Immediately matters became a whole lot worse.
There was a man standing beside the long windows that looked out across the terrace and the garden beyond. He was tall and broad and the sunlight fell on his hair giving it a blue-black sheen. He was dressed immaculately in a coat of green superfine and skintight breeches that emphasized his muscular thighs. His boots had a high polish. His linen was starched, his cravat a masterpiece of mathematical complication.
Margery could not see his face clearly; the sun slanted across the room hiding the expression in his eyes. He turned to look at her as she walked in and she thought that she was going to faint. She barely noticed Mr. Churchward, who had stood up and was bowing over Lady Grant’s hand with old-fashioned courtesy.
“I do apologize for disturbing you at this shockingly uncivilized hour, Lady Grant,” the lawyer was saying. “Only the urgency of my business can excuse it.” He gestured to his companion. “I believe you are already acquainted with Lord Wardeaux?”
Lord Wardeaux.
Margery’s heart jumped. Not the gentleman Henry Ward, then, but the nobleman Lord Wardeaux, whom she was already sure was no gentleman at all.
“Of course,” Lady Grant said. “Henry is practically a member of the family, since my sister Merryn is married to his cousin.” She was masking her curiosity and her puzzlement behind her exquisite manners. “How do you do?” She gave Henry her hand and Margery watched as he bent to kiss her cheek.
“My lady,” he murmured. “I hope you are well?”
Margery was far from well herself. She felt sick. She tried to reverse out of the room but the door had been closed and her hot palms met nothing but the cool wood. From a distance she could hear Mr. Churchward’s voice and she realized that all four of the others were looking at her.
“I believe,” the lawyer was saying with careful lack of emphasis, “that you, too, have already met Lord Wardeaux, Miss Mallon?”
Margery straightened. She was not going down without a fight.
“Indeed I have,” she said coldly. “Although he was calling himself something different at the time.”
A flicker of a smile touched Henry Wardeaux’s handsome mouth. He bowed. “Miss Mallon.”
“My lord.” Margery was damned if she was going to curtsy to him. She inclined her head the slightest inch and saw his smile deepen.
There was an odd silence. “Perhaps, Mr. Churchward,” Joanna Grant interposed, “you might explain your urgent business? In simple terms, if you please. I fear I do not function well without my morning chocolate.” She reached for the bell pull. “In fact, let us order some more coffee—”
“Brandy,” Lord Grant said, his eyes on Margery’s face, “might be more useful.”
His wife’s eyebrows shot up. “At this time of the day?”
“And sal volatile,” Alex said. “Just in case Miss Mallon requires it. Won’t you take a seat, Miss Mallon? I believe you are going to need one.”
Margery’s pulse was pounding so hard she could feel the tremor of it through her entire body. Bonelessly, she slid into the chair that Henry held for her. Mr. Churchward was fumbling with the fastenings on his battered document case.
“I realize that this will come as a shock to all of you.” He looked up, directly at Margery. “But most particularly to Miss Mallon.” He hesitated.
“Out with it, Mr. Churchward,” Alex Grant said, “before my wife and Miss Mallon expire with the anticipation.”
Mr. Churchward shuffled his papers. “Very well, my lord. Miss Mallon…” He cleared his throat. “I have to tell you that you are, in point of fact, not Margery Mallon at all but Lady Marguerite Catherine Rose Saint-Pierre, granddaughter of the Earl of Templemore and heir to the Earldom of Templemore in the county of Berkshire. You were lost when you were a child and the earl has been trying to trace you ever since.”
Having finished his announcement, Churchward sat back in his seat.
Margery had not really heard him. She had been braced for some lurid revelation about her conduct the previous night, and looking up she saw that Henry had read her mind and knew exactly what she was thinking. For a moment she saw the secret amusement leap into his eyes before his expression closed down again. Then Churchward’s announcement penetrated her preoccupation and she looked at him in complete confusion.
