'When a woman loses her looks,' she said in her almost faultless English, 'she loses everything. Thereafter she must live on her wits.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'Then it makes them more nearly men's equals.'

'That is sophistry, Captain.'

'It is debatable, Madame, but you are no less lovely.'

She spurned the gallantry, raising her hand to her neck. 'How did you know ... about this?'

'Lord Dungarth acquainted me of the fact some time before his death.'

'So, him too.' She paused, and then seemed to pull herself together. 'Men may acquire scars, Captain, and it does nothing but add credit to their reputations,' she remarked, and was about to go on when Drinkwater turned aside and lifted the decanter.

'Is that why you have assumed the character of a man, Madame?' he asked, pouring out two glasses.

She looked at him sharply, seeking any hint of malice in his riposte, but the grey eyes merely looked tired. He saw the suspicious contraction of the eye muscles and again the tightening of the mouth. She accepted the glass.

'Pray sit, Madame; you look exhausted.' He took in her dusty hessian boots, the stained riding breeches and the three-quarter length tunic. There was nothing remotely military about her rig. 'I presume you stole the shako,' he remarked, smiling, handing her a glass.

'There is a deal of convivial drinking in Calais tonight, Captain. A lieutenant of the Garde du Corps is going to find himself embarrassed tomorrow morning when the king leaves for Paris.' She returned his smile and he drew up a chair and sat opposite her. He felt the slight contraction of his belly muscles that presaged sexual reaction to her presence. By God, she was still ravishing, perhaps more handsome now than ever!

Was it the wound that, in marring her beauty, somehow made her even more desirable? Or had he become old and goatish?