the times she had been with him since that night. Why had she never guessed? And Tristan knew. Tristan had not told her. So much for trust. But, then did she really want to know?
And how had Tristan forced Simon to leave? Would he really have shot him if had not left?
Parry, thrust, parry. It was a duel within her head. Did she trust her husband? Could she ever know that he would not keep secrets and judge her harshly for crimes she did not understand? It was all too much for one day, particularly one in which she had been so tired to start. She rested her head back against the chairs letting the bitter words brush over her.
Finally she could take no more. She knew how to attack for herself. She raised her head and stared right at Lady Harburton. “The tulips are ugly. I do not know why you have created such a fuss about them.” An indirect volley could bypass defenses.
“What?” Lady Harburton stopped speaking to Tristan in an instant and turned to Marguerite. “I thought everything else was bad, but to insult my flowers is cruel. I am known throughout London for my flowers and floral arrangements. They have been the sole topic of conversation at many a morning call.”
“I do not dispute the aesthetics of your arrangements in general, just of your tulips.” This was too easy. All Marguerite had sought was a distraction from Lady Harburton delving into Marguerite’s life. But, this . . . she, continued, “I find neither black tulips nor tulips with green stripes to be pleasing to the eye.”
“That just shows how little you know about the delicate sensibilities of a true artist,” Lady Harburton stated with great authority.
Marguerite could not resist glancing at her husband. He raised a sardonic brow. He evidently had as great a regard for Lady Harburton’s artistic temperament as did she.
“You must be correct,” Marguerite said. “I fear I do quite miss all aspects of their beauty.”
“And their worth too apparently. Each bulb is worth at least a thousand pounds. They are extremely rare and hard to cultivate. Without my precious bulbs the variations will be lost forever.”
“I have not heard of such a belief since the Dutch tulip scandal,” Tristan joined in the conversation. “Bulbs worth a thousand pounds? Why would you believe such a thing?”
Marguerite thought the same. She had lost count of how many black or green striped tulips she had seen over the past weeks. Rare? They seemed to be everywhere.
Lady Harburton stood, forcing Tristan to step back. “Why Mr. Huismans told me. He is ever so knowledgeable. We have discussed the merits of various variations and colors at length. He has even promised to name the black ones – which are really deep, majestic aubergine – after me. Can you imagine such an honor?” She started to walk about the room, her arms flapping in excitement. “And he assures me they are worth thousands. And he should know, he is, after all, Dutch. We did discuss the tulip fiasco of the past, but he was definite that this is different entirely. There were simply too many of each bulb in that case. He has made sure there are only a few dozen of each of these bulbs – plus as I said they are entirely impossible to duplicate.”
Lady Harburton spun suddenly to face Tristan. “Which reminds me, I want them back. Don’t think I don’t know you took them. It was all a way to get back at my dear Simon.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken. I have never seen one of these bulbs in my life. I have no interest in flowers – or anything related to gardens.” He caught Marguerite’s glance. “Or at least I had no interest until very recently.”
“What rubbish. My darling Simon left a note. He said that he was going to look over some strange ruins on the continent – he never had any such interest before – but that you would be able to explain everything. What else could he have meant?”
Marguerite watched as her husband pressed his lips together. She had learned that the tiny gesture meant he was debating how much to say. He clearly knew the answer to Lady Harburton’s question, but whether he would say was in debate. His lips relaxed – he would tell all.
“I believe,” he began, “that all your son meant was that I should tell you he had taken the bulbs himself. Apparently he