‘Letters from France?’

‘And the letters I wrote to the woman I love – in France.’

‘Rupert, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh yes, Fran. I think you have. Did you destroy them once you’d read them? Burn them, perhaps?’

‘I wouldn’t destroy someone else’s post. What do you think I am?’

‘That’s what I’m asking myself,’ returned Rupert. ‘I know that my letters never reached Hélène, and I can only believe that those she wrote never reached me.’

‘There’s nothing surprising in that,’ snapped Frances. ‘International post is notoriously unreliable.’

‘The thing is, Frances, that since someone stopped monitoring our postbag, I have received two letters from France with very little delay. So’ – he fixed her with an unwavering look – ‘what’s happened to the other letters? I know they were sent, but I never received them. I also know that nothing I sent arrived in France. Only you could have intercepted them, Fran. While my father was ill and my mother indisposed and I was working with Foxton, Mitchell always brought the postbag to you. I’m asking you now for a straight answer. Did you take my mail?’

‘What if I did?’ Fran tossed her head. ‘You, the future Sir Rupert Chalfont, couldn’t possibly be allowed to marry some French chit of no family or consequence. Papa was totally against it and he was still the head of the family. It should have been completely impossible for you to defy him. I agreed with him. You had to marry a suitable bride, a lady of proper social status. You had to produce an heir so that the family’s future would be assured.’

‘And who were you to decide who was suitable?’ Rupert’s voice was icy.

‘Rupert!’ Fran’s tone was challenging. ‘If Justin had lived and married Kitty, it wouldn’t have mattered who you threw yourself away on. You were not Papa’s heir, but once you were, you should have recognised and accepted your duty to your family.’ She turned away and, snatching up another daffodil, crammed it into the vase. ‘It wasn’t even as if you didn’t like Kitty. She wasn’t some stranger foisted on you, she was a girl you’d known all your life. Someone you used to love. She certainly loved you!’

Ignoring this outburst, Rupert asked, ‘So what did you do with my letters, Fran? Did you read them?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Fran hotly. ‘I am not in the habit of reading other people’s letters and I had no interest in what they contained.’

‘So you just destroyed them,’ Rupert said flatly.

‘No, I did not!’ Frances’s temper was rising. ‘I kept them all. You can have them,’ she added dismissively, ‘if you really want them, but they are of no consequence now, are they?’

‘Where are they?’

‘In a box in my room.’

Rupert kept a firm hold on his temper as he replied, ‘Please go and fetch them.’

‘I’ll get them when I’ve finished doing these flowers for Mama.’