‘I’m glad,’ Helen told him, ‘because you did the same for me.’

She turned and began to climb up the marble steps. If she had hoped that he might want to know more about her, perhaps ask to see her again, then she was disappointed. When she glanced back, Darcy was walking slowly away across the mosaic floor.

Helen came down late to her last breakfast at Montcalm. She had a blurred impression that the room was full of people, house guests staying over from last night, she supposed. The first face that she saw clearly was Oliver’s. He stood up when he saw her. He was pale and the bright blue eyes were bloodshot but otherwise he looked none the worse.

‘Apparently I was really bloody last night,’ he greeted her, his smile as irresistible as ever. ‘Not that I remember anything about it. Should I be apologising to you for anything?’

‘Not a thing,’ she said uncertainly.

His smile broadened. ‘Well, thank God there’s somebody I didn’t insult. Come and sit by me. No-one else will speak to me. Hart has cut me dead.’

Helen looked and saw Tom at the end of the table. He was wearing a very bright blue shirt and a narrow scarlet tie. Theatrical again, Helen thought. He must be leaving Montcalm too. Their eyes met for a second and then slid past each other. Helen felt a little, uncomfortable stab of self-dislike.

Oliver settled her beside him and poured her coffee from the ornate silver pot.

‘Eggs? Bacon?’

‘No, thank you. Just …’ Helen looked up and her voice faltered. Sitting immediately opposite her was Darcy. He was wearing an old, darned pullover and a frayed shirt open at the neck.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Oliver looked from one to the other.

‘D’you know my brother?’

Oliver’s brother? The realisation took her breath away. Darcy? The quiet, solid man who had helped her to enjoy last night in the face of everything else was no local farmer or hard-working vet.

He was Viscount Darcy. That was his title, not his Christian name. And this great house was his home even more than it was Oliver’s. Helen looked back at the pleasant face with new eyes. Now there was something in the set of the features, the play of expression, that reminded her of Oliver. There was none of the clear-cut beauty that had mesmerised her for so long, but nonetheless she saw that they were alike.

Perhaps, she thought, that’s even why I warmed to him so quickly. He was already familiar.

‘Last night … I didn’t know you were Oliver’s brother.’

‘I guessed not,’ Darcy said equably.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Was it important?’

Helen felt a slow, hot flush spreading across her face. Oliver’s faintly raised eyebrows made her collect herself and summon up a smile.

‘Not at all.’