Page 6 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Three

When Madame Perreau squared her shoulders in preparation to receive Samuel’s proposition, he imagined she was donning a shield for battle.

She very much seemed capable of taking up a sword to defend what she cared about.

It was a good thing she had not fought on Napoleon’s behalf, or the blasted frog might have actually won.

Even now, with all the confusing evidence before him, Samuel was unsure how this present situation would play out. Claude, despite being brought into her home, showed no indication she wanted to be released. In fact, she seemed only to curl into him more when he stepped inside.

“I’ve never desired a cat of my own,” he said, running his fingers over the soft fur on her back. “But last night, when Claude jumped in front of Valentine and he threw me to the ground?—”

Madame Perreau’s pale blue eyes bulged. “She did what exactly?”

“She frightened Valentine. I cannot blame her exactly. How could she know she would startle such a large beast? ”

A beat of silence sat between them. “I take it Valentine is your horse, Mr. Harding?”

Samuel suppressed a grin. Had he not mentioned that? He was bungling this, wasn’t he? “Yes. It’s why you found me stumbling around, madame. She caused Valentine to run off in terror, leaving me alone and forcing me to rely on my own two legs to transport me home.”

“How terrible.”

He glanced up sharply. Did he detect a hint of dryness in her tone?

He had a feeling he was dealing with a much cleverer woman than she allowed others to believe.

“Yes, well, it was fortunate. On the path near my house, I came upon Claude. She had traveled far out of the way and allowed me to carry her home. I’ve brought her back to you, but I wondered if you would like for her to stay with me for a few weeks.

Just until the immediate danger has passed and she is no longer susceptible to the charms of your neighbor’s cat. ”

Madame Perreau seemed to consider this. She tilted her head softly to the side, her blonde curls shifting with the motion. “What shall I do if she comes to prefer your home to mine?”

“Admit defeat?”

She took a step closer, eyeing the cat in his arms. Samuel took the opportunity to observe the modiste.

He hadn’t had much opportunity or desire to do so before, but now he could see how simply beautiful she was.

Her skin was clear and faintly freckled across her nose, her cheekbones high and jawline delicately angled.

With a gently sloping nose and two round, pale blue eyes, she quite resembled a porcelain doll.

Her clothing was the top of fashion, no doubt an advertisement for her skill, and her golden blonde hair neatly and elegantly coiffed, with curls bouncing at her temples.

Madame Perreau was beautiful, smart, and widowed.

If his secret correspondent had not once lamented her belief that she would die without ever having kissed a man, he would wonder if it was this woman.

But Madame Perreau had been grieving her husband when she moved to Harewood and taken over the shop. She had worn black for two months.

He knew a moment of disappointment but snuffed it at once.

“What do you say, madame? Shall I take Claude for a few weeks?”

Madame Perreau took a step back and lifted one lavender-clad shoulder in a soft shrug. “We do not need to decide that at present.”

“Why not?”

“Because the cat you are holding is not Claude.”

He glanced down at the feline, feeling utterly betrayed, though he had no notion why. “Who is this, then?”

“I haven’t any idea. Where did you find her?”

“On the road near my home.”

“Could belong to anyone.” She looked up at him. “Or no one.”

Samuel held the cat closer upon hearing that, then wondered if that was safe. Could the creature have fleas? When he had believed it belonged to Madame Perreau, he hadn’t been worried. Now it felt wild and dirty.

Yet he could not bring himself to cease stroking her—his?—back.

“I hope I haven’t stolen someone’s cat. I’m not sure I can release her to the wild.

” He turned for the door, though he felt reluctant to leave.

He didn’t quite know why. Perhaps it was the calming atmosphere and the various fabrics.

He loved a good brocade selection, and Madame Perreau clearly had excellent taste.

“Do you know, I believe I have that very pattern there.” He nodded.

“The green with gold?”

“Yes.”

“I can see how that would go well with your complexion, monsieur. ”

“My tailor thought otherwise, but I did not allow him to dissuade me. I am often forcing him to create things he does not wish to, but I am usually satisfied with the end result.” He shrugged.

“Usually?”

Samuel fought the smile that wanted to curve over his lips. “Occasionally, he will alter it according to his own taste.”

“The first rule of our trade,” she said. “Serve the customer’s wishes.”

“I’m not sure my tailor received the same charter as you. Is that how you operate?”

“Yes. Though I sometimes manage to steer patrons toward a better selection when I am able.”

“Given how well turned out the women of Harewood are, I imagine you are quite the shepherd. Your flock would be grateful if they knew.”

Her eyes flashed, and he detected a hint of concern. “I would prefer they didn’t.”

“Do not worry, madame. Your secret is safe with me. Honestly, I am impressed. You do wonderful work here. It is a service to us all—those who wear your creations, and those who must look upon them.”

Her round eyes narrowed. “You know precisely what to say at all times, do you not, Mr. Harding? I wonder that any woman would take you at your word.”

Surprise struck him in a fierce motion. She was correct, of course. He had a smooth way of speaking to most women. But he had been entirely honest with Madame Perreau from the moment he stepped through her shop door.

The bell rang over through the room, announcing the liveried footman as he entered the shop. He bowed crisply at the waist and held out a folded letter, the wax seal obvious from this distance. Lady Faversham had sent a note. “A message for you, ma’am. ”

“Thank you,” Madame Perreau said, taking the letter.