“I… No… What? Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre? I beg your pardon?” It was scarcely coherent and glancing around she saw that Lady Grant was looking almost as shocked as she felt. Lord Grant, who had obviously heard the tale already, was not.
“You are heir to the Earl of Templemore,” he repeated. “Congratulations, Miss Mallon.” He glanced at Lady Grant. “I do believe you have achieved the singular attainment of silencing my wife, Churchward. Unheard-of.”
“My lord,” Churchward said reproachfully. He mopped his brow on a surprisingly frivolous spotted handkerchief.
“This is a joke,” Margery said. “A trick.” Her voice came out louder than she intended and seemed to bounce off the walls of the drawing room.
She looked at Henry. “You,” she said. “This is all your doing. Who are you anyway, and why are you here? No, thank you—” She pushed away the coffee cup he was proffering. “I do not want your coffee. I do not want anything from you, you…you snake! You deceived me—”
Her voice broke and she could feel the tears pressing on her throat. It was foolish, so very foolish, to want to cry now. Half her mind was wrestling with the lawyer’s startling and impossible news while the other half was grappling with the extent of Henry Wardeaux’s perfidy. The latter, extraordinarily, seemed more important to her. All the previous evening, when Henry had plied her with ale and questions abut her childhood, he had known the truth. When he had held her in his arms and kissed her with such skill and passion he had known he was kissing Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre, not little Margery Mallon. When he had so nearly made love to her, he had exposed her, body and soul, but given nothing of his true self. He had deliberately withheld the information from her. He had not told her who he was.
He had been lying to her from the first.
She felt sick and angry and betrayed.
Henry put the cup down gently on the table beside her. “Pull yourself together, Lady Marguerite,” he said, with no discernible sympathy. “You are made of stronger stuff than this.”
Margery wiped away a furious tear with the back of her hand. So now she was expected to act like some bloodless aristocrat simply because they had told her she was one. She glared up at him.
“Pig,” she said distinctly. “Snake in the grass.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” Mr. Churchward was saying. “I knew this would all come out the wrong way.”
“I am not sure,” Lady Grant said, “that there could have been a better way, Mr. Churchward.” There was a rustle of silk as she moved to kneel by Margery’s chair and took her hands in a comforting grip. “Margery,” she said. “My dear, I know it is a shock.”
“It’s a trick,” Margery said again, faintly this time. “A hoax. It cannot possibly be true.”
“Mr. Churchward does not play tricks,” Lady Grant said. “It is not in his nature. Especially not over something as important as this.”
“Indeed not,” the lawyer said, heartfelt. “Jokes? I do not think so.” He rooted around in the document case and withdrew a couple of items. “You recognize these, I believe,” he said, laying two battered velvet cases on the table in front of her.
Margery picked them up. The first case contained a big locket in gold, engraved with a swirl of letters, MSP, and a family crest. It was dull with dirt and age but Margery still recognized it. She gave a little gasp.
“I remember this from my childhood,” she said uncertainly. “My brother Billy found the locket in my mother’s effects when she died last year. She had told me it was mine.”
They had argued about it, she remembered. Billy had said he would have the locket and accompanying brooch valued for her. Margery
had accused him of stealing them from her. She knew he would sell them. It was a small inheritance to lose but she had been hurt and angry.
She opened the catch and stared at the painted figures inside. One was a lady with golden hair, the other a dark man in a blue velvet coat. The paintings were yellowed and cracked. “I used to make up stories about them when I was a child,” she said, frowning a little. “There was a golden brooch, as well….”
Silently, Mr. Churchward laid a brooch on the table beside the locket. It also had the letters MSP spelled out in precious stones. One of the jewels was missing. The others had lost their luster and were dull and dark.
“Your brother William brought these to me a month ago,” Mr. Churchward said. “He told me that he had taken them to a reputable jeweler who had recognized them as being of great value. The design matched that of some other pieces that the man had seen. He recognized the crest as being that of the Earl of Templemore.”
