Page 18 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Fourteen

The cool air outside provided Marguerite with immediate relief.

She prided herself on being the type of woman never to swoon, but when Armand had looked her in the eye in the middle of their dance and asked, “You are no relation to the Comte Agnon, are you?” she had nearly fallen to the ballroom floor.

“My father is a Durant,” she had said, glad her voice had not shaken. She had used the first surname to come to mind and hoped he would not question her further.

Now, holding Samuel’s arm, she could still feel her hand trembling. If Armand had guessed her relation, surely he knew who she was. If the man knew her identity, did that mean he was responsible for the threats left in her shop?

This is only the beginning.

You may have the entire bottle.

But what did he want from her? Paul’s idea that whoever left those notes might be after her mother’s jewelry was not unreasonable. Her parents had been wealthy when they were alive. Marguerite, however, was not.

Her parents had sent two trunks ahead to England when they planned their escape from France, but only one of them had made it—the trunk belonging to her aunt and cousin.

The second trunk, containing Marguerite’s gowns and her mother’s things, had never arrived.

Even then, Mother had sewn a good portion of her jewels into her gown.

They were buried somewhere in France with her, and that secret would die with Marguerite.

“I was impressed with your grace on the dance floor,” Samuel said.

Marguerite smiled. “Thank you. I used to attend the assemblies when I was still apprenticed. It has been an age since I have danced. I worried I would not recall the steps.”

“You did a splendid job.”

She hoped he would not question her about her deceased husband and whether he would take her dancing as well, for she did not want to lie to Samuel.

He led her down the stone steps toward the garden. Torches lit the walkway where others milled about. The air was too cold for many people, but there were a fair number of couples and one set of three women walking nearby.

“Your Miss Farrow is lovely.”

“She is as kind as she is beautiful,” he replied.

Marguerite’s chest pulled uncomfortably. She recognized the jealousy snaking within her, how little she liked seeing Samuel admire another. But a friend would not be jealous. She needed to respond as a friend would.

“I am happy for you. You appear to be a wonderful match.” The truth of her words did not make them easier to say.

It was a timely reminder, however. Marguerite, whatever her past might be, was not Samuel’s equal.

Even if she revealed she was the woman he had been writing to for the better part of a year, they could never marry.

“Tell me about this Mr. Leclair,” he asked.

Marguerite wanted to talk about anything else.

She deeply regretted accepting his invitation.

Seeing for herself the beautiful couple Samuel and Miss Farrow made was painful, and receiving a confirmation that Armand knew more than he was letting on only proved to make her more nervous.

Overall, she would far prefer to spend the evening finishing her sewing orders with Claude at her side.

But that answer would not suffice. “What would you like to know?”

“How is he connected to the visiting party?”

“His good friends from France, Madeleine and Julien Delacour, are here visiting their English cousins, the Harrelsons. They brought Armand with them for the trip.”

“The English cousins are related to Lady Faversham,” Samuel said, nodding slowly.

“Yes. Their mother is her first cousin,” Marguerite explained. She had received the entire explanation earlier this evening. “Though they call themselves her cousins as well.”

“How long do they intend to remain in Harewood?”

“Another sennight, I believe. His party will then move on to one of their estates in Wiltshire.”

“That isn’t terribly far. It could be much worse. Like Yorkshire.”

“Or Cumberland.”

Samuel grinned. “Or Scotland.”

“What do you have against Scots?” They passed a couple, and Marguerite’s heart leaped when she saw it was Miss Snubbs on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman.

They shared a knowing smile. The rose gown had given the woman luck after all, it would seem—or a healthy dose of confidence. Marguerite assumed it was the latter .

“Nothing,” Samuel said. “I do not care to travel long distances a great deal.”

A shiver shook Marguerite’s shoulders.

Samuel looked down at her. “We should return indoors.”

Marguerite glanced back at the house. The ballroom was glowing with the multitude of candles, highlighting the people moving within.

The crush of bodies overwhelmed her, even from this distance.

She had thought she only needed a moment to collect herself, but now that she was away from the abundance of noise and people, she dreaded the end of their interlude.

How long would it take to walk home? If she was not in these thin slippers, she would not hesitate to do so.

