Upon A Starlit Tide

24. The Lion and the Wolf

24

The Lion and the Wolf

The Léon family returned from Nantes five days later. Luce, who had spent their absence caring for Samuel, learning about sea-magic with the groac’h, and returning to Le Bleu Sauvage often enough to make her presence—and her recovery from her feigned illness—felt among the domestiques, was emerging from the chapel, smoothing the creases from her morning gown, when she heard the sound of the carriage. She hurried toward the gatehouse, quietly congratulating herself on her cleverness. She had spent more and more time at the malouinière over the last day or two, reverting to her former routine of rising early to visit with Samuel at the cave, and returning before the end of the forenoon watch in case her family returned.

Relief washed over her as the carriage rolled into sight. With her father home, she would finally be able to tell him of the impending invasion. Jean-Baptiste would listen carefully, as he always did. Would frown and lean in close. Are you certain, mon trésor? He would ride for the city at once, speak to the Marquis de la Chatre and the city’s chief engineer, Monsieur Mazin, himself. He would ask them about strategy, ammunition, guns. And he would ensure that his family would be safe. The burden of Luce’s knowledge would be hers to bear alone no longer. And then...

It had taken her days to pluck up the courage to return to the sea-cave after Morgan’s men had raided it. Samuel, able to walk but slowly, had gone with her, watching in silence as she took down the canvas bag that had hung in the cave for so long, packed and ready for the moment of her long-imagined departure. Heaviness had filled her heart.

It was just a dream, nothing more.

‘Is it wrong to think, and want and... and dream now, do you suppose?’ Samuel had asked quietly. ‘Now that Bones is gone, I mean.’ Now that it is all my fault. She heard the words beneath the words, the aching guilt.

‘I do not see how we can do otherwise,’ she said. ‘Thinking, wanting, dreaming... that is what we do. It is no different to sleeping or breathing.’

‘What do you think of now?’ he asked. Now that everything has changed. He was watching the bag in her hands, the way she checked the clothes, the supplies, tucking them in with such care. Remembering, as she was, her plans to dress as a boy and slip away to sea.

‘Too many things,’ Luce had said with a sigh. ‘So many that I can barely make sense of them all. It is like a... a constant crowd of people exists in my mind, speaking my words, my worries and fears. And my guilt.’ The sound of Bones falling to the deck, and Samuel’s anguish. The hissing of rope through iron, the bloodied darkness beneath the Lucinde. Morgan’s grip on her neck, the fury in his eyes when she escaped him.

Samuel nodded. ‘My mind is the same,’ he admitted. ‘But I find that I still want, sometimes. And dream. And it makes me feel so guilty, Luce, so ashamed. I can barely speak of it.’

Luce had placed the bag gently on the sand at her feet. ‘What do you want, Samuel?’

‘Honestly? I want to leave. I want to take the Dove and go.’ With the groac’h’s help, Luce had beached the Dove in a rocky section of the cove the day after they returned. It had lain there hidden, as loyal as any hound, for almost a week.

‘Where?’

‘North?’ He laughed brokenly. ‘West? I don’t care.’

Luce had stepped close, laid her hands on his chest. ‘And what do you dream of?’

He swallowed. ‘I dream that when I go, when I push out onto the water, you are with me.’

She had nodded. Felt his arms come up around her, pressed herself into his warmth.

‘I dream of you, too,’ she had whispered.

There it was. Five words, and a new course charted.

‘Luce!’ The carriage had barely rolled to a stop when the door flew open and Veronique spilled out in a rush of tangerine silk, bright as the sun. ‘Luce! You’ll never guess what’s happened!’

‘We don’t have to go to Dorset,’ Samuel had said, in the cave. ‘Whether I care to admit it or not, Thomas is a man now. Able— willing—to take on my responsibilities. You’ve met him. He will make a fine smuggler.’ He smiled, the first real smile she had seen from him since they had returned from the Lucinde. Hope unfurled its sails. ‘We can go anywhere you want. I don’t care, as long as we’re together.’

Luce had nodded. ‘I must tell my father of the fleet. I have to know that my family will be safe when the English arrive. But once he knows, Samuel—once I’m certain they’ll be safe—we can go. Together. North, west...’ She had leaned up, kissed him. ‘Perhaps we will find a fair wind and follow a path of stars.’