A cold shiver ran down Margery’s spine. Something shifted in her memory. There were images and thoughts that were still a confused blur but were trying to tell her something, something she felt very deeply and insistently, like a memory that had been lost. She could picture the gold jewelry and a little blue silk and lace gown, torn and dirty….
“The blue silk…” she said. “Silk and lace. The dress…”
“Blue silk was what you were wearing when you disappeared,” Mr. Churchward said.
Margery gave a gasp and pressed a hand to her mouth. Immediately, Henry offered her a glass of brandy, and this time Margery did not refuse it. The spirit burned her throat and almost made her choke but it did steady her.
“It cannot possibly be true,” she said. “It’s nonsense.” She could hear the beseeching note in her own voice, begging for someone to tell her that it was all a ruse. She tilted the glass to her lips again. The fiery spirit streaked through her, making her feel reckless and unguarded.
She felt as though she had stumbled into some nightmarish fantasy. Lady Marguerite? If she was a lady then pigs might fly. She was Margery Mallon, daughter of a Wantage blacksmith, a lady’s maid with ambitions to be a confectioner. She liked being Margery Mallon. She did not know how to be anyone else. She felt a clutch of fear. This had to be a mistake. She drained the glass.
“Don’t have too much,” Henry instructed. “We cannot do with you being three sheets to the wind at a time like this.”
Margery fixed him with a withering look. “You have changed your tune from last night! Plying me with ale in order to gain information from me—and worse….”
Mr. Churchward cleared his throat very loudly. He looked as though he was blushing. He shuffled his papers back into his document case. “Lady Marguerite,” he said. “Such recriminations must wait.” He shot Henry a reproachful look. “Lord Wardeaux is the Earl of Templemore’s godson and I assure you that he has been acting out of the purest motives.”
“Nonsense,” Margery said coldly. “Pure? Lord Wardeaux? He is a blackguard and I do not believe a word he says. Nor do I do believe I am Lady Marguerite whatever her name is. The idea is absurd. There must be some mistake.”
“You can certainly make no claim to behaving like a lady at present,” Henry said grimly. He grabbed her by the upper arms, ignoring Joanna Grant’s murmured protest. His eyes blazed into hers. “Lady Marguerite,” he said, “entertaining as this is, we do not have the time right now. Mr. Churchward will explain everything on the way to Berkshire. We will leave immediately.”
“No, we will not,” Margery said stubbornly. “I am not going anywhere before Mr. Churchward explains. In full.”
She thought for a moment that Henry was going to shake her—or kiss her. Something fierce burned in his eyes, reminding her of the previous night and the passion that had flared so hot and so fast between them. His hands tightened on her shoulders before he released her as quickly as he had grabbed her, dropping her back in her seat and turning away.
“You have your grandfather’s stubbornness.” He bit out the words. “That is for sure.”
Margery knew she was behaving badly but shock and disappointment together had knocked her off balance. All she could think of was the ache of betrayal deep inside, the knowledge that Henry had only sought her out because he was asked to do so, and everything that had followed had been a lie. It hurt.
It should not matter, but it did. She had liked him far too much and now she could see he was not the man she had thought he was. He had charmed her completely and for his own ends. He had ruthlessly pursued his own agenda out of no more than duty and she, naive little fool that she was, had been utterly taken in.
“Mr. Churchward,” Henry said. “As briefly as possible, if you please.” He had evidently accepted that she would be going nowhere without an explanation. Margery felt a flash of triumph that, in this one small thing at least, she could make him do her will.
“As you wish, my lord.” Mr. Churchward looked pained, as though to be brief was an abdication of responsibility. “Your mama,” he said to Margery, “was Lady Rose Saint-Pierre, the Earl of Templemore’s only child. When she was one and twenty she eloped with a French émigré, Comte Antoine de Saint-Pierre, against the wishes of her father.” Mr. Churchward fidgeted with the clasp of his briefcase, avoiding Margery’s eyes.
“The marriage was a fiasco,” Henry intervened brutally. Margery flinched but he did not soften his words.
