‘Really.’ Arthur had approved of the idea when Stephen had suggested it. Since his younger brother’s judgement was notoriously bad, he should have seen it as an ill omen.
‘I thought you’d recognise the stones from the first. But you had them reset, ready to give back to Mother.’ Arthur laughed again. ‘It really is rather amusing, when you think about it.’
‘It. Is. Not.’
‘But it has given you a reason to put Margot de Bryun in her proper place, on her back and in your bed. I assume, after a week with her, your lust-addled mind is clearing and you are no longer talking nonsense about making her a member of the family.’
At this, Stephen released his brother’s coat, letting him drop to the floor. It was a relief to see Arthur waver on his feet, for a moment, then remain standing. What Stephen intended would hardly have been sporting had he collapsed.
He punched his brother, once, hard enough to break his aristocratic nose, and turned and left. It proved, yet again, that one did not need words, when one had actions.
When Margot finally woke, it was to daylight streaming through the curtains of the room and an aching head. There had been wine. Too much wine. And too little food, although it was not as if he hadn’t offered.
Fanworth.
She sat up, gathering the covers about her for modesty. She was alone in the room save for a breakfast tray, set for one, and growing cold beside the bed.
She glanced around again to be absolutely sure that there was no servant lurking about, ready to help her. Then she climbed out of bed to get her clothes, grabbing a piece of burned toast as she did so. She did not remember lying with him on the previous evening. But then, she did not remember much of anything, other than the wine. Had he truly left her untouched? And if so, why? Perhaps she had done something to render herself repellent to him. Dear lord, she hoped she had not been sick. That would be even more embarrassing than waking naked in a strange bed.
But his disgust and her humiliation might be the easiest way out of the situation. If he had already tired of her, she could go home and sin no more, and pretend that none of this had ever happened. Assuming, of course, that he did not call down the law upon her because of the necklace.
But what should have been a relief left her vaguely sad. Was what he had felt for her really so shallow that it could be satisfied in a single night? It put paid to the fantasies she’d had that her dear Mr Standish would confess his title and his love, and offer some deep and lasting connection.
She’d have had to refuse, of course. Such a match would have been unworkable for both of them. But still, she could live a lifetime alone, sustained on an offer and perhaps a few chaste kisses...
Passionate kisses, she corrected, rewriting the fantasy to include experience. Or perhaps the thing that had actually occurred between them. To have been loved once and well, as he had done the previous week, would be a bittersweet memory to balance a lifetime as a spinster. It would have been even better if he had been the honourable man she had fallen in love with and not a base villain who must be laughing at her naïveté.
She dressed hurriedly and downed the chocolate that had gone cold in the pot waiting for her to wake. The wine-induced headache eased somewhat with the food and a splash of cold water from the basin. Now, she must rush to the shop, for the clock on the mantel showed half past ten. Her arrival in yesterday’s gown would be a fresh embarrassment. It was far too late to sneak back to her rooms before the business opened for the day. But the sleep had done her good. In spite of the humiliation, she was better rested than at any time since she’d discovered the truth about the rubies.
She reached the door to the hall, only to find it locked. She cursed once, softly, in French, then she rang for a servant. And rang again when the footman who came refused to allow her to pass without the master’s permission.
The second summons brought the same housekeeper she had met on her first visit. Mrs Sims stared at her with a knowing glance that informed her she was no better than she should be, if she was on the wrong side of a man’s door in the middle of the morning. A single, disapproving nod added that it was exactly what she has suspected would happen when Margot had turned up on the kitchen doorstep. After this protracted, silent judgement, she said, ‘Lord Fanworth told me nothing about what to do with you, miss, other than to feed you. Which I did.’
‘Thank you for that,’ Margot said, attempting a friendly smile that had no effect on the scowling servant. ‘It was delicious.’
By the surprised look on the housekeeper’s face, Margot suspected that the tray had been served cold as a message from the kitchen.
‘Now that breakfast is over, I must be going,’ she said, giving another encouraging smile.
‘Lord Fanworth said nothing about that, miss,’ said Mrs Sims, not moving from the doorway. Though she had wished to bar entrance on the first visit, for the second, Mrs Sims meant to guard the exit.
‘Is Lord Fanworth in the habit of imprisoning women in his bedchambers against their will?’ She’d meant it to sound sarcastic. But given the circumstances, it was a legitimate question.
The footman and the housekeeper looked at each other for a moment, trying to decide if an answer was expected. Then Mrs Sims said, ‘It will take some time before the carriage can be prepared.’
‘Then I shall walk,’ Margot announced and pushed past them into the hall.
‘I will summon a maid to accompany you,’ Mrs Simms said with a sigh that implied that would take almost as long as the carriage. Clearly, she was stalling until Lord Fanworth could return.
‘A maid will not be necessary,’ Margot said and headed towards the servants’ stairs.
The housekeeper cleaned her throat. ‘The door is this way, miss.’ Apparently paying the wages of sin involved exiting through the front door in broad daylight.
‘Very well, then.’ Margot straightened her bonnet and walked, head held high, down the stairs, out the front door and into the street. Her willingness to walk alone probably cemented her impropriety in the eyes of the housekeeper. But in Margot’s opinion, it would be worse to be seen with a member of Fanworth’s staff than to walk alone. She had no wish to add to the rumours already spreading about her improper relationship with the marquess.
Once she was on her way, she walked quickly to discourage conversation, should she meet someone she knew. If someone saw her walking on the wrong side of the street and noticed her attire was not immaculately starched perfection, there was little that could be said in argument.
* * *
Once she arrived at the building that housed her shop, she had hoped to slip up the side stairs to her rooms, largely unnoticed. It should have been easy for the main salon was already crowded with customers.
But at the first sight of her, Jasper seized her hand and pulled her to the back room. ‘Miss de Bryun, we were terribly worried about you. You were not here to unlock the door. And so much has occurred...’
‘Calm yourself.’ She detached his hand from her arm and glanced around the room. ‘Where is Mr Pratchet? He should be helping in the main room, with the shop as busy as this.’
‘That is the problem, miss. Mr Pratchet is gone.’
For a moment, all she felt was relief. Then she remembered the trouble it was likely to cause. ‘Where did he go?’ she said, puzzled. It was too early for a trip to the bank. And she could think of no other reason he might leave his post.
‘We have no idea,’ Jasper said. ‘He did not say. But I do not think he is coming back. After the marquess spoke to him, he took his tools and—’
‘The