Page 81 of A Secret Correspondence
“How did your family know this man?” Oliver asked, stealing their attention as he tied the knot around Paul’s wrists.
“He was a Catholic priest,” Marguerite said, slipping her hand from Samuel’s. Her voice sounded weak. “My father hid him when they were rounding up priests to send to the guillotine, and someone in our village reported him for it. No one found Paul, but the authorities took my father for it anyway. They did not require proof.”
Oliver’s face showed disgust as he completed the knot.
“We will deliver him to the magistrate immediately,” Jacob said.
“I think we ought to return to Locksley,” Oliver said. “They have a secure gaol there.”
“Yes, that is wise.” Samuel nodded his agreement. “Should you take our signed witnesses? Or do you think we can bring them later?”
“Marguerite should not need to live through this again tonight. We will speak to the magistrate and inform you of his answer,” Oliver said.
Samuel nodded.
Marguerite watched this discussion, her heart lifting toward her throat. She shook her head. “You are not all angry with me?”
Three pairs of confused eyes turned to face her.
“Angry?” Jacob asked. “Why would you think that?”
Her voice was small when she finally had the courage to answer. “Because of all the lies I have told.”
Samuel’s eyebrows shot up. “Falsifying a widowed status in order to run a shop seems a generally harmless scheme to me.”
“And the matter of you being a countess?” Oliver said. “Ruth will be thrilled to hear that.”
“I am not,” Marguerite said. “Those titles were abolished twenty years ago.”
“Yes, but your parents were,” Samuel said, “which will feel very much the same thing to Ruth.”
“I take it the nephew who contributed Peter’s sleeping gown was not your nephew?” Jacob asked.
Marguerite nodded. “I was afraid if I revealed that he was my cousin, you would guess how long it has been since I lived in France. I have built my trade on being a Frenchwoman. I did not wish for people to know that I have lived most of my life on English soil.”
Oliver smiled warmly at her. “Nothing that man said will drive us away from you, Marguerite. Or—would you prefer to be called by your birth name?”
“No.” She fought the emotion burning in her eyes. “I am Marguerite Perreau. It is my identity now, and it is how I would like to remain. The Comte and Comtesse Agnon will always be my parents, but they are my past. This is my future.”
The men seemed to understand. “But you approve of us telling our wives, I assume?” Oliver asked.
“Of course.” She worried they would be hurt by her deception, but she took a step of faith, hoping they would understand as their husbands had. “I know they can be trusted not to speak of it to anyone else.”
“We should leave before it grows too light,” Jacob said.
“Or Mrs. Chatham is found on the High Street to witnessour extraction.” Oliver started toward the door. “I will fetch the carriage.”
Marguerite took a step back and looked at Paul lying on the floor, his hands and ankles bound and face slack. He had not regained consciousness, and Marguerite hoped he did not do so until he had been carried from the shop. She hoped never to see or speak to him again. Hurt still filled her body at his betrayal. Seeing him now, the proof of all he had done to her was a pain unlike any other.
She lifted her gaze away, unwilling to look at him any longer. “Jacob, if you find a key to his house, will you take it? I would like to search for my mother’s trunk.”
Jacob’s eyes gleamed. “I will look right now.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It had taken every ounce of strength Samuel had not to sweep Marguerite into his arms the moment she was freed from the chair. He was doing his best to respect her needs, and he recognized she had been put through more in the last evening than any person should have to endure in their entire life.
He leaned against the wall while they waited for Oliver to fetch his carriage. Jacob bent over Paul, rolling the man’s body to gain access to his pockets. When he pulled a small key from the jacket, he frowned. “This is all he has, and I promise it does not open a door.”
