Page 30 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Samuel couldn’t breathe. His lungs contracted, but nothing filled his body. Marguerite’s pale blue eyes met his, the candlelight dancing in them, burning yellow within the depths of her dark pupils.

Paul. He knew that name. She was the one who had written to Paul all those months ago.

A man she cared for and trusted so deeply she could pour out the innermost feelings of her heart.

A man who was like a father to her. The closest thing she had left on this earth, he imagined, since she had lost her own father.

It was all so very obvious now. Samuel felt ten times the fool for not recognizing her earlier.

Everything fell into place, the pieces all sorting together in his mind.

Marguerite embodied the soul of the person in those letters.

She was the person he felt he knew better than anyone else, the person who knew him .

Judging by her wide eyes and wary expression, she was already aware of his role in their correspondence.

What had her final letter said to him? Something that mentioned how she was certain he knew the reason and understood why she was ending the correspondence.

There was only one reason they should cease their communication, and the timing of the missive was particularly telling.

Marguerite must have been informed of his impending engagement.

She must have known, and she had done nothing to stop it.

Hot anger swept through him. Samuel was engaged to a stranger, and Marguerite had allowed it to happen.

“Should we visit this man?” Oliver asked, bringing Samuel’s thoughts swiftly back to the room. “We could gather more information from him and see about the shipping company ourselves.”

“We do not have enough time to do so before the appointed meeting.” Ruth tapped the letter. “Tomorrow is Friday.”

Ridley swore. “I care very little for this person’s threats. We will not send you to visit the grave alone, Marguerite.”

She gave him a grateful smile.

“He deserves to be thrown in gaol,” Oliver muttered.

“Yes,” Ruth agreed. “But first, we must find a way to put him there. To do so, we must prove he has been tormenting you.”

Silence permeated the shop as each person grew lost in their own thoughts. Focusing on the present task was far more enticing than stewing in Samuel’s own hurt and anger. Despite the situation he found himself in, he would not leave Marguerite to fare on her own.

Samuel had no notion of how to demand justice, but he knew without the trunk or further proof, Leclair would walk free. Searching the Faversham estate was foolhardy, for they did not know where the man was hiding the trunk, and doing something so extreme would show their entire hand.

“If he burns the contents of the trunk, does he not lose the entirety of his bargaining offerings?” Samuel could not look at Marguerite. Instead, he glanced to his other friends. “What then would he have to entice Marguerite to bring forth the alleged diamonds? ”

“I fear pushing him to that point would create a desperate man,” Ridley said.

The room grew quiet.

Oliver hummed softly, then nodded to himself. “Yes, I think I have it. We will need to be particular about our movements, but if we are careful, I do believe we can manage it.”

Ruth circled his wrist, clinging to him. “What is it, Oliver?”

“Do you have paper and a pencil, Marguerite? It would be easier to explain with a sketch.”

“I do.” She left to procure the items. Ruth set about obtaining a second candlestick from the parlor and lighting it.

When they had all gathered around the counter, bending over the paper, the charcoal pencil in Oliver’s hand, he cleared his throat. “Allow me to explain.”

By the time the plan had been gone over from every direction, each angle discussed and worked through, and every person was fully aware of their role, it had grown beyond late and delved into the early hours of the morning.

Ridley had rubbed his tired eyes and left to walk home while Oliver went to fetch his carriage from the stables at the inn.

Ruth embraced Marguerite at the shop’s door, then stepped back to yawn. “I should wait outside so you can get some rest. Good night. Tomorrow—no, today, I suppose—it shall all be over, and that nasty Mr. Leclair will be put where he deserves.”

Marguerite nodded. “Thank you for all you have done. I do not know how I can ever repay you.”

“There is no repayment necessary.” Ruth smiled softly. “This is what friends do for one another. I am certain you would assist me should the need arise.”

“Of course I would. ”

“Good night.” Ruth stifled a yawn and left, disappearing across the road toward the inn.

Marguerite waited beside the open door for Samuel to leave, but did not lift her head to look in his direction.

Everyone else had gone, but Samuel remained where he stood.

He leaned against the counter, watching Marguerite.

She was so beautiful, even with the stubborn, determined set to her chin.

Her dark blue gown was elegant but simple, her blonde hair very much the same.

When she finally glanced his way, he was struck by the way her eyes fastened on him, locking him in place.

It was plainly apparent Samuel had noticed her beauty many times before, but always as an impartial observer.

Now that he recognized how deeply he knew this woman, he could not but combine the two and feel her even from this distance.

She was not just a source of comfort on the page—she was a tangible person, a being he could reach out and touch.

He wanted to reach for her but knew he could not.

Could never.

That option had been stolen from him when he had engaged himself to another woman.

Anger sliced through his body anew. He crossed the room with measured calm and gently took the door handle from her, pushing it closed.

Silence was heavy in the sleeping room. Even Claude had not bothered to make an appearance this evening.

“Why did you not tell me?” His voice was quiet, but he could hear the pain lacing his own words.

