Percy walked into the ballroom, Marguerite on his arm. Immediately, an inquisitive throng surrounded them. It was Marguerite who was the center of attention, of course. Percy watched with amusement and resignation as every male in the room fell madly in love with his wife.
Armand walked up to Percy. "Don't be too worried, brother." The boy said in a laughing tone. "She's handled tougher crowds than this, back in France." He smiled as his sister's musical laughter rang out. "And she always won them over."
His expression suddenly serious, he asked, "Can we talk in private?"
Percy sighed with resignation, and led the boy outside. "Here. No one can come close to us, or listen in, not that our guests will be looking at us."
Armand remained serious. "Percy, did the doctor come by again?"
"Yes, Armand, and he said that Marguerite should not be told anything yet. He believes that the truth-that you were arrested and almost executed-would be too much for her."
"Percy, the doctor wasn't told everything. And Marguerite knows that we are hiding something from her. I have never lied to her in my life, except for my involvement in the League, and you see where that led us. If she had known-" Armand broke off as Percy shuddered and turned away.
After taking several deep breaths the older man turned around. Armand was aghast to see the look of torment in the older man's eyes. "Do you think I haven't agonized over this again and again? I put you in danger. I practically led her to Paris, into Chauvelin's hands. It was my fault you and she were arrested, and almost killed. How do you think I felt that night, as Grappin, watching him with the two of you, unable to stop Chauvelin, powerless to even speak to you? He tried to coerce her into his bed, did you know that? I had to watch my wife walk down to a dungeon, thinking that she was being led to her execution. I tried to convince Chauvelin to let me "question" her. He wouldn't even let me in as a priest, so I could reassure the two of you." He straightened up. "I won't put her through any more trauma if I can avoid it."
Armand glared at his brother-in-law. "Percy, I don't care what the doctor said. I know my sister. She is not some frail little creature who will collapse and take to her bed if we tell her the truth. She knows that we are not telling her everything. I never liked keeping this secret from her, I told you so enough times. Besides, if we don't explain this to her and soon, she'll find out some other way. And she won't be happy that we deceived her."
He bit his lip. "You are her husband, Percy. I swore when she married you that I wouldn't interfere, that I would do nothing that would come between the two of you. I have kept that vow, because I was taught that no one should intrude in a marriage. I always knew someday my sister would marry; and I would have to step aside and let another protect her. But I tell you now, this silence is a mistake." He hesitated for a moment, looking at the older man. Then, realizing that Percy was not going to answer him, he sighed and walked back indoors.
Percy leaned against a wall. What was he to do? He couldn't ignore the doctor's opinion, but surely Armand knew his sister better than anyone. Of course, the boy didn't know everything that had happened since the wedding. He laughed harshly. If Armand did find out, he would probably punch him in the jaw, grab his sister and leave Richmond. God, could he possibly feel any more guilt? Armand trusted him with the most important person in his life, and he had failed the boy miserably.
In Paris, courting Marguerite, he had insisted that Armand would be welcome in his home. He was genuinely fond of the boy, although honesty compelled him to admit that he would have taken in Marguerite's brother under any circumstances. He had been so eager to marry her; he would have happily kept any number of brothers. Having never had any siblings, or close family, it was a complete surprise to him just how much Armand had come to mean to him. The thought of losing his brother-in-law's trust and friendship was almost as painful as the notion of losing his wife.
Face it, Percy, you are a coward. You're afraid that if-when she remembers, she'll hate you for the way you treated her. You've had it easy, these last few days, courting her again. And why not? She has no idea of what happened, the estrangement that you created between you. She has no reason to think that this was anything but a normal marriage.
He stopped his restless movements, considering. Marie Tussaud. Yes! She was a woman, an old friend of Marguerite's, a trusted member of the League, and most importantly, she knew everything about his wife's past. He would send for her. She would definitely know how to tell Marguerite. Seeing Tony and Ozzy arrive, his spirits lifted as he went to listen to their report.
Marguerite slipped out onto the terrace overlooking the lawn, evading a group of infatuated young men. She frowned. Her husband and brother were keeping secrets from her, protecting her; she had known that ever since she had awakened on the Sir Percy's yacht, the Day Dream. How had she been wounded? And what was Armand doing in France? He refused to give her any details, saying only that his arrest was the result of a simple misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that had somehow ended up with her being injured. And what of those visions of hers? Were they memories or nightmares? She knew one thing; if Chauvelin was involved, there had been no "simple misunderstanding".
She rubbed her forehead. What had she told her husband about her past? Did he know about her liaison with Chauvelin? She turned and looked inside. He was so tall, so handsome, and so…British. Standing at the side of the ballroom, looking extremely bored as he chatted with his friends Ozzy and Tony, there was no hint of the ardent lover she had had such brief glimpses of.
Everything she had ever understood of the English came back to her. They were pompous. They were hypocrites, preaching morality while practicing vice behind closed doors, looking down their noses at the French for their "licentious" behavior.
She froze as she heard two women speak. "-remember that Frenchman in black, my dear! He was so virile, so masculine! And those intense eyes! I swear, I felt positively ravished every time he looked at me!" Her companion laughed scornfully. "My dear, he wasn't ravishing you with his eyes. He was looking at Lady Blakeney. The poor woman looked like a wounded bird trying to fly away from a cat all during the reception. And of course, he was positively apoplectic about Sir Percy's little poem about the Scarlet Pimpernel. He was supposedly here as an ambassador, but I'll bet that he was sent here to spy. Of course, I wouldn't stoop to gossip. By the way, have you heard about Lady Beaconsfield and her groom…"
Marguerite stood at the terrace door, paralyzed. Frenchman in black? Intense eyes? Chauvelin, in England? It had to be! And what of this Scarlet Pimpernel, the brave man whom, with apparently no motive, saved innocents from Madam Guillotine?
"Why, Lady Blakeney, you haven't spoken to me all night," a slurred voice broke through her stupor. She turned to look at the man standing on the steps leading from the lawn. Dieu, what was the idiot's name? Harris? Havington? She had met so many people tonight… He moved closer, and she groaned inwardly at the expression in his eyes. Another amorous drunk.
"Excuse me, monsieur. I must find my husband." She moved towards the ballroom. Before she could enter, a soft, sweaty hand grasped her elbow. She jerked away with a moue of distaste. "Why the hurry, Lady Blakeney? Why don't we go down to the garden, and you can show me your-acting skills. I've always been interested in the-theatre." He leered down at her, ignoring the expression of nausea on her face.
As he tried to pull her down the stairs, she pivoted, and with one smooth, practiced movement drove her heel into the top of his foot. Thank goodness he's not wearing boots, she thought, as he howled and let go of her arm, hopping up and down on one foot, then stumbling down the stairs.
At the sound of a chuckle behind her, she stiffened, then turned to the figure in the shadows. "Very nice, little brother. How long were you there?"
"Just long enough to see you cripple the poor fool, little mother. You haven't lost your touch at all." Armand drew closer, still smiling. Seeing the expression on her face, he grew serious. "Marguerite? Are you all right? Did he hurt you? By God, I'll-" Her brother started to move towards the limping shape on the lawn.
She caught his arm. "No, Armand! He was just another inebriated fool. I-I'm just a little tired, that's all. Take me inside, please. I should return to our guests."
As he walked her inside, she thought, Marie. You almost certainly confided in Marie. She would write to her friend and ask for the older woman's counsel.
She fixed a smile on her face and returned to the party as the Prince of Wales arrived. Her thoughts raced under the calm demeanor. If her brother and husband were so determined to treat her as if she were a fragile flower, she would have to take matters into her own hands. Tomorrow.