Veronique was all but running across the gravel toward Luce. She was glowing like summertime, her cheeks rosy-bright. Behind her, Jean-Baptiste was handing Gratienne down from the carriage. To Luce’s surprise, Charlotte had returned with them, along with her new husband. Her steps faltered. Why is Charlotte here? She had thought the newlyweds would be on their way to Paris. And whose horse was that? The handsome grey secured to the back of the carriage, its saddle and harness gleaming, seemed vaguely familiar.

Then someone else climbed down from the carriage.

Even with the bandage covering one cheek, Morgan looked as refined and handsome as ever. He smiled as he straightened, his eyes gleaming as they looked straight into Luce’s.

Her blood turned to ice.

‘Isn’t it wonderful, Luce?’ Veronique said, her voice rippling with excitement. ‘Monsieur de Chatelaine and I are to be married!’

Morgan had traveled to Nantes, quickly discovering where the Léons had taken rooms, Luce heard over tea served with cheese tarts with lemon, blackberries, and sugar. He had been so lovelorn that he had gone on horseback, accompanied by his valet and a single laquais, making the trip in just two days. Luce, unable to take a single bite of the tart that someone, she could not say who, had placed on the low table before her, blanched as she counted back. Morgan must have left for Nantes the very morning after he had inflicted such violence on the decks of the Lucinde. Traces of Bones’s blood, and Samuel’s, might have lingered on his fingers as he took Veronique’s hand in his. As he clasped Gabriel’s arm as a brother, and admired the ring that Charlotte, newly married and glowing, proudly wore on her finger.

Luce could barely contain her shudder.

‘Monsieur and Madame de Chatelaine have yet to give their approval,’ Veronique said. She perched beside Morgan in the grand salon, her hand resting on his sleeve. ‘They are on their way here now. They will stay for supper, and we shall make all the arrangements. Isn’t that right, Papa?’

‘Of course, ma chère,’ Jean-Baptiste said indulgently. ‘Though I have no doubt Castro and Camille will be as delighted as we are.’ He rocked back on his heels, brimming with pride. A man who just secured his empire by marrying his eldest daughter into the oldest and wealthiest ship-owning family in Saint-Malo. It was a wondrous match, his smile said, rich with possibility.

Charlotte, across from Luce, rolled her eyes.

The day wore on, turning slowly into an evening rich with candlelight and the scent of roasting meats. Luce spent much of her time in her bedchamber and cabinet, the only places she could be guaranteed not to meet with Morgan. It was impossible to speak with her father about the English fleet; Morgan was always with him. Luce hated herself for her cowardice, for making herself small and meek, and allowing Morgan’s presence to dominate her home. He knew about her relationship with Samuel, about her secret crossing of the Manche. Would he tell her father of her exploits? Surely not; to do so would be to leave himself vulnerable to a few retaliatory revelations of Luce’s own. The events that had transpired aboard the Lucinde . The keelhauling, and Bones’s death.

They had, it seemed, reached an impasse.

By the time supper began, Luce was wound tight as a fishing line at day’s end. Nevertheless, she dressed carefully in a robe à la francaise of dark green silk and arranged herself dutifully in her seat between Charlotte and Gabriel. Morgan’s elegant mother cooed over the fresh flowers, crystal and fine porcelain decorating the dining table, as well as Veronique’s spectacular blue gown. Castro, for his part, barely waited for the wine to be poured before launching into the marriage negotiations. To no one’s surprise, Jean-Baptiste was only too pleased to accommodate him, and a lively discussion dominated much of the first service. Luce, all too aware of Morgan’s stealthy, and rather smug, glances, kept her eyes on her plate.

‘And have you given any thought to your wedding gown, Veronique?’ Camille de Chatelaine asked warmly.

Veronique looked up from her lobster gratin. She all but glittered in the candlelight, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling. ‘I was thinking silk damask, madame.’

‘A lovely choice,’ Camille said approvingly. She took a delicate bite of pheasant, chewed thoughtfully. ‘Rose-pink?’

‘Yes. Or silver, perhaps.’

‘You will shine like a star.’

Charlotte made a sound that might have been a snort. Gabriel glanced across Luce to his wife. Luce did not miss the twinkle in his eyes, and felt a surge of affection for her brother-in-law. It had become painfully obvious that, apart from herself, no one at the table was inclined to speak to him. It did not appear to bother Gabriel—he had eyes only for Charlotte—and yet the injustice of it, the fact that her parents and sisters were fawning over a bridegroom who was not only a liar but a murderer, too, while a good, kind, decent man was deemed unworthy... She steadied her breath, forced herself to eat.

The talk turned to chapels and flowers, guests and wedding feasts.

