Page 21 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Sixteen

Marguerite woke early the following morning, her eyes dry and red from a night of fitful sleep.

Cold water did little to restore her complexion, and a cool compress was not any more helpful.

She dressed and unwrapped her curls, pinning her hair into a chignon and heating her tongs in the coals to frame her temples with barrel curls.

It hardly mattered how many times she went over the facts in her mind, she could not make sense of them.

Whoever had the trunk knew who she was, where to locate her, and the finer details of her past. Namely: the existence of her mother’s fleur-de-lis diamonds.

Papa had gifted them to Maman shortly after the Queen had revealed her crown, for they were all the rage among the higher set.

Marguerite had watched her mother sew the earrings and matching necklace into the lining of the beaded bodice on her gown. They were not overly large and could remain undetected, the stiffness of the bodice hiding them from the naked eye.

But the note had only spoken of the diamonds. Did this person only know of the diamonds? Or were they aware of more ?

She groaned, rubbing her temples. It did not equate.

There were plenty of people in France who knew of the existence of these things, but who in England would?

Who would find her twenty years after her escape and expect her to have them in her possession?

Leclair, possibly. But if he had discovered her whereabouts and tracked her down, then had he orchestrated the entire visit between his friends, their cousins, and Lady Faversham only to gain access to Marguerite, or had that merely been a fortuitous circumstance?

It certainly was a clever way to make him appear to be here accidentally.

Was the person working alone, or did someone else believe they stood to gain from her mother’s lost jewelry?

Oh, dear. A headache was forming.

It was too great a problem to work out at present.

Marguerite still did not feel she had enough information.

As loath as she was to admit it, the plan her friends had concocted was sound.

It removed her from her home to provide a safe opportunity for the man to leave more notes, while simultaneously providing her with time to speak to Armand and extract more information.

Furthermore, if notes were left while she was with Armand, then his name would be cleared.

Marguerite banked her fire and cleared her writing table.

She paused, lifting the letter she had half-written to Samuel in reply to the last note she found at the kissing gate.

An image of him dancing with Miss Farrow came to mind.

The way Ruth had mentioned his interest in Miss Farrow so lightly had been another dart in her chest. If Samuel was a man of honor, if he was connecting his name to Miss Farrow’s so openly, surely an engagement would soon follow.

Which meant Marguerite’s correspondence with him was inappropriate.

She scowled, putting the unfinished letter in her drawer to ponder later. Presently, she could not trust herself to write anything that would not utterly give her away.

It was early, but Marguerite needed a distraction.

She opened her shop and took up her needle at the front counter, embroidering a silk fan as she sat on her wooden stool.

She could not fault Samuel for filling his heart with another, not when she understood the depth of his loneliness.

But the feelings she had developed for him over the previous months of passing letters, and more so in the last few weeks since discovering his identity, had only grown in strength.

She would be lying to herself if she did not admit she wished it were she he were interested in.

In another life, if she still had her parents, her title, her wealth, she could have held a candle against Miss Farrow and hoped to be considered.

But as a modiste in a small shop, as someone who had lied to the town for years about her identity and so much more, she did not stand a chance.

Marguerite could tell her friends some of the facts of her history, as she did last night, but she could never be entirely honest with them. What would they think of her? What sort of danger would that put her in?

Time passed slowly over the course of the morning as she funneled her focus into the lavender stalks climbing over the fan, creating a beautiful floral piece she hoped would entice a patron soon.

When the bell over the door rang, her back was sore from sitting so long on her stool.

She glanced up to see Armand step through, a woman’s gloved hand resting on his arm.

Hesitation and fear wrapped around Marguerite’s body, but she did not allow them to show. She forced a smile to her face and rose, putting the fan on the counter. “Good morning to you both.”

Another couple entered the shop after them.

“We’ve come for ball gloves,” Armand said. “Miss Delacour ruined her pair during supper last evening, and her maid cannot repair them. Do you have any?”

“I might.” Marguerite crossed the shop to the section containing her long gloves. “If these do not fit, we can measure your hands, and I could have some made quickly.”

