a rich man who takes advantage of her innocence. But it was not like that. He was attentive. He treated me with respect. He just liked to be with me. And the truth of it is, I have always felt more at ease with older men. They are not foolish or impetuous.' She gave a little shrug. 'I loved him. I still love him even though he lied to me. He must have planned to leave his wife,' she continued, as if desperate to repair the damage which had been done to a cherished memory. 'That was it. He was working to free himself from this other woman. Proceedings must already have been under way. They had to be. Ambrose was mine. That house in London was not being built for anyone else. It belonged to us. He encouraged me to make suggestions about it.'

'I remember commenting on the French influence.'

'That came from me, monsieur.'

'So I see.'

She gazed down at the ring and fondled it with her other hand.

'Ambrose gave this to me,' she said.

'It is beautiful.'

'I will never part with it.' She looked at the bundle of letters which lay in her lap. 'Why did you bring these to me, monsieur?'

'I felt that you would want them back.'