Page 45 of A Secret Correspondence
“I do not like the idea of someone leaving the note while youarehere,” Oliver said.
Marguerite nodded. “We are agreed on that score.”
“We shall fill their calendar,” Samuel said. “You host a tea, and I will host…cards? Dinner?” He considered the expense of such an event and swallowed his reservations. Marguerite’s safety was more important than his purse.
“A musical evening,” Ruth suggested. “Young ladies do so love to show off their skill, and with your recent interest in Miss Farrow, it will be a natural thing for you to do. I will send out cards for battledore and shuttlecock in our ballroom. I am certain that will inspire the men of Faversham to come show off their prowess, and if the weather is fine,we can take the sport outside.”
“After being certain Leclair knows Marguerite will be attending the events, one of us will remain here to watch for the intruder,” Oliver suggested.
“That is too dangerous,” Marguerite breathed, shaking her head. “I will not ask that of you.”
“You are not asking,” Samuel said bluntly. “Is it not better to catch the blackguard in the act? I approve of that plan.”
“As do I.” Ruth looked at her husband with admiration. She swiveled her gaze to Marguerite. “You really ought to see these men fence. That would put your fears to rest.”
The horses whinnied on the street, frustrated for sitting so long in one attitude, undoubtedly.
Oliver took his wife’s hand. “We should move before we attract suspicion.”
Samuel followed him toward the door, Marguerite at their tail. She did not appear to have been put at ease, but the plan was a good one. If the man was going to continue along his same pattern, he would wait a few days more before leaving another note with further instructions, likely when Marguerite was out of the shop. That was enough to allow Samuel to leave her, but only just. His stomach still tightened at the doorway.
“Are you certain you will not leave this place, just for the evening?”
“I am capable of caring for myself,” she said. “Good night, Samuel.”
He dipped a bow and walked toward his curricle, climbing onto the driver’s bench and taking the reins from Oliver’s groom. He looked over his shoulder, surveying the darkened High Street of Harewood, but nothing was amiss. The waxing moon lit it well and no man-shaped shadows made themselves known.
With a wave to his friends, he drove off, but the slippery feeling of being watched did not leave him.
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 theexistenceof 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 toponder 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.