‘We want to be married as soon as possible,’ Morgan said. ‘I intend to go to the bishop tomorrow and seek a dispensation. If it is approved, Veronique and I could be married within the week.’

Veronique beamed at him. Her expression, so happy and trusting, shredded Luce’s heart. She glanced at Charlotte and saw her own sentiments echoed there. Even Gabriel was watching Morgan warily.

‘We will be married in Saint-Vincent’s, of course,’ Veronique said. ‘And have the wedding breakfast on the ship. It will be intimate. Chic. Oh, but—’ She glanced at Luce, bit her lip, and turned imploringly to Jean-Baptiste. ‘Papa?’

‘Worry not, ma chère,’ he said soothingly. ‘Luce must find out sooner or later.’ He lowered his spoon. ‘Mon trésor, during our— negotiations—in Nantes, it was decided that the Lucinde would go to Veronique, as part of her dowry.’

Across the table, Morgan sipped from his wineglass, barely concealing his triumphant smirk.

Ah. The truth came into focus for Luce, as clear and sharp as pieces of a broken mirror realigned. Morgan had ridden to Nantes, pursued Veronique, to secure the Lucinde. He had gained a ship, and revenge on Luce and Samuel for thwarting him, in one graceful manoeuvre.

Wolf, indeed.

Beside Luce, Charlotte gave a deep, disgusted sigh.

‘There will be other ships, mon trésor,’ Jean-Baptiste promised Luce gently. ‘We have years and years ahead of us to build, to plan...’

Luce said nothing. She should have been angry, hurt, yet found that she was neither. The Lucinde had lost its beauty—or, rather, Morgan had stolen it—on the night of Bones’s death. The hope, the promise of freedom, it had once offered was gone; only sorrow and greed remained. Besides, some dim, new part of Luce whispered. Such a betrayal will only make it easier for you to leave with Samuel.

‘Years and years, Papa?’ Charlotte said, frowning. ‘What a thing to say. It is as if you fully expect Lucinde to never marry or find happiness of her own.’

Silence of a profound and breathtaking nature settled over the table, so deep that the rumble of the storm-stone in the walls seemed like a distant storm. Even the laquais, who had been busily readying fresh bottles of wine and rinsing the family’s used glasses, stilled.

Jean-Baptiste’s expression was utterly cold. ‘If by “find happiness of her own” you mean that Luce will leave this house in the dead of night with a man who is beneath her in every possible way, breaking her mother’s heart and threatening our family’s reputation, then, no, Charlotte, I do not expect it.’

‘Jean-Baptiste...’ Gratienne said, with a nervous glance at the de Chatelaines.

The silence, if such a thing were possible, grew even thicker. Luce stared at her father, shocked by the rage, the iciness in his eyes. What would he say if he knew of her plans to leave Saint-Malo with Samuel, a man who, in the eyes of everyone sitting at this table, was worthy of even less consideration than Gabriel? She felt a heavy gaze settle upon her, and looked up to see Morgan watching her, smirking ever so slightly as though he knew her thoughts. She straightened in her seat, chin raised.

‘An English fleet is preparing to cross the Manche and attack the city,’ she announced into the void. ‘I have it on... on good authority that an English commander named Admiral Howe has assembled ships in the Solent and means to transport over twelve thousand men to our shores.’ She turned to Jean-Baptiste. ‘Papa, you must warn the commander. Howe could be here now, reconnoitering the coast for a landing point.’

‘ What? ’ Veronique looked around the table, eyes wide. ‘The English? Here? ’

‘We are at war, Vee,’ Charlotte said. ‘Is it really so surprising?’

‘But... what about the wedding?’

‘I don’t think your wedding is their main concern,’ Luce said.

‘The English have been threatening to invade our shores for years,’ Monsieur de Chatelaine said airily. ‘Rumours such as these are a perfectly normal part of war. Do not fret, mademoiselle. The city cannot fall.’

‘Any city can fall,’ Luce told him, then flinched as her father flopped back in his seat, chuckling.

‘ This is why I adore you, Lucinde.’ He turned to Monsieur de Chatelaine with a grin. ‘Did you hear that, my friend? Have you ever heard such words from a young lady over supper?’

The tension in the room eased as Castro raised his glass to Luce, his eyes, so like his son’s, twinkling. ‘Never!’

Luce looked between them, confused. ‘But—are you not concerned, Papa? Should you not send word to the commander and the chief engineer?’

