'I was going to call on you,' he said with a smile, 'but since you are here, I may go home to my bed with the satisfaction of knowing my duty done – and so may you. I don't think there's much more you can do here now, eh?'

'I don't know. I was going to—'

'See the ambassador? Was that it? Or see Chernychev, at any rate? Then I was right and you may go home and sleep with no fear of bad dreams. Count Chernychev leaves for Moscow tonight with… er… urgent despatches.'

'He was to go tomorrow…'

'Well now he goes in an hour. Prince Kurakin was very ready to understand that some messages are too urgent to be delayed – or possibly endangered by the turn of a sword. Our friend Beaufort handles his weapon quite as skilfully as the handsome colonel, so the chances were equal. Now it seems that just at present, the Tsar requires his favourite courier's presence urgently… You need have no fear. Chernychev will do as he is told.'

'And… the duel?'

'Put off for a month of Sundays – or at least until the two gentlemen in question find themselves face-to-face again, which will not be for a very long time, since Beaufort is due to return to America in a week's time.'

Marianne's chilled heart melted in a rush of warmth. So great was her relief that tears started to her eyes. Impulsively, she held out her hand to her old friend, through the open window.

'How can I thank you? You are my good angel.'

But Talleyrand shook his head, his face suddenly grave. 'No, I am afraid not. I fear I must bear a large share of the blame for the troubles which beset you. Today is not the first time I have regretted that I ever introduced you to – to you know who. If it had not been for that ill-conceived idea, you might have been happy today. I ought to have realized – that night when you met Beaufort in my house. Now, it is too late, and both of you are married.'

'I shall never give him up! I, too, should have realized it sooner, but I will not listen when you tell me it is too late. It is never too late for love.'

'Oh yes, my dear… when you are my age!'

'Not even then!' Marianne cried so passionately that even the cynical statesman was shaken. 'If you really wanted it, you could still love – really love! Who knows, perhaps it might even be the great love of your life.'

The prince did not answer. Hands clasped on the gold knob of his stick, chin resting on his hands, he appeared to be lost in a kind of daydream. Marianne saw that there was a sparkle in the pale eyes, usually so cold, and wondered if perhaps her words had conjured up for him a figure, a face… a love, perhaps, which he had not allowed himself to dream of, believing it impossible. Softly, as if he had spoken, but really in answer to her own thoughts, Marianne said: 'Impossible love is the only kind that I believe in, because it is the only kind that gives a savour to life, the only kind worth fighting for…'

'What do you call an impossible love, Marianne? Your love for Jason – for you do love him, don't you? – is not what one would call impossible. Difficult, merely…'

'I am afraid not. To me, it seems every bit as impossible as if…' she groped for a moment and then went on, very fast: '… as if you, for example, were to fall in love with your niece, Dorothée, and wish to make her your mistress—'

Talleyrand's gaze shifted to meet Marianne's. It seemed to have grown colder and more inscrutable than ever.

'You are quite right,' he said gravely. That is, to be sure, an excellent example of impossible love. Good night, my dear Princess. I do not know if I have ever told you this, but I am very fond of you, you know.'

The two carriages moved apart and Marianne, with a sigh of content, let herself slide back among the cushions, closing her eyes, the better to enjoy her wonderful relief. She felt suddenly terribly sleepy. The relief from nervous tension had left her feeling drained, longing for nothing but the peace of her own room, her own cool sheets. She could sleep so well now that Talleyrand had averted the results of her stupidity and Jason was no longer in danger.

She was still basking in the same sense of gratitude when she reached her own house, and she was even humming a little as she went lightly up the great stone staircase to her room. When she was able to think more clearly, she would find some way of making Jason listen to reason, so that he would understand that he could not insist that they must part for ever. Perhaps when he saw how much she loved him…

The first thing she saw when she opened her door was a pair of shoes, gleaming man's shoes, resting on a low stool covered in sea-green silk.