“I’ll be off then,” Samuel said, following the footman toward the door.

He felt a reluctance to leave her, for he had enjoyed their natural repartee.

She had a smooth way of speaking to him that was gently challenging, causing him to forget about the vast valley between their stations.

Not that he cared a whit for any of that, but he knew to be seen flirting with her could bring unpleasant rumors to her door.

Yes, he needed to leave.

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“I suppose I’ll take the cat with me.”

“That would be best.”

“Good day, madame.”

“Good day.” She did not move from her place beside the long counter, her elegant hands clasped before her with Lady Faversham’s letter between them.

Samuel pushed through the door into the chilly autumn air, the cat warm against his chest. He glanced up the High Street, where Keeley was repairing the chandlers’ broken eaves, then ducked his head and turned for his waiting carriage.

If this cat wasn’t Claude, where was she?

It had taken a good deal of coaxing and a small bowl of cream, but the cat eventually allowed Paxton, the Harding stable master, to examine her.

All things considered, she was not riddled with fleas and seemed healthy enough.

She had been found close enough to the Harding property that they could not determine where she would have traveled from.

“We could always use another mouser,” Paxton said, rubbing the back of his neck. “The house might want it, too.”

“Her,” Samuel corrected. “Still needs a name, though.” He had never much been drawn to the French, but something about his recent association with Madame Perreau and the spectacle with Claude made him consider similar names.

Colette. Odette. Celeste? None of those seemed to fit his scrappy gray feline.

“You become too attached when you name them, sir,” Paxton said.

“That’s the trouble. I am already attached.”

Paxton laughed.

Samuel scooped the cat up, and she allowed him to carry her across the back garden and into the house.

She’d been reticent with every other member of the family and the servants but had taken to Samuel immediately.

Something about the trust she had offered him made him want to step up, to not let her down.

“Marcel,” he said, testing a theory. “Perhaps there is something to Madame Perreau’s madness.”

The cat glanced up at him, blinking her oddly shaped eyes before nuzzling against him. It was decided. Gray cats in Harewood could be ladies, but they had male names.

“What is that doing in my house?” Mother asked, seated on the long sofa in the parlor when Samuel let himself in.

“I’ve found a cat. Paxton marked her clean of disease, so you needn’t fear.” He sat as far from his mother as he could, though, to put her at ease. “We could always use another mouser, I think.”

Mother’s face twisted in distaste. “So long as I do not have to look at it.”

“Unkind, Mother. She is rather sweet.”

“You are being ridiculous, Samuel.”

“When am I not?”

Mother released a long, weary sigh that managed to reach across the room and crawl into Samuel’s bones.

He did not find himself particularly wishing to please his parents.

They had different motivations than he did—money, prestige, status—and they argued far too much for the feeling in their house to remain in good standing for long.

But, in rare moments like this, he felt the pull to reach out and help his mother.

“You could find a wife, Samuel. Someone with enough income to save us from your father’s terrible choices.”

His stomach twisted into a knot. Again, Father’s debts and Samuel’s duty. “There are no heiresses in Harewood. I’m not certain how you feel I shall obtain this woman.”

“Miss Kimball is going to receive a tidy sum.”

“Mother, please . I could not endure conversations with her for the rest of my life.”

“You would rather we were all sent to the workhouse?”

“It would not come to that.”

“You are overly confident,” she muttered.

“Father has stopped gambling.” Even as the words left Samuel’s lips, he wondered if they were true. Mother would not meet his eye. “Has he not?”

“So he says.”

“Then we need not fear. We will correct this. Oliver has been managing his loss of fortune. Surely he can help me?—”

“Do not bring this to his attention,” Mother said fiercely. “The last thing we need is for the family to know of your father’s poor choices.”

Samuel wasn’t convinced they had kept it a secret, but he didn’t say so.

“There is a rumor that Lady Faversham will soon be hosting some guests.”

“A house party?” Samuel inwardly recoiled.

He had recently attended one, and it had turned out poorly.

He’d found the woman he’d loved kissing his cousin.

Yes, Oliver and Ruth were married now, and Samuel was happy for them, but he was not interested in subjecting himself to that again so soon.

It wasn’t easy to make himself vulnerable, to allow himself to develop feelings for a woman, only to watch her fall desperately in love with someone else .

He did not know if he could handle that again. Especially not this soon.

“No, just some visitors. But if she and Lord Faversham are to have people come to stay, then she will throw balls and dinners and parties. It is the way Lady Faversham operates, which means she will be inviting everyone in the county. You will have opportunities beyond the local assemblies to find a wife.”

“And you have already compiled a list of wealthy options for me, Mother?”

“I am not so callous.” She looked as though she had not considered the idea. “If they are to be invited by Lady Faversham, then surely they will already be acceptable.”

“One can be genteel and poor.” Samuel lifted a hand, demonstrating that he was an example of that very thing.

Mother scowled.

He dropped his arm. “I understand what you are saying.” Rising, he took his cat and started toward the door. “I will consider it. If you would like to begin compiling that list, you may.”

“It could only help ,” she said defensively.

Samuel wasn’t sure who she was trying to help, but he knew it wasn’t him.