Chapter Twenty-eight

Ned was happy. No, not just happy. Euphoric.

It was all he could do to keep from shouting for joy.

She was his! Marguerite had given her word—she had promised to marry him. He laughed aloud when he thought about her worry that his family would not accept her. They would adore her. She was intelligent, talented, independent—all the things his parents and sisters admired. Even his brothers would approve.

Clivers appeared, prepared to give Ned his morning shave. Ned was perfectly capable of shaving himself, and of dressing himself as well. He would actually prefer to do for himself, especially this morning, but that would leave Clivers without a job, and Clivers supported a wife and child back at Penworth. Or was it children?

Ned leaned back in the chair while Clivers tucked a towel around his neck. “How many children do you have now, Clivers?”

“Three, my lord.” The valet stropped the razor impassively.

Ned blinked. He had forgotten two? “You must miss them. And their mother, of course.”

Clivers lathered the brush in the shaving mug, still impassively. “I know they will always be safe at Penworth while I am away.” He held the brush toward Ned. “If you please, my lord.”

Ned closed his mouth and allowed Clivers to get on with the shave. Silently, as always. The valet never had much to say. Of course, Ned had never asked much about him. He did not really know much about Clivers, and that was probably his own fault. He could excuse himself by claiming that he did not want to pry, but actually, he had never been particularly interested.

When he and Marguerite were married, they would certainly not live with his parents at Penworth. A country estate in Dorset was not the ideal place for a concert pianist. Or was it? Ned did not know. Perhaps a home in the country was precisely what she would want when she was not on a concert tour.

But it wouldn’t be Penworth. They would need a home of their own—a base, so to speak. Perhaps Clivers’ family would not mind relocating to wherever he and Marguerite settled. But that might not even be in England. He also did a good bit of traveling himself, though in his case it was to various libraries for research.

A sudden qualm crossed his mind. “Clivers, do you mind that I drag you away from your family so often?”

“Your service is not precisely onerous employment, sir.” The valet permitted himself a slight smile as he removed the towel and allowed Ned to stand. “And there is a certain interest in visiting different places and encountering different people.”

Hmm. “Clivers, what do you make of the ladies’ maids here?”

“The French ladies, do you mean?” Clivers looked disapproving. “They did not arrive with maids of their own.”

“No?” Ned halted in the middle of tying his neck cloth, but recovered quickly. “No, probably not. They went through a bad time of it in Paris, with the siege, and then the death of Mlle. Benda’s father.”

“Dreadful, I’m sure.” Clivers held out a woolen waistcoat for Ned.

“But surely one or two of the maids here have been assigned to them.”

“The young lady, Mlle. de Roncaille, makes use of one of the parlor maids. The other two ladies do for themselves.” Disapproval dripped from his tone.

“They do?” That did startle Ned. He was not sure his mother and sisters actually knew how to get themselves dressed without assistance. Perhaps…perhaps that would be a bit of luxury he could offer Marguerite. There was so much about her life that he did not know.

He shrugged his shoulders to settle his coat as Clivers whisked off an almost certainly nonexistent bit of lint, just as he always did. Ned nodded his thanks, Clivers nodded his acceptance, and Ned stepped out into the corridor.

Near the top of the stairs, he hesitated. Had Marguerite already gone down? He thought he could hear sounds of movement coming from her room, so he waited. Moments later, he was rewarded when Marguerite stepped out.

She was still dressed in black, a plain dress with none of the ruffles and ribbons that decorated Delphine, and her hair was still dressed simply, though not pulled back as tightly as it had been in the past. Somehow she looked softer. Perhaps it was because a bit of color had replaced the pallor in her cheeks.

Perhaps it was because the minute she saw him, a smile lit her face until she glowed.

He basked in the pleasure of that smile until he came to himself again and held out an arm for her. She took it, and they descended the staircase together, not needing any words.

Laughter was coming from the breakfast room, and he could hear Delphine’s teasing voice: “Come now, you must take your medicine.”

“It tastes foul,” Tony protested.

Ned and Marguerite halted in the doorway. Delphine had the bottle of Tony’s tonic in one hand, and was holding a spoon to his mouth. “Do not be a baby,” she admonished. “You know your stomach has been bothering you again.”

Ned heard Marguerite suck in a breath and her fingers dug into his arm. Startled, he turned and saw a look of horror on her face. Before he could ask what was wrong, she flew at Delphine, knocking the spoon aside and sending the medicine splashing onto the tablecloth before she snatched the bottle from the girl’s hand.

