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responsibilities slide into oblivion. But that simply wasn ’ t possible. There was always too much to do.

    Anyway, as soon as the faint mist cleared it was going to be another glorious day, she thought, pushing aside the bedcover and swinging her feet to the floor. And, as such days didn ’ t come around that often, she didn ’ t really want to miss a moment of it.

    She decided she ’ d spend the day in the garden, helping George to keep the ever-encroaching weeds at bay. But first she ’ d cycle down to the village and get a paper. After all, they might finish the crossword, earn some money that way.

    George was waiting for her as she rode back up the drive. ‘ All right, slave driver, ’ she called to him. ‘ Can ’ t I even have a cup of coffee before you get after me? ’

    ‘ I ’ ll put your bike away, Miss Helen. ’ George came forward as she dismounted. ‘ Daisy came down just now to say you ’ ve a visitor waiting. Best not to keep him, she thought. ’

    Helen was suddenly conscious of an odd throbbing, and realised it was the thud of her own pulses. She ran the tip of her tongue round her dry mouth.

    ‘ Did Daisy say — who it was? ’ she asked huskily.

    He shook his head. ‘ Just that it was someone for you, miss. ’

    She knew, of course, who it would be. Who it had to be, she thought, her lips tightening in dismay.

    Her immediate impulse was to send George with a message that she hadn ’ t returned yet and he didn ’ t know when to expect her. But that wouldn ’ t do. For one thing it would simply alarm Daisy and send her into search-party mode. For another it would tell her visitor that she was scared to face him, and give him an advantage she was reluctant to concede.

    Surprised, cool, but civil, she decided. That was the route to take.

    Of course there was always an outside chance that it could be Nigel, returned early from Sussex for some reason — because he was missing her, perhaps. But she couldn ’ t really make herself believe it.

    In a perverse way she hoped it wasn ’ t Nigel, because she knew what she looked like in old jeans, with a polo shirt sticking damply to her body and her hair bundled into an untidy knot on top of her head and secured by a silver clip, and knew that he disliked seeing her like that.

    But, no matter who was waiting for her, she owed it to herself and no one else to make herself slightly more presentable, even if it was only a matter of washing her face and hands and tidying her hair.

    She supposed reluctantly that she ’ d better sneak in through the kitchen and go up the back stairs to her room.

    But he ’ d forestalled her — the intruder — because he was already there in the kitchen, sitting at the table and tucking into a bacon sandwich with total relish while Daisy fussed round him, filling his cup with more coffee.

    Helen halted abruptly. ‘ What are you doing here? ’ She heard the note of aggression in her voice and saw Daisy glance at her, her lips pursed.

    Marc Delaroche got to his feet. In casual khaki pants and a short-sleeved black shirt, he looked less of a business tycoon and more of a tough from the back streets of Marseilles.

    ‘ As you see, mademoiselle , I am having some breakfast. ’ He slanted a smile at Daisy. ‘ Your housekeeper is an angel who has taken pity on me. ’

    Helen forced herself to amend her tone slightly. ‘ I meant surely you saw everything you needed to yesterday, so why are you still around? ’ She pushed a dusty strand of hair back from her face. ‘ After all, a village is hardly your kind of place. ’

    ‘ I still had some unfinished business here, ’ he said softly. ‘ So I decided to spend the night at the Monteagle Arms. ’

    She raised her brows. ‘ They don ’ t do breakfast? ’

    ‘ Of course, ’ he said. ‘ But after the dinner they served last night I was not tempted to try the petit dejeuner . ’ He gestured at his plate. ‘ May I continue? ’

    ‘ Coffee,