“Oh. Merci , madame.”

Marguerite pulled out two pairs of long, white satin gloves she thought would fit the petite woman, and Miss Delacour tried them both on.

The English woman approached to observe while her brother walked the perimeter of the shop. Miss Harrelson pinched the fabric between her fingers.

“You made the gown for Lady Faversham, did you not?” Miss Harrelson asked. “The one she wore to the ball last night.”

“I did.”

“It was incredible,” she said. “I have never seen her look so regal. You know that is her deepest wish, do you not? To upstage the queen.”

“I am not certain anyone has that ability.” Though Marguerite could easily believe that goal.

Miss Harrelson snickered. “No, but she gave it her best effort yet last night, and she certainly has you to thank for it. You are very talented.”

“I will take this pair,” Miss Delacour said, holding up one set of gloves. “They are perfect.”

“Very well.” Marguerite was grateful to be pulled from the deluge of Miss Harrelson’s praise. “I will wrap these for you.”

“Not just yet.” Miss Delacour lifted a graceful hand. “I would like to look at the ribbon again.”

“Of course.” Marguerite took the gloves to the counter and placed them on a square of paper, but did nothing further. She watched Mr. Delacour pretend to find the muslin interesting, then sigh heavily and look at his pocket watch .

“Shall we go for a pint?” he asked Armand. “Surely the ladies can walk across the street when they are finished.”

“You may.”

Mr. Delacour gave Armand a flat-lipped expression. The way his curly hair was pushed forward, coupled with his expression, made him look all the more pouty. “Harrelson had the right of it, staying home. I will wait outside.”

“Very well.” Armand waited for him to leave before meandering toward the counter. “All ladies take a long time to make decisions, no?”

“Not all women.”

“Do you take a long time, mademoiselle?”

Marguerite held his dark brown eyes. “Madame,” she reminded him.

“Forgive me.”

She picked up the fan again and poked her needle in it, pulling the violet thread through the panel to create a shadow on the lavender stalk. “No, I do not. I often know precisely what I would like.”

“I had thought that would be the case.”

Marguerite looked at him. He leaned close enough she could smell his shaving soap, a fine mix of scents that was unlike anything she recalled smelling before. It was likely expensive. Was he able to afford it by extortion? Forcing young ladies into giving up their family jewels?

No, that was unfair. Until she knew more, she could not fault Armand entirely. But why would he ask her about the state of her ability to make decisions unless he wanted to know if she was going to choose to make the trade with him?

“You left early last night,” he said, startling her from her thoughts.

“It is difficult for me to remain awake late when I need to open my shop so early.”

“Ah, I see. What a relief. I had feared you ran from me. ”

She smiled to soften the tone of the conversation. “Of course not. It has been a pleasure spending time with a man of my own country, monsieur.”

Armand’s eyes sparkled. She had said the correct thing. It caused him to lean closer to the counter, his scent growing stronger. “Is there a situation in which I might be able to see you again?”

“How long do you intend to remain in Harewood? I believe you mentioned you might be here another sennight.”

“Yes, precisely that.”

“Have you met Ruth and Oliver Rose?” she asked, her heart beginning to pound.

“I have.”

“They were telling me just last night they hope to put together a party this week to play battledore and shuttlecock if the weather cooperates. Ruth even mentioned it could be played in her ballroom if the weather does not.”

“A determined woman, I take it.”

“An apt descriptor.” Marguerite glanced at the women bringing their ribbons to the counter. “I would not be surprised if you return to the Faversham estate to find a card awaiting you.”

A slow smile spread over Armand’s mouth. “Have you requested my presence, Madame Perreau? I am exceedingly honored.”

She would not lie to him. Instead, she took the ribbons, discussed payment with the women, and wrapped their purchases in brown paper. She was relieved from needing to speak to him further by the entrance of Mrs. Chatham and Mrs. Price just as she was tying the twine around their packages.

“I look forward to seeing you again,” Armand said.

She dipped her head, but said no more, instead clasping her hands lightly in front of her and turning her attention toward the vicar’s wife and her friend. “How may I help you both today?”