There were still many roses blooming in the mid-summer heat. Lady Marguerite Blakeney sat on her balcony, looking down into the garden. She knew she had a fatuous smirk on her face. She had been unable to stop smiling since Percy had awakened her that morning. She had long suspected that her husband would be an eager lover, and last night he had proved her correct. More than once.
Why had she waited so long for him to make the first overture? He was so British, so proper, he would never have "taken advantage" of the "invalid" without the necessary push. She had been carefully plotting for days; the clinging dress, the careful flirtations at the party; all designed to pull a husband's possessive instincts to the surface. When he took her back to her room and left her at the door, she had been astonished that the strategy had seemingly failed.
But he had come to her room later, and finally ended the game they had been playing. It had been an enjoyable game. Still, anticipation was one thing, frustration was another.
She stretched, feeling pleasantly exhausted. The only thing that kept this morning from being perfect was the fact that Percy had been called to Carleton House. Oh, well. He would be back tomorrow, and they would go to his "cottage". She snorted. Cottage, indeed! If that place had less than four bedrooms, she would be amazed.
She dressed and skipped gleefully down the stairs. Armand was in the library. He looked up and smiled as his sister came in. "Hello, little mother. You look wonderful."
She smiled at her brother. "I feel wonderful, little brother. Lovely party, wasn't it?" She pulled a bellcord for the maid and ordered her usual fruit and milk for breakfast.
She blushed as Armand continued to study her. There were some things that one didn't talk about with a younger brother.
"Lady Blakeney?" The young maid cautiously peered around the corner. "There is a young person here to see you. She doesn't have a card, but she insists that she's an old friend. She says to tell you that Christine Damas is here."
Marguerite shared a startled glance with her brother. "Send her in, please." Christine? How many years had it been? They rose as a young girl of no more than seventeen walked into the room. "Marguerite &endash; I mean, Lady Blakeney…"
Marguerite interrupted the girl's stammering. "For goodness' sake, child, you know better than that." She walked to the girl and hugged her. After a moment's hesitation, the girl returned the embrace, then turned and nodded shyly at Armand, who responded coolly. "Hello, Christine. How did you get to England?"
As her brother talked to the girl, Marguerite ordered some tea with her fruit. She turned to look at them. Little Christine…Marguerite had known her parents from the theater. Pierre Damas, a set designer, and Anne-Marie, a seamstress under Marie Tussad. Both of them were Republicans, active in their group. When the Terror had begun, they had snatched Christine, her brothers and sisters, and fled to the countryside. Marguerite had loaned them money to set up a small business.
"How are your parents, dear?" Marguerite asked as the girl sipped some tea.
"They are in London, with my brothers and sisters." Christine said. She took a deep breath. "We're going to emigrate, to America. But when we heard that you were here in England, they insisted that I come and say hello. They can't come themselves, because they are so busy making arrangements."
"They let you come alone?" Armand asked in surprise.
Christine raised her eyebrows. "Heavens, Armand, how proper and British you have both become! After the past few years in France, travelling alone is hardly a hazard. Especially," she laughed bitterly, "after the last few weeks."
Marguerite shook her head. "Robespierre and his Terror. Damn the man! I can hardly believe how far the Republic has fallen from the ideals that we started with."
Christine shot her a startled look. Marguerite sighed. She knew what the girl was thinking. Republican ideals, from a woman who had married an English aristo? But the girl's next words stilled the reply on her lips.
"I thought the two of you would know! Robespierre has fallen! He is sentenced to the guillotine, along with Louis St Just, and his other compatriots. They are likely already dead."
Marguerite felt the chill spread throughout her body. "The others? Does that include…Chauvelin?" Your voice sounds normal &endash; how odd, Marguerite. Still, it was a logical question. Marguerite and Armand were both Republicans, and had been unable to avoid occasional contact with Chauvelin these last few years.
Christine looked at her with some surprise. "Why, Chauvelin was killed in a riot the same day that Robespierre was arrested."
Marguerite gripped the arms of the chair. The world swayed around her, and she heard her brother's worried voice. "Margot? Are you all right?"
She shook herself and stood up. "I &endash; I'm all right, Armand. It's just…no one should die like that. No one. Why don't you …show Christine around the gardens."
She walked with her brother and the girl to the door, then collapsed into a chair. Mon Dieu! Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself.
Grief. Good heavens, she was feeling grief. And underneath, a sense of freedom. Safety. Relief.
She stopped and considered the facts.
One, she had arrived to England and married Percy in the late spring. Two, she had awakened, injured on a boat heading away from France a few weeks later. Three, her brother had sported various bruises, claiming that a small misunderstanding had gotten him arrested (and what the devil had Armand been doing in France, anyway?). Four, she was still having terrifying visions of Chauvelin. Five…her brother and her husband had a great deal to explain to her.
Obviously, she had gone to France to assist Armand. And somehow been injured in the process. She frowned. But then why were Percy and Armand keeping things from her? Percy, she could understand; he was an English gentleman, but Armand knew better than to protect his sister from the harsh realities of life. She was his protector, always had been.
She straightened up in the chair. All right. No more hiding. You've been avoiding this since waking up on the boat. How was Chauvelin involved with …whatever had occurred in France?
Chauvelin. She had been only nineteen, passionate about the Republican cause, furious at the constant promises of reform given by a weak king, who withdrew them as soon as the nobles demanded to keep their ancient privileges. When the people's anger exploded, she had willingly joined the attack on the Bastille. That day she met Chauvelin. She had heard of him in her circle, the former soldier who advocated an open revolution, but she had never even seen him. Nor could she have expected the passion that burned between them. He had seduced her within one month of their meeting. Seduced? She shook her head. No, she was hardly a ruined virgin, like the fictitious Clarissa. And whatever his faults, Chauvelin was no libertine, no Locke debauching innocents. She had wanted him as much as he wanted her, had gone to him willingly, with all the passion of her ardent nature. Honesty compelled her to admit that. She had not been his victim. In that way, at least.
And it had been she who had ended it. Horrified by the direction that the Revolution was taking, sickened by the savagery that her lover displayed, she had ended it.
She clenched her fists. What had his reaction been to her marriage? Somehow, she could not think that he had taken it well. Had he arrested her brother to pay her back? If so, how in the name of Heaven did Armand escape?
And her injury. She touched her forehead. What was it the doctor had said that first day? That it looked like a gunshot? She could not imagine Chauvelin firing a gun at her.
Face it, Marguerite. You have lost almost half a year. You don't know what Chauvelin was capable of, these last few months. He stayed away from you &endash;most of the time &endash; while you remained in Paris and turned away all suitors. But do you really think that he just sat back and watched you leave to marry an English aristocrat?
"Well, I put Christine in her coach. She - Marguerite? Are you certain you're all right?" Armand was standing over her, a worried frown on his face. She looked up at him.
"Armand, I…" She broke off. No. This was between her and Percy. She gazed at the portrait on the wall and prayed for him to come home soon. She wanted no more secrets between them.