Chapter 66
Sixty-Six
Marcus held out his right hand; Marguerite took it and stepped down from the carriage.
After only three weeks in the city, London’s geography was still unfamiliar to her, but she could tell at a glance that while the three-story redbrick town house Lord Grenville had secured for her father was in a respectable neighborhood, it was not the very best. That must have rankled.
Marcus slipped her hand around his arm and looked down at her, “Nervous?”
There’d been a time when a lift of her father’s eyebrows could make her spine bend, but not now.
And not with Marcus by her side. She looked up at him.
She’d seen him in various forms of dress (and undress) since they’d met, but today in his form-fitting cutaway coat, embroidered waistcoat, and buff breeches, he looked sleek and elegant, every inch the titled lord he truly was.
He was even carrying a walking stick tipped with silver.
She shook her head. “We both know I’ve survived far worse than the temper tantrums of a cantankerous old man. ”
“Who knows, he might be won over by my charms.”
Marguerite snorted. “I doubt we shall have that much time. Shall we do this?”
“I did offer to meet him in your place,” he said. “You may wait in the carriage if you’d prefer.”
“I owe him at least my thanks for sending you to me.”
“Somehow, I doubt he’ll appreciate your gratitude for that…”
Marguerite laughed, lifted the hem of her skirts with her free hand, and together they crossed the sidewalk and mounted the stairs to her father’s front door.
Marcus rapped on it with the tip of his walking stick, and the door was opened by a housekeeper. Not a butler, or even a footman. That, too, must have rankled. “Do come in,” the woman said after they’d given her their names, “Monsieur le Comte is expecting you.”
They followed her into the modest, but tastefully decorated entryway, the flooring wood rather than marble, the walls hung with more prints than paintings, past a morning room, and down the hall.
The housekeeper stopped in front of a closed door, knocked softly and said, “M’sieur le Comte? Your guests have arrived.”
“Come,” a familiar voice ordered and, despite her assurances to Marcus, Marguerite’s stomach knotted.
As if reading her mind, Marcus caught her fingers in his, and gave them a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
The housekeeper opened the door and motioned for them to enter.
Marcus released her fingers. Marguerite lifted her chin and stepped inside.
She registered oak paneling, deep red carpeting, and an ornately carved desk at the far end of the room.
It was set with a gilt-trimmed globe, a crystal inkwell and quills, and paper.
Her father was seated behind it, as if posing for a formal portrait.
He was wearing an old-fashioned powdered wig, and his face, too, was powdered, as if at any moment he might be called upon to attend court.
His coat, or what she could see of it, was ruby red and embroidered in gold.
He rose as they entered, stepped out from behind the desk and held out his arms. “Marguerite, ma petite, you have returned to me,” he paused, then added with a hint of sourness, “at last.”
She walked forward until she was within two feet of her father, and curtsied.
He bent down, grasped her arms, and lifted her up.
Then he embraced her. Marguerite couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so (possibly the day of her wedding over a decade ago?).
The arms around her felt stiff, his grip uncomfortably tight. “Papa,” she said, “you are well?”
“Much better, now that you are here.” He released her and stepped back.
His pale eyes swept over her. “You are too thin, and that gown…” He made a moue of distaste as he took in her tightly fitted plum and lavender striped redingote with its broad lapels, and her tall, crowned lavender hat with its matching plum-colored ribbon.
“I dislike these mannish fashions on women. We shall have to order you some new gowns.” His eyes slid past her to the door.
“Have you brought luggage? There is a room prepared for you upstairs.”
“I’m not staying,” she said.
“Not staying?” he repeated dismissively. “Don’t be absurd. Of course you are. You’re a widow with no family other than me in this country.”
“I’m a divorcée,” she amended, knowing it would irritate him.
“Divorce.” He gave a shudder of disgust. “A ridiculous law passed by those madmen in Paris. It will not stand. They will be brought down, and things will be put right.” Her father tightened his grip on her arms and gave her a little shake.
“We will not mention it again. There are some people I would like you to meet. People it would be beneficial for us to know…”
“For us? Or for you?”
Her father rolled his eyes and released her. “We are family, Marguerite, our interests are the same.”
She doubted that. “If by ‘people’ you mean ‘potential husbands’,” she said, “if you are planning on arranging a marriage for me, papa, then stop. It will not be necessary.”
“You’ve grown unpleasantly frank since the last time I saw you. A most unbecoming trait in a woman—it must be the influence of your late husband and his revolutionary friends. Of course, marriage is necessary. How else will you live once I am gone?”
“I can care for myself.”
“Care for yourself?” Her father laughed. “What a ridiculous notion. You were on your own for less than a year in Paris and just look how that turned out. You were denounced, arrested, thrown into prison. If not for me, you’d still be in the Conciergerie. Or…” he paused dramatically, “dead.”
Marguerite resisted the urge to point out that it was Marcus and his team who’d ridden to her rescue, and that she’d actually rescued herself. “I can paint,” she said tersely.
“Paint?” he laughed again. “Are you planning to hawk your wares on the street? Like those women with their hot cross buns, or their sad bouquets?”
“I’ve already sold two paintings,” she persisted. “To a gallery. No street hawking was required. And I have a commission for a third.”
“Is that why you did not come directly to me when you arrived in England. Lord Grenville sent word you’d landed safely in this country three weeks ago.
I waited. And waited. Wondering what could possibly be keeping you?