‘The Marquis knows,’ Jean-Baptiste said, nodding to Jean-Pierre and raising his glass so the laquais could re-fill it. ‘As does Mazin. Le Chatre has it on good authority that the English expedition will direct themselves against Brest, not Saint-Malo. Your fears are unfounded, mon trésor.’ He flicked his wrist at a silver platter brimming with fresh seafood. ‘Here—have some oysters.’

‘Are you certain, Papa?’ Veronique asked worriedly.

‘I would wager my life upon it, ma chère.’ Jean-Baptiste barely glanced up as St. Jean hurried forward, lifted the silver platter in gloved hands, and offered it to Luce. ‘Are we not Malouins? Kings of the sea? Our city shall suffer no enemy ships, nor armies to come against it. I promise.’

Luce half-heartedly scooped an oyster from the platter with a pair of shell-shaped tongs. ‘But, Papa—’

Morgan cut her off. ‘Who gave you this information?’ Polite. Curious.

‘I heard it from the domestiques,’ Luce said coolly. ‘ They heard it from the fishermen.’

Morgan, still watching her, sipped thoughtfully at his wine.

‘Let us make a toast,’ Gratienne said, getting to her feet. Due to the amount of jewels smothering her neck, wrists, and stomacher, the movement required considerable effort. ‘To my beautiful daughter Veronique and her handsome husband-to-be.’ She raised her glass, smiling around the table. ‘Just imagine how comely our grandchildren will be!’

Laughter tinkled upon the crystal and silverware. Behind her raised glass, Charlotte made a face.

‘To the lion and the wolf, united at last,’ Jean-Baptiste added, lifting his own glass high.

‘ To the lion and the wolf! ’

When supper was over Luce excused herself and stole down to the cove. A single slender silhouette stood at the water’s edge, silver hair glittering in the moonlight. The groac’h glanced back as Luce made her slow way to the cave, but remained where she was.

‘Samuel.’

He had been sleeping, belly-down, his hair falling across his cheek. He roused at the sound of her voice, however, and opened his eyes. ‘Luce? Is everything well?’

‘Not really, no.’ She swallowed, unsure where to begin, then plunged ahead. ‘My family has returned. Morgan—Morgan is with them. He followed them to Nantes, Samuel. The very day after... after the Lucinde. ’

He pushed his hair back sleepily, lifted himself up to sitting. Despite the turmoil of feelings, Luce noted that the usual grimace of pain he made when he moved had lessened. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘For my sister. Or, rather, for the Lucinde. ’ She told him of the engagement and her father’s decision to give Morgan the ship as part of Veronique’s dowry. Of Veronique’s joy, and Morgan’s calculated charm. ‘I have just sat through a family supper to discuss the wedding details with Morgan and his parents. Morgan is seeking a dispensation—he plans to marry Veronique within the week.’

‘Damn my soul.’ Samuel rubbed his face ruefully. ‘You have to admire the bastard’s determination.’

‘It gets worse. I told my father and Monsieur de Chatelaine about the fleet.’

‘How did that go?’

‘Badly. Monsieur de Chatelaine dismissed it as mere rumour. And Papa insisted that Saint-Malo is blessed. “Are we not Malouins? Kings of the sea?” were his words. And Samuel—they said that the Marquis de la Chatre and Monsieur Mazin already know. They know, and have determined that Howe and Marlborough are set on attacking Brest, not Saint-Malo.’

Samuel had gone very still. ‘Fools,’ he said softly, shaking his head. ‘I suppose it’s not too late for me to do more. Speak again to my contacts in the city, the garrison. The right word to the right person could make all the difference.’

‘What? No!’ Luce remembered Morgan’s idle gaze at the betrothal supper, the dark rage lurking beneath his calm. ‘For all we know there is still a price on your head.’

‘I would be discreet.’ He leaned over, took her hand. ‘Until very recently, Saint-Malo has been good to me. I cannot simply sail away and leave it to its fate.’

He had lost one of his swallow tattoos during his ordeal. Luce ran a thumb gently over the patchwork of half-healed scabbing. Did the remaining bird, alone at the base of Samuel’s unmarred thumb, mourn its loss?

‘I—we...’ She took a breath, forced herself to speak. ‘I cannot go with you, Samuel. Not while Veronique means to chain herself to that... to that...’ She shook her head. ‘And if my father won’t believe me about the fleet, there is no telling what will become of my mother and sisters. I cannot leave them. Not until I know they will be safe.’

He nodded. ‘I understand.’