'Arcadius!' she cried, thinking the owner of the shoes must be her old friend Jolival, come home unexpectedly. 'Oh, but I am so sleepy—'

The words died on her lips as the door swung wide open under her hand, revealing the man who sat, very much at his ease in a deep armchair, waiting for her. And all at once, Marianne knew that there would be no sleep for her yet, for the figure which was already rising nonchalantly to greet her with a deep, profoundly mocking bow, was that of Francis Cranmere.

CHAPTER FOUR

Night – and an Open Window

Marianne's nerves had suffered too much that night for the sight of her first husband to awaken any feeling in her other than one of profound boredom. However dangerous he might be, and whatever her own reasons to fear him still, she had reached a degree of indifference where she was wholly beyond fear. It was therefore without the slightest trace of feeling that she closed the door behind her, and, according her untimely visitor no more than a single chilly glance, walked coolly over to her dressing-table, dropped her wrap on to the velvet stool and began stripping off her long gloves. Nevertheless, her eyes continued to survey his reflection in the tall mirror.

She was conscious of a certain satisfaction as she observed that Francis seemed disappointed. No doubt he had expected a movement of recoil, a cry. This cold silence must be disconcerting for him. Deciding to continue the game, she patted her curls idly into place, then picked up one of the many cut-glass bottles cluttering the table and dabbed scent on her neck and shoulders. Only then, did she ask: 'How did you get in? My servants cannot have seen you, or I should have been told.'

'Why? Servants can be bribed…'

'Not mine. Not one would risk his place for a few coins. So?'

'The window, of course.' Francis settled himself back into the armchair with a sigh. 'Your garden walls are not insurmountable, and, as it happens, I have been your neighbour for some three days past.'

'My neighbour?'

'You did not know you had an English neighbour?'

Yes, Marianne had known that. She was, in fact, on quite good terms with Mrs Atkins who had once provided her cousin Adelaide with a refuge when she was being sought by Fouché's police. She was a former actress from Drury Lane whose stage name had been Charlotte Walpole, and had acquired a reputation and the right of residence in Paris by risking her life and fortune in an attempt to assist in the escape of the royal family from the Temple after the death of Louis XVI. What chiefly astonished Marianne was that a woman so sweet-tempered, ladylike and eminently kind should be on friendly terms with such a man as Francis, and she made no attempt to hide her thoughts. Lord Cranmere laughed:

'I might even say that dear Charlotte has a great affection for me. Do you know, Marianne, you are one of the very few women who do not like me? The majority of your contemporaries find me altogether charming and delightful.'

'Perhaps they have not had the pleasure of being married to you. That is the difference. Now, I should be glad if this conversation could be brief. I am very tired.'

Francis Cranmere placed the tips of his fingers together and studied them attentively:

'To be sure you did not stay long at the theatre. Do you not care for Britannicus?'

'You were there?'

'Most certainly, and, as a connoisseur, I greatly admired your entry with that magnificent creature Chernychev. Really, there could hardly be a more perfectly matched couple – unless, perhaps, it were you and Beaufort. But I gather that things are not going too smoothly in that direction. It seems the two of you are still at daggers drawn? Is it still the old business at Selton? Or don't you care for his Spanish bride?'

The deliberately airy flow of talk was beginning to irritate Marianne. Swinging round suddenly to face Francis, she interrupted brusquely:

'That will do! You did not come here tonight for idle gossip. Say what you want and go! What is it? Money?'

Lord Cranmere looked at her with a broad grin, then he laughed outright:

'I know you are not short of it. It means nothing to you now. For me, I must confess, matters are a little different, but that is not what I came to talk about…' He stopped smiling and, getting to his feet, moved a few steps nearer to Marianne. His beautiful face wore a serious expression unlike anything Marianne had seen there before, for it was unmarred by either pride or menace.

'In fact, Marianne, I have come with an offer of peace, if you are willing to accept it.'

'An offer of peace? You?'

Francis walked slowly over to a small side table on which Agathe had left a small cold collation in case her mistress should happen to feel hungry on her return from the theatre. He helped himself to a glass of champagne, drank about half of it, sighed contentedly and resumed: