Chapter One

An unfortunate cake tray – Kidnapped – The Walrus –

How many times did I regret those cakes. The dark chocolate sprinklings, the freshly plucked strawberries... if it were not for those cakes, I would be very far from where I am today. (Which incidentally, is in the tub, fag dangling from one hand, silk stockings hanging above me, the stink and bawling of the street drifting in through my window, - a child crying, a fishwives fistfight, and other, more intimate noises emanating from Daisy's room upstairs – in other words, London.)

But before I get carried away - those cakes. I was fourteen years old and I lived in a tiny village called C----- in Burgundy. Every afternoon I baked a fresh batch and took them to my mother's shop, a mere twenty paces from my home. That afternoon, as I walked out the door, I heard the sound of hooves thundering down the street and looked up to see a black horse charging at me. By the time I had drawn breath, the rider had scooped up cakes, cake tray and all, and we were riding South at a gallop.

To be kidnapped was by far the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. As I was jostled around on the back of the horse, I could only think of how I would tell my sister the tale, huddled under the covers, a chair in front of the door so our conference would not be interrupted. I hadn't yet seen my hero's face, but as I took note of his broad shoulders and the curly black hair peeking out from under his hat I imagined a dashing, dark eyed soldier. He would certainly write me a sonnet before nightfall.
'Excuse me, sir?' I shouted. 'Excuse me! Where are we going?”
The horse increased a pace.
“Excuse me!” WHERE ARE WE GOING?”
I jabbed him in the back.
“Hello? Hello! HELLO!”
I took hold of his ear, and twisted it back as far as I could. "Excuse me?"
The horse skidded to a halt, and he turned round, glared at me, and then slapped me hard.

As we galloped into the night, I could think only of his face, and the character that was only too clearly etched there. The leering, brutal mouth, the nose which had been broken in several places. The scar which ran down in an S from his left eye to his jaw. And his dead, stupid grey eyes.

He was, in short, a bastard.

As I sit here now, and listen to Mr Justice M----- upstairs with Daisy - (she shrieks: “My Emperor, Bonaparte!” ) - I wish I knew then what I know how. How many ways there are to trick a man. Now I think it nothing to tease and tempt, outwit, undress, bewilder or defraud any gentleman you'd care to throw through at me. But then I was scared. I thought his strength was too much for my matchstick arms. He had tied me thoroughly and conclusively to his horse, and though I tried, there was no way of jumping down without killing myself. So I did nothing but shiver and wait.