I imagined bad roads, broken carriage wheels, the possibility you might have fallen ill. ”
“You imagined all those things, and yet, you did not think to even send me a letter?”
Her father’s eyes narrowed, and his voice snapped like a whip. “Cancel the sales. Return the money. I will not have you disgracing both our names by sullying your hands with commerce.”
Marguerite’s chin shot up. “I will not cancel them. Nor will I return the money I’ve earned.”
“Earned?” Her father gripped her shoulders, and this time, there was nothing affectionate in his embrace, or gentle in the way he shook her. “You will.”
“I will not.”
Marcus, who’d been standing silently behind Marguerite, stepped forward, slid his fingers beneath her father’s, and deftly removed her from his grip. “Marguerite is a brilliant artist,” he said, “The only disgrace would be if the world never had the chance to see her work.”
“Marguerite? What gives you the right to call my daughter by her first name?” The comte’s gaze slid past her, settling on Marcus as if noticing him for the first time.
“M’sieur…Tyndale, was it?” he frowned. “Forgive me, I do not know if that is your true name, but I see at least you are a man of your word. As the days passed, I had begun to doubt that. Still, I thank you for bringing Madame de Rouvroy back to me.”
“My pleasure.” Marcus’s eyes met Marguerite’s for a knowing instant, his lips curved, and he then dipped his head, acknowledging the comte’s expression of gratitude.
“But this is a family matter, M’sieur Tyndale. You have my leave to go.”
Marcus lifted his head, but made no effort to depart. Instead, he planted his walking stick firmly on the carpet and leaned on it.
The comte made a dismissive gesture. “If it is about the money, M’sieur Tyndale, I will send a letter to my bankers to arrange payment…”
Marcus raised a hand to interrupt him, “Tyndale is my name, M’sieur le Comte, but proper address would be Lord Radcliffe.” He straightened and smiled. “Marcus Tyndale, Viscount Radcliffe, at your service.”
“You…are…a viscount…and a spy?” the comte said, as if Marcus had just confessed to being the queen and a prostitute.
Marcus shrugged. “But you may call me Tyns, as most of my friends do. Or Marcus, if you prefer.”
“I do not prefer.”
“For, although we are not yet friends, we are family. And ‘Lord Radcliffe’ seems far too formal an address between a father and son-in-law.”
“Son-in… You?” The comte looked wildly from Marcus to Marguerite. “You are married? Without my permission?”
“On shipboard, while crossing the North Sea.” Marcus continued, seemingly unperturbed. “Most romantic. It seemed preferable to having your daughter travel unchaperoned and unwed. Would you have preferred that?”
“I…I….” the comte spluttered.
Marguerite, who was enjoying this turn in the conversation immensely, pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to add that unchaperoned and unwed was her preference.
“You cannot be married! Show me the license!”
Marcus glanced at her; they’d discussed the likelihood that her father would make this demand, but her new-found freedom was hard won and she was uncomfortable with even a forged certificate. “I’ll bring it the next time we visit.”
“I refuse to recognize this union! You do not have my blessing!”
“As I told you,” Marcus continued, “even before I met your brilliant, beautiful daughter, the love of my life…”
“I will have it annulled.”
“Far too late for that…” he paused, turning to smile at her. And while she suspected it was for dramatic effect, the warmth in Marcus’s eyes made her melt and sizzle like butter in a hot pan. She flushed.
His smile widened briefly into wickedness; then he turned back to her father. “Mon cher papa, I have no intention of keeping your money.”
Beneath its powder, her father’s face had turned a shade that nearly matched his red taffeta coat.
Marguerite raised a hand and interjected, “But I do.”
Her father gasped. “You…you…you. You will return my money immediately!” He raised his index finger in a gesture that had once made her think of the hand of God.
“Your money? The money you insisted on transferring to me when the new government started seizing the assets of the aristocracy? Even though you knew it would look suspicious. That it could put my life at risk if it were discovered?” Marguerite didn’t add, which is why I’d immediately moved it to an account in Geneva.
“I knew you’d be fine. You were married to a Girondin. And you’re a woman.”
“Ah, yes, a woman. I remember how you laughed when the laws were changed so women could inherit. How you said, when you signed the money over to me, that you supposed a woman inheriting it was still better than a pack of murderous Republicans stealing it.”
“It was a temporary transfer.”
“That’s not what you said at the time,” she pointed out.
“It was a desperate situation. You have no idea how to manage money.”
She’d actually done quite well managing it, but she had no intention of telling him that.
“You will regret it if you do not return it to me.” Again, her father shook his finger at her.
Marguerite tilted her head, as if considering. “I don’t think so.”
Her father’s face darkened to a shade that matched the ribbon on her hat.
“I will make you pay.” He glanced over at Marcus, “I will make you both pay.”
“You may certainly try,” Marcus said agreeably. “Although, I suspect it will make Marguerite feel even less generous about giving you a portion of what any court of law would agree are her funds.”
“You…you…fortune hunter,” the comte shook his furious finger at Marcus.
“If by fortune, you are referring to Marguerite, then I quite agree,” he said, then turned to look at Marguerite. “She’s a rare treasure.”
“And to think Andre said extemporaneous speech wasn’t one of your finer skills,” she marveled. “He was quite wrong.”
“He often is,’ her not-quite-husband agreed, and held out his hand. “I think our business here is done. Shall we go home, my love?”