Page 55 of A Secret Correspondence
“So he does not have many people left in his life. How awful.”
“I had the same thought. He does not have much left to lose.”
Eliza looked at her when they reached the door. “That makes for a dangerous man.”
Chapter Nineteen
Samuel’s legs were growing restless. He had not heard a sound from the front of the shop all afternoon. Once it grew dark, he crept up the stairs and watched the street from Marguerite’s window for a while, but the general Harewood traffic was typically slow, and nothing looked particularly French or out of the ordinary. Though, what would stand out asFrenchto him, he did not know.
He was not entirely certain the blackguard was French, or what he was looking for at all. Would a tormentor wear all black and tie a scarf about their face to avoid detection? Would they wait for the sun to go down and sneak in the shadows, or had the previous successful encounters made them bold?
Two of the letters had been left during daylight hours while Marguerite was in the shop.
Samuel sat hard on the chair at her writing table and scrubbed a hand over his face. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He had made a concentrated effort not to pin the entire ordeal on Leclair in his mind so he would keep an eye out for anyone who looked suspicious, but the factswere all there. Who else would have the knowledge and access to achieve something of this magnitude?
He looked down at his hands and realized they were balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms, leaving half-moons behind. Marguerite did not deserve this. No one did. To be wounded in such a way, using the belongings of her mother, her youth, her memories against her? It was unspeakable.
Samuel wished he could remove the burden at once, eliminate the trouble, and allow her to return to her simple, contented life. He felt powerless, waiting here, doingnothing?—
A sound downstairs sent a cold flush through his body. Someone was moving in the shop below. Had the bell rung, or were they using another means of entrance? He had not heard the bell.
Samuel rose. He crept along the floor, avoiding the floorboard which had creaked earlier. The sounds below were soft but unmistakably inside. Things were being moved about. He needed to be quick, or he would lose his opportunity. Blast his need to watch through the window. If he had been in the parlor, he could be upon the vagrant now!
The stairwell was utterly dark. He skipped the top step and moved slowly over the next two, moving to the other side for the following three. He had tried to find the ones which would make no noise in case this very situation occurred, and now he was exceedingly grateful he’d had the foresight to do so.
His foot pressed down on a creaky stair, a groan screeching out through the dark. Thunder and turf, he hadn’t done well enough.
Holding still, he cocked his ear toward the shop, but it was difficult to hear from this enclosed space. He didn’t want to lose his opportunity to apprehend the man. Samuel took the final three stairs swiftly and stepped into the parlor, then peeked around the open doorway. A dark shadow swung toward hishead, blasting him in the temple. Stars erupted behind his eyes as his body flew to the floor.
Samuel saw all black as he faded from consciousness.
The shrill gasp woke him,but he did not open his eyes. An orange glow lit the darkness behind his eyelids. The edges of a gown pressed against his waist as someone dropped to their knees on the floor beside him. Two hands gently traced the sides of his face before a head dropped on his chest, moving his cravat aside.
“Thank the heavens you are alive,” she breathed.
Marguerite. He knew who it was instinctively, and her voice confirmed it. That gentle French accent which seemed to lessen when they were alone together, the sweet lilt of her words.
“He is in the parlor,” Marguerite called louder, raising her head from his chest. He wanted the pressure of her to remain. “Come, I need help to lift him on the sofa.”
Samuel groaned. A headache made itself known in full force now that his consciousness was returning to him. He tried to push up on his elbow, but Marguerite’s hand firmly held him in place.
“Do not try to move. Jacob is here, and he will assist you.”
“Oh, Sam!” That was certainly Eliza. “Your eye.”
A grunt sounded, likely Ridley, who seemed to agree with her.
Samuel tried to open his eyes. It was a struggle. One was swollen and tender, but the other took in his surroundings, and the women leaning directly over him, shrouded in concern. Marguerite’s pale blue eyes were wild in the light from her candle, wide as they raked over his face, searching for something—whether for more injuries or proof of his wellness, he did not know.
“We must send for Dr. Burnside,” Eliza said.
Ridley stepped forward. “After Samuel is off the floor.” He leaned down, sliding his hand beneath Samuel’s back and raising him to a seated position. “Tell me when you are ready.”
Marguerite stood, moving the candle out of their path.
Samuel watched her, waiting for the room to cease its unnatural tilting. He had a feeling it might not, so he grit his teeth. “Ready.”
Ridley supported him but let him stand on his own. They walked toward the sofa, and he helped Samuel to sit upon it.
