“Goodness, no. Don’t make a fuss, I’m sure that I will be all right in just a moment.” She glanced around at him and saw that he was putting the note to the flame of
a candle in a standing brass candelabra. She snatched it away from him before he realized what she intended.
“How thoughtful of you, Andrew,” she said, bringing the piece of paper up to her nose. “Surely your grandmother must have taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign remedy for giddiness.”
Ffoulkes looked aghast. He reached for the paper, but she held it away from him.
“You seem quite anxious to have it back,” she said, coyly. “What is it, I wonder? A note from some paramour?”
“Whatever it may be, Lady Blakeney,” Ffoulkes said, “it is mine. Please give it back to me.”
She gave him an arch look. “Why, Andrew, I do believe I’ve found you out! Shame on you for toying with little Suzanne’s affections while carrying on some secret flirtation on the side!” She stood up, holding the piece of paper close to her. “I have a mind to warn her about you before you break her heart.”
“That note does not concern Suzanne,” said Ffoulkes, “nor does it concern you. It is my own private business. I will thank you to give it back to me at once.”
He stepped forward quickly, trying to grab the note from her, but she backed away and, as if by accident, knocked over a candle stand.
“Oh! Andrew, the candles! Quick, before the drapes catch fire!”
The bottom of the drapes did begin to burn, but Ffoulkes moved quickly and smothered the flames. While he did so she quickly glanced at the note. Part of it had been burned away, but she could read:
“I start myself tomorrow. If you wish to speak with me again, I shall be in the supper room at one o’clock, precisely.”
It was signed with a small red flower.
She quickly lowered the note before Ffoulkes turned around.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said. “My playful foolishness almost caused an accident. Here, have your note back and forgive me for teasing you about it.”
She held it out to him and he took it quickly, putting it to the flame once more and this time burning it completely.
“Think nothing of it,” he said. He smiled. “I should not have reacted as strongly as I did and it’s of no importance. No harm’s been done.” He smiled at her and then his look changed to one of concern. “I say, you really don’t look well.”
“It’s nothing, I’m just a little dizzy,” she said. “I think perhaps I should step outside and get a little air. Don’t bother about me, Andrew, I will be fine.”
“You’re quite certain?”
“Oh, yes, it’s really nothing. You go on, enjoy yourself. I will return presently.”
She left the drawing room and started toward the exit, making sure to catch Chauvelin’s eye on her way. He raised his eyebrows and she nodded. He returned her nod, then turned to talk to someone. Marguerite went outside.
Well, in a few moments, it will be done, she thought. Chauvelin will have the information that will help him learn the true identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel and Armand will be saved. And I will have sent another man to his death. She heard a step behind her and turned to face Chauvelin.
“You’re being uncharacteristically silent tonight,” Finn said to Marguerite as they drove back to Richmond in their coach. He had resolved to face his feelings for her head-on and deal with the situation as best he could. The relationship between them had warmed over the past several days, but now it was Marguerite who was acting withdrawn. “Is something wrong?”
She hesitated for a moment, then the words all came out in a torrent.
“It’s Armand,” she said. “He is in terrible danger and I don’t know what I can do to save him. I fear for his life.”
Finn frowned. “You seem quite friendly with the French representative, Chauvelin. Perhaps he can do something?”
She shook her head. “It is Chauvelin who holds Armand’s life in the palm of his hand,” she said. “He has put a terrible price upon it. To save Armand, I would have to condemn another man. I fear that I have already done so. I could not live with the death of yet another on my conscience!”
“Ah,” said Finn, softly. “I see. You mean the Marquis de St. Cyr.”
Marguerite began to weep. The stress of the past two days finally took its toll and she began to shake uncontrollably, unable to hold anything back.
“I never meant for him to die,” she said, her fingers clutching spasmodically at her dress. “In anger, I spoke out against him, wanting to hurt him because he had hurt Armand. You should have seen him! When I found him that day, beaten nearly beyond recognition… Yes, I wanted to hurt St. Cyr, God help me, but I did not want him to die!”