Then mercifully went black.
“The afternoon’s post, mademoiselle.”
Marguerite looked up from the dining table, where she was perusing the week’s meal plan, and found the butler standing in the doorway. She gestured him in and pushed the menus to the side.
“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching for the topmost envelope on the silver salver as it was placed before her.
She went through the marginal task with only partial attention, her mind on Philippe and how withdrawn he had appeared over the last few days. She was a veritable prisoner in her own home, barred from even the swiftest of trips into town. Additional servants had been retained to protect her. The sparse amount of correspondence she received was the only contact she had with anyone beyond the walls of her house.
Her focus sharpened when she came to the missive sealed with thick black wax.
Very few people corresponded with her. Her mother and father had disowned her. Her sisters wrote only sporadically and briefly. Yet it was her name on the exterior of the envelope, not Philippe’s.
Prying it open carefully, she read the bold scrawl with mounting confusion.
Saint-Martin has two choices. Choose you or choose his life. I know how he will decide. The question is, how will you?
L’Esprit
Marguerite frowned, then called out for the butler. When the servant appeared, she asked, “Who delivered this?”
“A groomsman brought it in. I will ask.”
She nodded and waited, rereading the cryptic words and examining the odd seal.
Several moments later, he returned. “He does not recall.”
“Hmm . . .”
“A courier is at the door, mademoiselle, requesting to see you.”
An apprehensive shiver coursed down Marguerite’s spine. She carefully refolded the note before leaving it atop the polished wooden tabletop. As a footman pulled her chair back, she stood and ran her hands carefully down her muslin skirts. Hesitating. She had been on edge for days. The odd happenings of this day only worsened her unease.
Rounding the table, she exited out to the hallway and moved toward the visitors’ foyer.
Every step weighed heavier and heavier. The hairs on her nape stood at attention. She was being threatened directly now. As disquieting as that was for her, she knew it would be more so for Philippe. If only they could ascertain what the root of the problem was . . .
“Mademoiselle Piccard.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgment of the courier’s greeting and drew to a halt by the main staircase, which was several feet away from him. “Good afternoon.”
“Comte Desjardins sent me.”
Her stomach knotted. “Yes?”
The man’s shoulders went back. That telltale sign of nervousness stiffened her spine. There were other concerning indicators, as well—the damaged and dirty state of his clothing, spatters of some dark liquid on his tan breeches, his disheveled hair.
“The Marquis de Saint-Martin was attacked just hours ago,” he said grimly.
“No . . .” She stumbled as her knees weakened under the weight of her greatest fear. Reaching out, she caught herself by gripping the baluster.
“He was gravely injured. He has since been moved to his home, where he is being attended, but his situation appears dire. Comte Desjardins wanted you to be made aware.”
The room spun and Marguerite gasped for air, fighting a tightening in her chest that threatened to rob her of consciousness.
“Made aware,” she repeated, her thoughts on the letter sitting on her dining table.
Every instinct screamed at her to go to Philippe, to be with him, hold him, nurse him back to health.