" He gave me a sardonic, mirthless, smile. "Oh, I forgot. You are nothing but a plough boy yourself, and therefore feel perfectly at home in this regiment of country bumpkins."With that parting shot he left the mess.I was sitting with Billy Bassett, who looked amazed at what he had heard."Who the devil was that?" That was Jarvis Braxton-Clark." He don't seem to be a great admirer of yours, Jack." I can assure you that the feeling is mutual." The fellow looks to be a pukka sahib, but he sounds, and acts, like a blackguard." You have just summed up Jarvis Braxton-Clark in a nutshell, Billy!"The Bell at Brentford became a mail box for the many letters between Amy and me, and I became the most zealous of postmen in visiting that posting box. Most of our meetings were also kept at that tavern, as it had comfortable rooms which were available, at a price, for an afternoon, or an hour, or for a night. 'Discretion is our watch word', the publican had informed me, when I first made enquiries. ' On the way, I thanked the gods for perfect derrieres and short, tight skirts. She knocked on the door to a corner office and leaned in. 'He's here, Madame.''Good. Show him into the conference room. I'll see him in a few minutes.' Margot ushered me through an adjoining door. Although there was plenty of room to sidle past her, my upper arm somehow brushed against her breast. I was appalled. 'Sorry!' Innocent brown eyes met mine. 'Whatever for?' She cut me off in mid-mumble when I tried to explain. 'Take a seat. Giselle will be with you soon.''Thanks, Margot.' 'You remembered my name! How sweet.' Her smile burned into my libido as she closed the door. I leapt to my feet when a woman in her late thirties or early forties came in a few minutes later. Her hair was short and jet-black, her skin pale, and her features sharp. She placed a thick folder on the table and shook my hand with a firm grip. 'Hello, Desmond. I'm Giselle Martineau. Sit.' Her dark navy blazer and skirt was loose.
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