Page 40 of A Secret Correspondence
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 spreadgossip 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 waswilling 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.
