Which was not possible. His wife would care for him, as was her right.
Dear God . . .
Marguerite sank to the marble floor in a puddle of yellow skirts, her vision distorted by hot flowing tears. The butler hurried toward her, but she halted him with an upraised hand. “Is your cousin still employed at the Saint-Martin residence?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.” Understanding lit the servant’s pale blue eyes. “I will send someone to learn what they can from him.”
“Urge them to haste.”
As the courier backed away as if to leave, her attention returned to him. Fury gave her the strength to rise to her feet.
“As for you,” she said coldly, stepping toward him with fists clenched. “Return to Comte Desjardins and give him a message for me.”
“Mademoiselle?” He shifted uncomfortably.
“Tell him that if the marquis does not survive, neither will he.”
He bowed and departed, leaving Marguerite with a life in shambles. For the space of several heartbeats she stood in place, hardly breathing.
How would she survive without Philippe?
A hand touched her arm tentatively. Marguerite turned to find Celie standing beside her.
“What can I do?” the maid asked.
“What can anyone do?” Marguerite replied in a hoarse voice. “Everything is in the hands of God now.”
“Perhaps the Vicomte de Grenier can be of assistance?”
Marguerite frowned, startled by the suggestion. She had no one to whom she could turn for help. Her sisters, perhaps, but they had nothing to offer and would most likely believe that such was the fate of fallen women.
“Why would he help me?” she asked.
Celie shrugged and winced.
“Send someone,” Marguerite ordered, thinking he would already know about the day’s events, regardless.
The maid curtsied and scurried off.
It was a few hours later before de Grenier arrived. He entered the parlor behind the butler looking windblown and handsome, despite the tightness of his mouth and the grimness in his eyes.
Marguerite rose from her seat, expending great effort to ignore how the knot in her stomach tightened upon seeing him. “My lord.”
“I came as swiftly as possible,” he said, striding up to her and collecting her hands in his.
“I am grateful.”
“I went to Desjardins first, to see what he knew.”
She gestured for him to sit and he did, choosing to share the small settee with her.
“Was he forthcoming?” she asked.
“He was startled by my involvement, then wary. I believe it was only desperation that led him to speak openly.”
Her fingers tangled together in her lap and her breath caught. “Desperation?”
De Grenier exhaled and the sound conveyed such finality, she felt ill. “I have always thought of Desjardins as immovable as a mountain, despite his youth. There are very few people who I would believe above any form of coercion and he is one of them.”