Tears threatened—disappointment, and something more. ‘I could follow you, afterwards. When I know they will be well. I could get passage to Dorset—’

‘What?’ He straightened against the pillows, reaching for her, then froze, wincing at the pain. ‘You don’t really think I’d go without you, do you?’

‘But—you must. Morgan will kill you if he can, I’m certain of it. The fleet is coming, the soldiers—’

‘And you believe I’d leave you to face all that alone?’

Luce smiled. ‘I’d kiss you, you know, if I wasn’t so worried about hurting your back.’

‘I’ll have you know my back’s perfectly fine.’

‘Liar.’ She leaned in regardless, pressing her mouth to his, breathing him in. Trying not to notice the painful hitch of his breath as his arms came around her, or the way his fingers brushed, ever so gently, against the faded bruise on her cheek. As though he were marking its shape, its size. Remembering every detail.

‘Perhaps there’s something I can do, too,’ Luce murmured against his mouth.

‘Hmm? I was just thinking the same...’

She drew back with a grin, batted aside his roving hands. ‘Ambitious, aren’t you? What a shame you’re not the one I need.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Precisely.’ She leaned in, kissed him softly. ‘Go back to sleep.’

The groac’h was still near the waterline, arms folded across her chest.

‘I need you to show me how to raise a storm,’ Luce told her. It was a bold request. Over the last five days the fae had taught her many things—how to become one with the sea’s movements, how to sense its moods. Luce was learning quickly, yet she had no doubt that she was a far cry from the lesson on storms and their summoning.

The tide-woman did not take her gaze from the water. ‘You think to save Saint-Malo from its enemies? You will be wasting your time.’

‘Perhaps not; I am a good student. You said so yourself.’

The groac’h threw her a doubtful look. Then she gave a long-suffering sigh and reached into her tangle of skirts, drawing forth the silver comb. ‘You’ll be needing this.’

Luce took the comb. It was heavier than she expected, cool against her fingers. ‘Just this?’

‘Your knife, too. Do you have it?’

Luce nodded. For reasons she could scarce explain—the still-too-near memory of the night of the Lucinde perhaps, or the strange, indescribable comfort the items gave her—she now kept Mother Aggie’s knife, the groac’h’s mirror, and the sea-silk with her constantly, the former tucked into the sea-silk belt beneath her skirts, the latter in its usual place between her breasts.

The fae eyed Luce’s hair, pinned into elegant curls at the back of her head. ‘You’ll need to take down your hair.’

Luce was already drawing free the pins. ‘Thank you.’

‘As I said.’ The tide-woman turned back to the sea. ‘Waste of time.’

If the preparations for the ball had seemed frantic, they were nothing compared to those for Veronique and Morgan’s wedding. Having secured permission to marry at once, thus negating the need to wait the required three Sundays, when the banns would ordinarily be called, Veronique launched into the arrangements with remarkable zeal. A suitably opulent gown of silver silk damask was ordered, while the contents of her armoire—sheets, table linens, and nightgowns made of the finest silks in Paris—were removed, washed and pressed, then packed lovingly back inside. Gratienne resumed work on the precious baptismal gown, and a lavish wedding feast aboard the Lucinde was planned. The ship itself was receiving its final fittings, including its sails.

‘I still cannot believe Papa gave Morgan your ship,’ Charlotte said to Luce the day after the betrothal dinner. She was sprawled on the chaise longue in Luce’s cabinet. The small, comfortable chamber offered no small amount of privacy. ‘Although, if I’m honest, Luce, I must admit that I blame myself. In part, at least.’

‘You blame yourself?’ Luce, perched on the little chair at her writing desk, turned to her sister. ‘Why?’

‘Morgan made no pretensions about wanting that ship. And he used my marriage to Gabriel—the scandal of it, I mean—to leverage for a bigger dowry.’

‘A ship-sized dowry, you mean.’

‘Precisely.’ Charlotte glanced through the open door to Luce’s bedchamber, ensuring it was empty. ‘I overheard the negotiations in Nantes,’ she said, conspiratorially. ‘Morgan made it clear that he knew the reason our family had rushed off—he said he was here that day, when Papa sent word that he’d found Gabriel and me.’

‘He was,’ Luce admitted, fiddling with the cracked vase on her desk. It was brimming with bird feathers in countless hues. ‘Mama tried to hide it. She said Papa had found a pair of matching side tables.’ The ploy had seemed amusing, then.

