Page 38 of A Secret Correspondence
However, she was still his friend. It would be natural for him to ascertain that she was safe. He eyed the door only a few feet away and reached for the handle just as it turned, allowing a servant to enter the room bearing a tray of small cakes. Samuel pushed from the wall, slipped into the corridor, and nearly collided with Marguerite.
He took her by the shoulders to steady them both, and she looked up, fear flashing in her eyes. It quickly disappeared, but Samuel did not miss the fierceness of it.
“You ran from our dance,” he said, somewhat flippantly. “Should I be hurt to find you hiding here?”
“I am not hiding.” She straightened, taking a step back along the wall so Samuel’s hands would drop from her shoulders. “I needed some air.”
He peered into her eyes. She was hiding something, but he would not press her too much. “The balcony is open. I believe the autumn air is plenty cool out there.”
“Yes, but traveling through the crowd to reach it seemed impossible. This door was open and far closer. I took advantage of an opportunity when no one was looking.”
Samuel drew in a breath to keep his voice calm, but inside his heart began to pound. “Did Leclair do anything to harm you?”
“No, of course not.” She shook her head vehemently.
Samuel weighed his words. He lowered his head, peering into her eyes, and lowered his voice. “You cannot expect me toeasily accept that nothing untoward occurred during your set when you required an escape directly after it.”
Marguerite’s troubled brow wrinkled, and Samuel fought the desire to smooth it with his thumb. She glanced behind him, where servants were using the door to carry trays of food into the ballroom and empty trays out of it. A veritable army of liveried footmen streamed past them, but his attention was fastened on her.
She looked into his eyes. “I was reminded of unhappy memories, that is all. Mr. Leclair has done nothing but put me in a bitter mood. Forgive my rudeness for not being present when our set began.”
“You are forgiven,” he said at once. Nothing about her demeanor was putting him at ease, though. He had not known Marguerite to be anything but formidable. She faced dragons each day in her shop and managed them with finesse. To be felled by a memory was startling. “Shall I fetch Ruth and Oliver? Would you like to be taken home?”
“No, of course not. I only needed a moment to collect myself.”
“We need not dance. I was told the garden is open if you would prefer to spend our set there. Lady Faversham boasts of her hedge maze, but there is an Italian garden as well, with people walking in it. It would be an appropriate way to pass the time.”
Marguerite looked past him, down the corridor, her expression full of concern.
“Unless you would rather find a quiet chair and rest?” he questioned. It took restraint not to press her for more information. What was so troubling about her past that made her pale skin void of all color? Had Leclair said something to frighten her, or to put her out of countenance?
Shaking her head, Marguerite placed her hand upon his arm. “A walk in the garden sounds pleasant. I am surprised they would leave it open at this time of the year.”
“I do not imagine anyone will remain outdoors for long. But the ballroom is hot, so a moment in the fresh air is nice. Shall we return behind the next servant and their overloaded tray? I will lead you toward the doors, and we can walk the garden as long as you need to restore your constitution, Marguerite.”
Her blue eyes snapped to him. Swallowing, she nodded her approval. It was a blessing no one else had come upon them in the corridor like this, and when the next tall footman approached from the antechamber, Samuel stepped behind him and through the door into the ballroom, Marguerite just behind. If anyone noticed their entrance, they were ignored. Samuel believed the footman and the pillars did much to protect them from the view of most people in the room. He offered Marguerite his bent elbow, and she placed a trembling hand on his arm.
“Fresh air, madam?” he said loudly.
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
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 notunreasonable. 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.
