Someone must have intercepted them. Looking back with clear hindsight there was no other conclusion. Once he’d allowed himself to accept that conclusion, it was equally clear that there was only one person who could have done it, had any reason to do it.

None of the servants. They would have no knowledge of letters from France, nor know the significance of such letters.

Not his mother. As far as he knew, she knew nothing about Hélène; but even if she had heard of her, she was beyond doing anything about anything, and had been ever since the shock of Justin’s death. Indeed, she seemed unaware of either of the subsequent deaths, of her husband and her daughter-in-law.

His father had been ill long before Rupert had come home, but he had still been head of the family and complete master in his own house. He had been determined that Rupert should take Justin’s place and marry Kitty for the benefit of both families, but Rupert knew that his strict moral compass would never have allowed him to do anything underhand. If he wanted something done or not done, he was completely honest about his wishes. He would never have resorted to stealing anyone’s mail.

Which left Fran.

Rupert knew it had to be Fran. She, too, had wanted him to marry Kitty. Partly because the idea was so important to her father but also because she wanted everything at Pilgrim’s Oak to remain as it always had been. He knew Fran thought it was unlikely she would marry now with her mother to look after, and that Pilgrim’s Oak would always be her home. The introduction of some strange young Frenchwoman could have changed everything.

With the news that Hélène was not married as he’d thought and knowing that he was now a widower, it suddenly seemed imperative to Rupert that he should tax Frances with her deception. It must be brought out into the open and dealt with if he were to consider bringing Hélène to Pilgrim’s Oak as his bride… if she would have him after all the misery he – and Fran – had caused her. The decision taken, he wasted no time in implementing it. He put Annette’s letter into his desk drawer and went to find Fran.

She was in the garden room arranging some early daffodils in a vase for her mother’s parlour. She looked up and smiled as he came into the room.

‘Aren’t these lovely,’ she said. ‘Quite a breath of spring, and there are hundreds more coming at the far end of the orchard.’

When Rupert didn’t return her smile, she said, ‘Rupert? What’s wrong? Has something happened? Mama…?’

Rupert didn’t answer any of her questions, he simply asked, ‘Frances, where are my letters?’

He saw the colour drain from his sister’s cheeks, but she looked at him steadily as she replied, ‘Letters, Rupert? What letters?’

‘You know perfectly well what letters,’ he snapped. ‘The letters that came to me from France.’