‘Morgan said he would only take Veronique if the ship was part of the offer. I suspected then that he was more interested in the Lucinde than in our sister.’

‘And now?’

‘And now, I suspect that I had every right to suspect him.’ Charlotte made a face. ‘I cannot help but feel that Morgan does not have our sister’s best interests at heart, Luce.’

‘I must admit I feel the same.’ If only you knew.

‘He hardly knows Vee, barely looked at her at the ball, and yet he rode all the way to Nantes to propose? And he arrived looking as though he had just come from a knife-fight at the docks. Speaking of... what happened to your face?’

‘It is nothing.’ Luce waved Charlotte’s concern away. ‘I tripped on the stairs. You know how my feet can be.’ She had said the same to both her mother, who had gasped in horror at the sight of Luce’s face, and her father, who had ragefully demanded an explanation.

Charlotte sighed. ‘I know what that ship meant to you, Luce. It was more than a figurehead, more than a name. I’m so sorry. If not for me, Morgan would never have dared to make such demands of Papa.’

Luce got to her feet. There was hardly room to pace in the cabinet, but even so, she tried her best. ‘The ship no longer matters,’ she said. ‘It is Veronique we must think of now. It is not too late, Charlotte. We could speak to her. Explain our misgivings.’

‘Are you mad?’ Charlotte demanded. ‘ Speak to Veronique? Have you seen our sister? She’s besotted!’

‘She will recover,’ Luce said firmly. ‘In time.’

‘Yes, but what of the rest of us? The lion and the wolf united, wasn’t it? If you think Papa and Maman would even consider calling off this wedding... how many scandals do you think this family can endure?’

‘Better another scandal than seeing our sister at the mercy of a man like that.’

‘When you say “a man like that”, I’m assuming you mean young, handsome, and rich?’ Charlotte said. ‘Because besides you, me, and Gabriel, that is all anyone sees when they look at Morgan. Especially our sister.’

‘She doesn’t know Morgan,’ Luce said. On the bookshelf beside her, pooled in an iridescent shell the size of her palm, lay three black pearls. She lifted one absently, rolled it between her fingers. ‘Not truly. If she did, she would never have agreed to this.’

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. ‘There’s more to this story, isn’t there?’ She tilted her head appraisingly, taking in every detail of Luce—her face, her dark woolen dress, the pearl in her hand. Then, ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed, sitting up. ‘I cannot believe I didn’t see it before. It was you, at the ball. You were the woman who danced with Morgan!’

‘Don’t be absurd!’ Luce tipped the pearl back into its shell with too-hasty fingers. It fell, bounced once, and rolled across the wooden floor. She lunged for it, but Charlotte was too fast. She scooped the tiny orb up and held it before her, so that, from her angle, its inky shine was close to Luce’s face.

‘It most certainly was,’ she said decisively. ‘How did no one know?’

‘Please, Cee.’ Luce held her hand out for the pearl.

‘But where did you get that dress? Those magnificent shoes ?’

‘Cee.’ Luce curled her fingers, indicating that Charlotte should return the pearl and cease her questioning.

Charlotte’s tone changed. ‘Surely you realise you can trust me, Luce? Unless... unless you still think it was I who stole your blue dress?’

‘No,’ Luce said, slowly. ‘No, I don’t think that.’

In truth, she was sorely tempted to tell her sister everything. Yet if she told her of the ball, she would also have to tell her of the groac’h. Knowledge which could, in its turn, endanger Samuel. There were secrets within secrets, and none she could afford to have unravel.

‘Perhaps one day I will tell you the tale,’ she said. ‘For now, know that I do trust you, Cee. And that I hope you will trust me when I say that we cannot sit back and simply allow Vee to marry Morgan. He is... he is not a good man.’

‘I will hold you to that.’ Charlotte, resigned, placed the pearl in Luce’s palm. ‘And as for Morgan... Luce, we cannot mention our feelings about this wedding to anyone. Not Veronique, nor Maman and Papa. And even if we did, it would be too late. They’ve already signed the contract.’

‘They have?’ Luce blinked. It was not uncommon for couples to sign the wedding contract a day or two before the ceremony.

Charlotte nodded. ‘They did it after supper, when the de Chatelaines were last here. You would have seen it yourself had you not retired so early.’

I was at the cove, Luce wanted to say. Learning to raise a storm so I might protect you all when the English fleet arrives.

‘Then there really is nothing we can do,’ she said wearily. With the contracts signed, Veronique and Morgan were as good as married.

No fleet, no storm, could protect her sister now.