Marianne cast desperate eyes at the window. Never had she felt so helpless. The man was a devil! Suddenly, she remembered the little summer-house at the end of the garden. It was known as M. de Matignon's Petit Trianon and was hardly ever used.

'After supper, when the gaming tables are set up,' she murmured quickly. 'Meet me at the bottom of the garden.'

'In this weather? You know its snowing?'

'I thought you were a sailor,' Marianne retorted scornfully. 'Are you afraid of snow?'

'Not for myself, only for your pretty feet, my dear,' he answered with a slight bow. 'But if you are prepared to brave the elements—'

'Unless you prefer cards,' Marianne sneered. 'You are a whist player of some skill, I believe.'

She found it gave her courage to be rude to him, although the worst of her terror had already left her. She was beginning to think that all might not be lost. The fact that he should wish to see her alone suggested that he had something more to say. Now, everything would depend upon the price of his silence and what that price might be, Marianne preferred not to think.

But Jason Beaufort had no mind to let her off so lightly. Releasing his grip on her arm, he nicked the ruffles at his throat with a faintly old-world gesture.

'There's a time for everything,' he observed coolly. 'Very well then, we shall meet again after supper, try not to fail. You don't know how much I can enjoy starting off a really good scandal.'

Marianne flushed angrily. He was mocking her. A hateful little spark of mischief danced in his blue eyes.

'Never fear,' she said shortly. 'I'll be there.'

He bowed with a graceful ease surprising in a man of his virile appearance.

'I live for that moment. Your servant, mademoiselle, and, believe me, an admirer determined to applaud you to the echo.' As he straightened up, he added in an undertone: 'You need not look so, pretty child. One would swear you had met with an ogre. I do not eat little girls, I promise you, or not in the way you seem to think.'

He turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd. Marianne brushed her forehead with a trembling hand. It was damp with sweat and she drew out her handkerchief and endeavoured to mop it furtively. It was a relief to know herself safe for the present, but it had been a close thing.

'Come, what are you about?' Talleyrand's voice spoke reproachfully at her elbow. 'Dussek is already at the piano and will begin to play in a moment. It will be your turn next. Let me take you to a seat by Madame de Périgord. She is asking for you.'

He had taken her hand with his cold, aristocratic courtesy to lead her through the rows of chairs where most of the guests were already seated. As they went, he observed suddenly:

'This is, indeed, a small world. And you will agree, I think. Did you expect to meet an old friend here tonight, eh?'

'No indeed, your Highness,' Marianne said with sincerity, wondering unhappily what Beaufort could have told him. 'M. Beaufort told you—'

'That he was well acquainted with your family in England, thus confirming my own thoughts as to your origin. He seems to be a great admirer of yours.'

Hypocrite, Marianne thought furiously. The miserable hypocrite! He is not above singing my praises if it will help him to learn more. But aloud she asked: 'May I ask your Highness where you met Jason Beaufort?'

Talleyrand laughed. 'Oh, a long time ago. When I was in America, I was on terms with his father, a perfect gentleman and a man of some substance. At that time, young Jason was only an imp of mischief dreaming of nothing but ships and the sea. He spent his time making boats out of anything that came to hand, even the washing baskets! But their house at Old Creek Town was a place of great beauty.'

'Was?'

'It burned down, shortly after Robert Beaufort's death, which was as peculiar in its way as the fire. Ruin followed and the culprit, if culprit there was, was never discovered. Yes – an odd story. But then, surely you must know it as well as I, eh?'

Marianne lowered her eyes to hide her confusion.

'I was too young to know much of what was said in the drawing room at home. And M. Beaufort was not such a frequent visitor. I, at least, saw very little of him.'

'I'm sorry for your sake. He is a remarkable young man and I am very fond of him. He has worked hard to restore his shattered fortunes and he will succeed. He is one of those who build empires in the teeth of wind and tide. Did you know that a few months ago his vessel went to the bottom with a full load of cotton, everything he possessed in this world and the company's cargo he was carrying? Well, by some magic he has managed to acquire another ship and is at present seeking a cargo for the voyage back to Charleston. Admirable, is it not?'

