God, what had he done? Taking Marguerite like that, using her to prove something to himself. No wonder she was disgusted with him. He sighed and dropped down onto the side of the bed. What a mess. Minshom had told Marguerite the worst of his sexual secrets and then shocked him by revealing that Marguerite had secrets of her own.

And despite what he’d tried to say to Marguerite, he had been shocked. Worse still, Marguerite had seen through him and realized it as well. He shoved his wet hair back from his face, shivered as freezing water drops rained on his bare shoulders. What the hell had been going on in that marriage to make Marguerite cuckold her husband with his own lover?

He focused on the rug at his feet and made himself think logically. Much better to think than to dwell on the fact that Marguerite knew the worst about him . . . He forced his thoughts away from his humiliation.

None of the explanations he’d heard about Marguerite’s marriage made sense, not if he factored in what he knew of her, or thought he knew. It was as if Marguerite had decided she was guilty and had deliberately set out to hurt him, to force him away from her. And she’d damned near succeeded. For a moment, he’d been so confused that he had to put some distance between them.

With a shudder, he got under the covers and lay down. Whatever happened, they weren’t done. He would insist on seeing her in London whether she liked it or not. He smiled savagely at the ceiling. He’d finally beaten Minshom, and Marguerite had helped him do that. She might think she was unworthy of him, but he knew better, knew she’d helped him become the man he should’ve been all along.

She now knew the worst about him, but he still wasn’t clear about her past, and he wanted to be. He needed to find out exactly what she had done. He closed his eyes. One thing was clear to him: there was no way in hell he was ever going to lose her again.

22

“I’m fine, Mrs. Jones, really I am.” To Marguerite’s dismay, Mrs. Jones continued to flap around her as she tried to climb the stairs. “I’m just fatigued by the journey.”

She entered her bedroom and tried to shut the door behind herself, but she wasn’t quick enough to evict her companion, who was still eying her with every appearance of concern. Marguerite took off her bonnet and rubbed her aching temples. Rather than drive back with Anthony, she’d begged a ride from one of the other couples. Unfortunately, the couple she’d chosen hadn’t enjoyed their weekend together, and she’d been the unwilling witness to a fine display of marital disharmony for the entire three hours of the journey.

“I’ll get them to send you up some tea, shall I?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“That would be nice, and perhaps a tisane for my headache.” She managed to smile. “Thank you, Lily.”

“It’s nothing, my dear.” Mrs. Jones sniffed. “Even though you’ve taken to jaunting off around the countryside without me, I am supposed to be your companion.”

“Indeed you are.” Marguerite closed her eyes as her maid pulled off her boots and unbuttoned her pelisse. “I think I’ll drink my tea and go to bed for a while.”

In truth, she couldn’t wait to be alone in her own bed, to find shelter in the familiar. To try to pretend that she hadn’t been engaged in a torrid affair with the son of a marquis but had simply dreamed it all.

It felt like she had barely closed her eyes before there was a commotion outside her door and a familiar voice demanding to see her. Even though she knew it was no use, she rolled into the far corner of the bed and put her pillow over her head.

“Marguerite, I know you’re in there.”

She opened one eye to glare at her sister Lisette. “I’m asleep. Didn’t Mrs. Jones tell you?”

Lisette sat on the side of the bed, making the mattress dip and bounce Marguerite toward her.

“She did, but I want to know what happened this weekend.”

Marguerite sat up and eyed her sister. “I thought you weren’t talking to me. And how do you know what I did this weekend anyway?”

Lisette smiled. “I have my sources. In truth, the whole family knows you went to Charles Lockwood’s country house with Anthony Sokorvsky.” She leaned forward. “How was it?”

“None of your business.”

“Marguerite! You have to tell me something.” Lisette folded her arms. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

Marguerite grabbed her cream silk dressing gown from where it lay at the foot of her bed and put it on. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, knew she looked like a pale ghost next to Lisette’s liveliness and golden beauty.

“I really don’t have anything to tell you.”

“But Mrs. Jones said you returned without Anthony. So something must have happened.”

Marguerite closed her eyes. “Lisette, will you just go away?”

There was silence, and then she felt Lisette’s hands close over hers. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

Her sister’s suddenly gentle tone was enough to start Marguerite crying again. God, she was sick of crying over men and the ruin of her reputation.