“You do not wish to go inside,” Samuel said.

She looked up at him. “It is too cold to remain outside.”

His mouth curved into a gently rebuking smile. “That is not what I said.”

Marguerite glanced back at the grand house. It was smaller than the one she was born in, yet she was an outsider here. She shook her head. “I do not feel comfortable here. I should not have accepted Mr. Leclair’s invitation.”

Samuel’s jaw worked. He glanced away before pinning his gaze on her. “Why did you accept it, then?”

She could not tell him it was to gather information. “I suppose the lure of a French companion for the evening was too strong to resist.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Something tells me that is not entirely true.”

Marguerite laughed softly. “How do you know?”

Samuel’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “We shall call it a feeling. If you do not wish to tell me, I will not pry.”

Marguerite had wasted enough of his time this evening already.

Besides, she had brought Eliza and Ruth into her confidence.

Not entirely, but enough. She did not wish to spread gossip about Armand when her concerns were unconfirmed, and Samuel already appeared to distrust Armand for his own reasons.

When she took too long to reply, Samuel spoke again. “If Ruth is not ready to leave, I can drive you home. I have my curricle. It will be cold, but there is nothing untoward about us riding together in an open carriage.”

“You needn’t?—”

“I have danced two sets with Miss Farrow. There is nothing else here for me.”

Marguerite let out a long breath, looking to the dark windows on the top floor, wishing she was in a position to find Armand’s room and search it for her mother’s trunk. But since she was not, and she could not have Samuel, there was nothing left for her here, either. “Very well.”

Ruth was willing to leave the ball, and Oliver was grateful for the excuse to be on their way before the clock struck midnight.

“Are you certain this is not an imposition?” Marguerite asked as they stood near the door, pulling on their cloaks.

“Oliver is overjoyed, I assure you,” Ruth promised.

“And you?”

Ruth glanced at her husband. “I am never disappointed to spend a quiet evening at home with him.”

Samuel’s feet clicked across the floor. “You are leaving, then? I am sorry to see you go.”

“You may come with us,” Oliver offered. “Let your mother have the carriage home.”

“We did not come in the same carriage.” He rubbed his chin, glancing back at the ballroom. “I should return and speak to Miss Farrow. My mother would appreciate it.”

Had he not already said he had danced twice with the lady? Marguerite tried to tamp down her jealousy, but it was strong and of its own mind. She bent in a small curtsy. “Good night, Mr. Harding.”

“And to you,” he said.

Marguerite could not wait indoors any longer. She stepped outside to await the carriage, Ruth and Oliver not too far behind. It pulled in front of the grand house, and Ruth and Oliver took the forward-facing bench, leaving the other for Marguerite.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I shared some of your concerns with my husband,” Ruth said. “We do not have secrets between us, and I thought it would be good to have him aware of the situation.”

“I am glad it seemed to come to nothing,” Oliver said.

Ruth’s eyebrows knit together. “I am not so certain. You did not seem well when you danced with Mr. Leclair.”

“You were watching me?” Marguerite asked, surprised and flattered.

“Of course I was.” Ruth drew herself up. “What else would you expect me to do?”

“You were dancing with me at the time,” Oliver said drily.

“It is a good thing I can concentrate on two things at once,” Ruth said. “Did he say anything to worry you?”

“Yes.”

The carriage rocked along the road, bouncing them in their seats as Marguerite decided how much to divulge.

She did not wish to worry anyone unnecessarily.

When she was a young girl, Paul had been clear from the moment they left the safe house in London that protecting her identity was vital to her safety.

When he had taken her to Mrs. Gladstone to learn the modiste trade, he had compelled her to promise she would guard her name with her life and never reveal it to a soul.

Mrs. Gladstone was not even aware—she only knew Marguerite was French and needed protection .

There was much Marguerite had not understood about the circumstances of her heritage, but she had only been a girl of eight when she had fled France.

The very little she knew she held onto fiercely.

She knew her father had been taken to the guillotine for hiding a priest—they had needed no proof, only the word of a neighbor.

She also knew her mother had been shot while they were running for their lives.

Claude, her cousin, and Francine, her aunt, were both killed by the mob who had found them while they were trying to make it to the sea.