They all stared at her, startled into silence. The first to move was Delphine, who flew at her cousin with a shriek, her hands curved into claws. Curses, mostly in French, spewed from her lips. It had never occurred to Ned that Delphine might know such words.

Marguerite, her face a pale, frozen mask once more, simply stepped back to avoid the attack, leaving it to Ned to grab hold of Delphine.

Tony remained in his seat, looking utterly confused. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “It’s just the tonic Dr. Fernac gave me.”

“I think that perhaps it does not really agree with you,” Marguerite said, still with no expression on her face. “You seemed to be doing better when you were not taking it.”

Delphine sagged against Ned and began to sob, but when he loosened his grip on her, she broke free and ran from the room.

“Let her go,” said Marguerite, never even looking at her cousin. “It does not matter.”

“Well, if it doesn’t matter, I think I’ll be off.” Tony threw his napkin down on the table and scowled at Marguerite. “I don’t know what the problem is with you and your cousin, but I don’t feel well and I don’t much care for all these dramatics at breakfast.”

Ned put his hand on Marguerite’s shoulder. She seemed immobile, but he could feel a tremble, as if it was deep inside her. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

With a faint shake of her head, she turned aside.

“Marguerite, you must tell me.” He turned her to face him, but she kept her eyes lowered. “Tell me,” he insisted.

Still refusing to meet his eye, she said. “You do not want to know.”

“Of course I want to know. You are upset. How could I not want to know?”

“I may be mistaken.” She looked up at him then. “You must understand that. I may be mistaken.”

He nodded. “I understand. You may be mistaken—but about what?”

“It was just…” She bit down on her lower lip. “I told you that her uncle died.”

“The one who wanted to take her back to the school?”

“Yes. He had pains in his stomach, you see. Difficulties. Much like Antoine. And one day, I saw Delphine giving him his medicine. It was just like today. The same gestures. The same words.” She looked away again.

“I can see that it might be a sad memory, but…”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, you do not see. He swallowed the medicine. And by evening he was dead.”

“You can’t possibly mean… You can’t think…” Ned shook his head in disbelief. “Even if she could do such a thing, why would she?”

“Her uncle wanted to take her back to the school where she had been. She did not want to go. She was quite passionate about it. But she began fussing about his health. I thought she was trying to convince him that she should stay with us.”

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before she continued. “Antoine had been feeling better, remember? But then he began feeling ill again. After he said that if the treasure is real, the money will be used for a steel mill, not to restore the chateau. She was very angry.”

Ned’s knees suddenly would not hold him up and he collapsed into a chair. “Is it possible? Are you sure?”

With an angry swing of her head, Marguerite snapped, “No, I am not sure. How can I be? Her uncle was ill—that is probably all it was. And there is no reason why Antoine could not be suffering from the same illness. Delphine is so young—little more than a child. How could she possibly do such a thing? I think I must be imagining it all. Then I will glimpse a look in her eyes, see an expression on her face when she doesn’t know anyone is looking. And I am afraid.”

Ned rose to his feet. He now understood the fear that had always hovered around Marguerite. It was not just worry about how she would support her little family. It was fear that her cousin might actually be dangerous—mad and dangerous.

How had she managed such a burden? He pulled her into his arms and held her so that she could lean against him. She was safe with him, he hoped she knew. With one hand he cradled her head, resting his cheek against her hair.

At first she was trembling, but gradually she grew still. Ned, on the other hand, found himself growing increasingly uncertain. To comfort Marguerite by holding her was one thing. To know what to do about Delphine was another. Assuming that something needed to be done about Delphine, and that Marguerite was not tormenting herself needlessly.

No, probably not needlessly, at least not entirely. Marguerite was not given to wild imaginings. His own initial impression of Delphine as sweet and angelic had not survived for long, and for some time he had been thinking that there was something odd about the girl.

But this? Poisoning? Yet her reaction to Marguerite’s interference was so violent… And there had been other times when her reaction had been out of all proportion.

The memory tied an icy knot in his gut.

He had to think. Marguerite’s trembling had stopped, but they had to decide what to do now.

“We need to know,” he said. “One way or the other, we need to know.”

Marguerite shook her head hopelessly. “And how is that to be accomplished? Delphine will deny everything, and I have never been able to tell if she is speaking the truth.”

The tonic bottle was still clutched in Marguerite’s hand. He took it from her. “Perhaps this can tell us.”

A look of panic crossed her face. “You are not going to drink it!”

“Hardly. But it seems to me that I saw a chemist’s shop—a pharmacie—in the village. Perhaps the apothecary can tell us if something has been added to Dr. Fernac’s tonic.”