“Marguerite . . .”

“I can’t tell you.” She managed to choke out the words. “It’s too complicated.”

“Did Anthony Sokorvsky hurt you?”

The steel in Lisette’s voice almost amused Marguerite. Despite her sister’s deliberately frivolous exterior, she was as sharp and protective as their mother.

“No, he was the perfect gentleman. He was . . .” She shook her head. “It wasn’t him, it was me. I’m the one who ran away.”

Lisette drew Marguerite closer, put one arm around her shaking shoulders and held her tight. She lapsed into the colloquial French they’d grown up using. “Ssh . . . you are perfect, you are my big sister, you deserve the best man in the world, and if Anthony Sokorvsky isn’t good enough for you, then so be it.”

“He is good enough,” Marguerite said fiercely. “I’m not good enough for him.”

“I doubt that.” Lisette handed Marguerite her handkerchief. “Please don’t cry. Come home and talk to Maman, and we’ll sort everything out.”

Marguerite took the handkerchief and wiped at her tears, looking her sister in the face for the first time. “Non, Lisette. I don’t think even Maman can fix this.”


After she finally got rid of Lisette, Marguerite’s day dragged on interminably. She’d spoken to her housekeeper, dined with Mrs. Jones and retired to her sitting room to contemplate the fire and supposedly embroider a set of handkerchiefs for Philip’s upcoming birthday. When she was sure she was alone, she took out the package Lord Minshom had left her and put it on her lap.

Her fingers shook when she attempted to untie the blue ribbon. Did she really believe this was Harry’s account of the events surrounding the duel, or was the whole thing merely a fabrication, another twist in Minshom’s plan to blacken her name? It was also possible that Minshom hadn’t intended her to have the information at all and had left it at the cottage by mistake. She tugged uselessly at the knotted ribbon, and then used her embroidery scissors to saw through the silk.

She unfolded the pages; the top piece was written in a different handwriting than the rest—Minshom’s hand. She whispered the words he’d written into the stillness.

“Sir Harry is staying at the Jugged Hare Inn by Saint Katherine’s dock until Tuesday morning when he will take a ship back to France. I suggest you go and meet him. Yours, Minshom.”

She glanced at the clock. It was already seven o’clock and dark outside. Could she persuade Christian to come to the inn with her? Sir Harry would be gone by the next morning, and she could hardly expect Anthony to oblige her. She placed her hand flat over the page, felt the rough edge of the ink from Minshom’s flashy signature under her palm. Why would Minshom choose to help her now? Did the man have a conscience after all?


“Anthony?”

Anthony looked up to see Valentin standing in the shadows at the door to his office. He stacked the pages left on his desk into a neat pile and closed the last ledger.

“Good evening, Val.”

Valentin strolled farther into the office, his keen violet gaze assessing both his brother and the contents of his desk.

“You’re here very late. It’s almost seven.”

Anthony gave him a brief smile. “I know, and I also know I’m not supposed to be here at all.”

“As to that,” Valentin said, “perhaps I was a little hasty. I never meant to imply that your work here wasn’t appreciated.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re feeling well, Val? I’ve never heard you sound so conciliatory.”

His brother shrugged. “Maybe I’ve learned my lesson and decided not to meddle anymore.”

Anthony sighed. “I’m glad that you did. I realized there was some truth in what you said. That I needed to assert myself, to decide what I wanted out of life, rather than forever seeing myself as a victim.”

“Did I really say all that? I thought I just told you to find a new job.” Val sat down in the chair in front of Anthony’s desk and studied the toes of his well-polished black boots.

“You know it was much more than that.” Anthony let out his breath. “And I’ve decided to do what you suggested. I’ll talk to Father; see if I can lift some of the burden of the estate from his shoulders.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Val frowned. “You were right: that was an incredibly selfish suggestion of mine.” He winced. “Sara and Peter haven’t let me forget it.”

“Val, I am seriously worried about you. Since when have you ever cared what anyone else thought?”

Val got up and walked across to the grimy window, his expression obscured by the gathering shadows in the ill-lit room. “Since I realized that despite my doubts, my son might not thank me for repudiating his heritage, for denying him his rank and place in society.”