Marguerite leaned back as though she had been struck. “It was not my place.”

“I am engaged to another woman, Marguerite.”

“And I am happy for your joy.”

Samuel scoffed. “It could have been avoided if you had been honest with me.”

She straightened, her head tilting to the side. “Avoided? For what purpose? You love Miss Farrow, and you cannot marry me. I bring with me no fortune, no dowry. I am not of your station, Samuel. It is not done.”

He took a step closer. Though he wanted to reach for her, his hands did not touch her. “Love? I believed her to be you.”

Marguerite’s eyes widened in shock.

“Yes,” he said with measured calm. “Surprising, is it not? I thought I’d found my correspondent. She had given me plenty of reason to suspect it was the truth, as well.”

“She claimed to write to you?”

“No. But in my questioning, I believed I had surmised as much. It was carefully done, and she had every correct answer. All the circumstances were right.”

“You did not ask her directly?”

He scowled. “I had not thought it necessary.”

Marguerite’s eyebrows lifted. “Then perhaps I do not carry the entirety of the blame for something you deem to be a mistake. Regardless, I am aware that you need a fortune, Samuel, and that is something I cannot provide.”

Father could rot in his own bloody debt. Samuel would happily live out his days in the charming room above this shop. His eyelids fell closed. But Mother? She deserved better.

Not that any of it mattered when he was already an engaged man. There was no honorable way to break the engagement. Especially not when his mother had already told half of Hampshire. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed fiercely, regretting it the moment he scrubbed over the bruise.

Hissing through his teeth, he threw his head back and groaned. “What a mess I’ve made of my life.”

Silence was thick, blanketing them while Harewood slept. The street was quiet, the shops dark. Samuel opened his eyes, raking them over her worried expression.

“Miss Farrow is lucky to have you,” she said. “You will make one another happy, I am sure.”

Samuel looked at her. Pain crawled up his body like a creeping vine.

Loneliness had once been his steady, constant companion, but in recent months, he had felt it abate.

Now, knowing he had been so close to true happiness but had utterly missed the mark, the creeping, dark weeds had returned. He was suffocating in them.

“But she is not the one…” Samuel did not finish that sentence. He swallowed, understanding that Miss Farrow deserved better. “I wish things had been handled differently, Marguerite.”

She blinked, not looking away from him. “I am destined to remain alone.”

“It does not have to be that way.”

Marguerite chewed her lip, her teeth sinking into the pink lushness of them and drawing his attention. She finally let out a frustrated sound. “There have been too many…I cannot be certain to trust anyone again. “

Samuel felt her words like a hit to the gut. “You do not trust me.”

Pain flashed in her eyes. “That is not…do not ask me that. It hardly matters.”

“It matters to me.” He could not sacrifice her entirely, not when he had only just found her. “If we can be nothing else, can we not remain friends? Our letters do not need to stop. Our conversation may continue.”

Her blonde eyebrows hitched up. “Surely you see the foolishness in such an endeavor.”

He let out a groan, because he did see how foolish he had sounded.

It would not be right. If he married Miss Farrow, he would be forced to cut Marguerite from his life completely.

He could not have her in it and not feel the need to be near her, to speak to her, to desire her opinion as he had done these last eight months.

But how could he lose his closest friend?

Particularly when he felt as though, in some ways, he had only found her today—yet, in others, as though she had been in his life for ages?

His fingers trembled, reaching for a stray blonde curl at her temple. He yearned to run it through his fingers, to feel if it was as soft as it looked, but just before he reached it, he froze. If he felt her, any part of her, he could not remove that from his mind.

Marguerite sucked in a breath of surprise.

Energy coursed between them, strong and heavy.

She closed her eyes, and it killed him to see that she was affected as well.

Everything in Samuel’s body urged him to take her in his arms and press his lips to hers.

He wanted to hold her, to feel the way her strong walls melted away beneath his affection.

He cared so deeply for this woman, for her heart, her thoughts, the way she formulated her opinions. It was no great surprise to discover she had been directly under his nose all this time.

He had been so blind.

“When did you know it was me?” he asked softly, afraid speaking too loudly would break the spell between them.

Her eyelids fluttered open, her icy blue eyes focused on him. “When you wrote to tell me of the mischief with the cats.”

“Of course.” He chuckled. “I should have known.”

Her small smile was breathtaking. “I had written to tell you of the same thing. I was forced to dash back and retrieve my letter before you found it.”

He frowned. Everything made more sense now. The sky was beginning to lighten, the sun making its ascent. “I will leave you now.”

Marguerite’s smile dropped. She opened the door, letting in a rush of cold air.

Samuel stepped through it, his hand curving around the edge of the door, and paused, looking back at her. “We will catch Leclair tonight, and this will be over.”

“That is my hope,” she said softly .

His grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. Looking in her eyes, he made her a promise. “The relationship between us has only begun, and I do not plan on allowing it such a quick death.”

“But Miss Fa?—”

“Yes. I know.” He swallowed, looking into her eyes with fierceness he could feel to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes. “I am not giving up yet.”