They had by now reached the front row of the audience and, Marianne thought, not before time or she would have thrown prudence to the wind and said exactly what she thought. She was only too well aware of what magic this 'admirable' young man had employed to repair his shattered fortune. A game of cards and the hopeless passion of a gamester. But as she took her place, still quivering with suppressed anger, on a low stool beside the young countess's chair, she decided to put off any further examination of Jason Beaufort's actions until later, much later, by which time she would know what it was he wanted of her. For the present, the Czech pianist's long pale hands were already moving over the keyboard. It was time to be silent. The stillness spread to her heart and mind for, to Marianne, the soothing power of music never failed. She had to abandon herself totally to it in order to win through to that state of grace which must be hers in a moment. She closed her eyes. The artist began to play.

Two hours later, with a black cloak flung over her thin dress and pattens on her feet, Marianne left the house by means of a french window and, crossing the terrace, set off across the empty garden. It had stopped snowing but a thick blanket of white lay over everything, stretching like a huge carpet over the grass to the distant line of trees, turning shrubs and statues into strange white ghosts that loomed up out of the darkness. Marianne did not know whether to be afraid of the dark or of the elements. She set out boldly across the white expanse, hurrying to leave the patches of light thrown from the tall windows of the house. The temperature had risen with the snow. The cold was not so fierce. It was not long before Marianne reached the far end of the grounds and, turning to her left, approached the little octagonal summer-house. A little light filtered from behind the drawn curtains. Jason Beaufort was waiting for her.

He was seated in the circular parlour, warming his hands at the fire which was always kept laid and which he must have set light to on arrival. Marianne was struck by his stern profile outlined against the golden glow of the flames. For the first time, she saw a kind of beauty in it but as quickly dismissed the thought. It was out of keeping with the interview about to take place.

She went forward, closing the glass door behind her. Her pattens clattered on the tiled floor of black, white and grey marble but Jason did not turn his head. Without looking at her, he pointed to a chair on the other side of the hearth.

She threw back the hood of her cloak on to her shoulders and obeyed him mechanically. The light fell on her small, proud head with its crown of shining curls but still he did not look at her. Instead, he stared intently into the glowing heart of the fire and began to hum the air which Marianne had sung a little while before. He sang tunefully, in a deep pleasant voice but Marianne had not come just to hear him sing.

'Well?' she said impatiently.

'Are you in such a hurry? Tell me, what is the name of this song? I like it.'

'It is an old song, called 'Plaisir d'Amour'. It is a setting by Martini of a poem of Florian. Does that satisfy you?' Marianne said snappishly.

Jason turned for the first time and looked at her. His eyes were as calm as the sea on a fair day. He shrugged.

'Don't be so agressive,' he told her quietly. 'We came here to talk, not to argue. I've lost all desire to quarrel with you – supposing I ever had any.'

Marianne laughed shortly. 'A miracle!' she said. 'To what do we owe it?'

He stirred impatiently. 'Don't nag. It makes you sound hideous, like a shrew! Can't you see you're breaking the spell?'

'The spell?'

'Yes,' he said bitterly, 'the spell you put on me just now, when I heard you sing. For a moment, hearing your voice, I was in paradise. So warm, and pure! For me, it was—' he fell into a momentary dream, his eyes fixed on some distance a long way beyond the dainty rustic artificialities of the woodwork.

Marianne looked at him in surprise, holding her breath and flattered, in spite of her dislike, by his obvious sincerity. But, coming abruptly back to earth, Jason only said harshly:

'No – nothing. I beg your pardon. You could not understand.'

'Am I so stupid?' she said, disappointed, but with a gentleness that surprised herself.

The American smiled suddenly, his strange, crooked smile. His deep blue eyes danced.

'Still more curious than agressive, mm? You are still very much a woman, Marianne. But, after all, I wonder whether you'd be very flattered if I told you your voice reminded me of another that I loved to hear as a child.'

'Why not?'

'Because it belonged to my nurse, Deborah – a magnificent black slave from Angola—'