“Saint-Pierre was a fortune hunter and a French spy who after a few years left Lady Rose and their daughter—” He paused, his gaze resting on Margery’s face. “You, Lady Marguerite, in the country while he pursued the life of a bachelor here in London. Drinking, gambling, whoring—”
“Ladies present!” Mr. Churchward protested faintly.
Henry bowed ironically. “Ladies, my apology. In brief, after a year or so of this humiliation, Lady Rose set out for London with her child, intent on pleading with her husband to take them back. According to the servants at his rooms, Saint-Pierre turned her away. He told her that he had no further use for her and never wanted to see her again. On the way back to Berkshire, Lady Rose’s coach was ambushed and she was killed.”
Margery pressed her hands together. They were cold and trembling. She felt chilled all over. There was a buzzing in her ears.
“It was a terrible, terrible business.” Mr. Churchward’s face was pinched with old memories. “When the rescuers came upon the carriage they found Lady Rose dead and the child vanished.”
Gooseflesh breathed along Margery’s skin again. The carriage, she thought. The flight through the night, the tears…the memories that had haunted her, that had lived at the back of her mind, were suddenly garish and vivid in their horror.
“My parents quarreled that night,” she said very slowly. “I remember now. There were raised voices. I think they were throwing things at each other. A mirror broke.” She could see the shattered reflection and the slivers of glass on the carpet. She could see herself cowering in a corner of the room.
“My mama was crying,” she said. “She picked me up and ran out and bundled me back into the coach and we set off for home—” She broke off, shivering. On the edges of her memory she could feel the jagged horror of that night. She had known that something was dreadfully wrong and that her world had broken into a thousand pieces, but she had been too young to understand. “What happened to him? What happened to my father?”
Mr. Churchward’s hands shook; his coffee cup rattled in its saucer. It was Henry who answered.
“After your mama died and you disappeared, Saint-Pierre went back to France,” he said. “There were those who thought he had arranged his wife’s death and taken you away, but he always swore he was innocent of it.”
“I never saw him again.” Margery frowned. “I cannot even really remember what he looked like.” She gave a violent shudder and covered her face with her hands. Instantly, Lady Grant was by her side again, holding her close in a comforting hug.
“Marger
y,” she said. “My dear child. Don’t think about it anymore.”
“I don’t remember anything else,” Margery said. She put a hand up to her head as though to soothe the jagged memories. “I don’t recall what happened.”
“Good,” Lady Grant said robustly. “You must have been very young. Of course you will not remember and it is better that you do not.”
Henry was looking at her quizzically. “You remember nothing of how you came to be living in Wantage with the Mallon family?”
Margery shook her head. There were disconnected snatches of pictures in her mind but nothing that made any sense. “I remember nothing else,” she repeated.
She sat up straighter and ran her palms down her skirts, fidgeting nervously, trying to gather some composure. She felt shocked and distressed. The bottom had fallen out of her world and she had no certainties anymore. She did not even know who she really was. Everything she thought was true had been built on sand.
She looked up to see Henry’s steady, dark gaze on her. She wished she could trust him and look to him for support and strength. She felt a powerful impulse to turn to him. The intensity of her need shocked her. But hot on the heels of it came disillusion and bitterness. Henry had deceived her. He had done so callously, ruthlessly. She had to remember that his first loyalty was to her grandfather, not to her. He was a man driven by duty, not by compassion, a dangerous man to her.
“So it was Billy who went to you,” she said to Mr. Churchward. “I wish he had spoken to me first.” She shook her head. Suddenly she wished—oh, how she wished—that Granny Mallon were here with her sound good sense. She longed suddenly for her parents; she wondered why they had never told her about her true identity. Her past suddenly felt like a puzzle with the pieces broken and reforming into new shapes. There were gaps and sharp edges and she was alone in dealing with them.
“Jem!” She exclaimed. “I must speak to Jem. Surely he will remember something of what happened?”
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