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“I remember this from my childhood,” she said uncertainly. “My
brother Billy found the locket in my mother’s effects when she died last year.
She had told me it was mine.”

They had argued about it, she remembered. Billy had said he
would have the locket and accompanying brooch valued for her. Margery had
accused him of stealing them from her. She knew he would sell them. It was a
small inheritance to lose but she had been hurt and angry.

She opened the catch and stared at the painted figures inside.
One was a lady with golden hair, the other a dark man in a blue velvet coat. The
paintings were yellowed and cracked. “I used to make up stories about them when
I was a child,” she said, frowning a little. “There was a golden brooch, as
well....”

Silently, Mr. Churchward laid a brooch on the table beside the
locket. It also had the letters
MSP
spelled out in
precious stones. One of the jewels was missing. The others had lost their luster
and were dull and dark.

“Your brother William brought these to me a month ago,” Mr.
Churchward said. “He told me that he had taken them to a reputable jeweler who
had recognized them as being of great value. The design matched that of some
other pieces that the man had seen. He recognized the crest as being that of the
Earl of Templemore.”

A cold shiver ran down Margery’s spine. Something shifted in
her memory. There were images and thoughts that were still a confused blur but
were trying to tell her something, something she felt very deeply and
insistently, like a memory that had been lost. She could picture the gold
jewelry and a little blue silk and lace gown, torn and dirty....

“The blue silk…” she said. “Silk and lace. The dress…”

“Blue silk was what you were wearing when you disappeared,” Mr.
Churchward said.

Margery gave a gasp and pressed a hand to her mouth.
Immediately, Henry offered her a glass of brandy, and this time Margery did not
refuse it. The spirit burned her throat and almost made her choke but it did
steady her.

“It cannot possibly be true,” she said. “It’s nonsense.” She
could hear the beseeching note in her own voice, begging for someone to tell her
that it was all a ruse. She tilted the glass to her lips again. The fiery spirit
streaked through her, making her feel reckless and unguarded.

She felt as though she had stumbled into some nightmarish
fantasy. Lady Marguerite? If she was a lady then pigs might fly. She was Margery
Mallon, daughter of a Wantage blacksmith, a lady’s maid with ambitions to be a
confectioner. She liked being Margery Mallon. She did not know how to be anyone
else. She felt a clutch of fear. This had to be a mistake. She drained the
glass.

“Don’t have too much,” Henry instructed. “We cannot do with you
being three sheets to the wind at a time like this.”

Margery fixed him with a withering look. “You have changed your
tune from last night! Plying me with ale in order to gain information from
me—and worse....”

Mr. Churchward cleared his throat very loudly. He looked as
though he was blushing. He shuffled his papers back into his document case.
“Lady Marguerite,” he said. “Such recriminations must wait.” He shot Henry a
reproachful look. “Lord Wardeaux is the Earl of Templemore’s godson and I assure
you that he has been acting out of the purest motives.”

“Nonsense,” Margery said coldly. “Pure? Lord Wardeaux? He is a
blackguard and I do not believe a word he says. Nor do I do believe I am Lady
Marguerite whatever her name is. The idea is absurd. There must be some
mistake.”

“You can certainly make no claim to behaving like a lady at
present,” Henry said grimly. He grabbed her by the upper arms, ignoring Joanna
Grant’s murmured protest. His eyes blazed into hers. “Lady Marguerite,” he said,
“entertaining as this is, we do not have the time right now. Mr. Churchward will
explain everything on the way to Berkshire. We will leave immediately.”

“No, we will not,” Margery said stubbornly. “I am not going
anywhere before Mr. Churchward explains. In full.”

She thought for a moment that Henry was going to shake her—or
kiss her. Something fierce burned in his eyes, reminding her of the previous
night and the passion that had flared so hot and so fast between them. His hands
tightened on her shoulders before he released her as quickly as he had grabbed
her, dropping her back in her seat and turning away.

“You have your grandfather’s stubbornness.” He bit out the
words. “That is for sure.”

Margery knew she was behaving badly but shock and
disappointment together had knocked her off balance. All she could think of was
the ache of betrayal deep inside, the knowledge that Henry had only sought her
out because he was asked to do so, and everything that had followed had been a
lie. It hurt.

It should not matter, but it did. She had liked him far too
much and now she could see he was not the man she had thought he was. He had
charmed her completely and for his own ends. He had ruthlessly pursued his own
agenda out of no more than duty and she, naive little fool that she was, had
been utterly taken in.

“Mr. Churchward,” Henry said. “As briefly as possible, if you
please.” He had evidently accepted that she would be going nowhere without an
explanation. Margery felt a flash of triumph that, in this one small thing at
least, she could make him do her will.

“As you wish, my lord.” Mr. Churchward looked pained, as though
to be brief was an abdication of responsibility. “Your mama,” he said to
Margery, “was Lady Rose Saint-Pierre, the Earl of Templemore’s only child. When
she was one and twenty she eloped with a French émigré, Comte Antoine de
Saint-Pierre, against the wishes of her father.” Mr. Churchward fidgeted with
the clasp of his briefcase, avoiding Margery’s eyes.

“The marriage was a fiasco,” Henry intervened brutally. Margery
flinched but he did not soften his words.

“Saint-Pierre was a fortune hunter and a French spy who after a
few years left Lady Rose and their daughter—” He paused, his gaze resting on
Margery’s face. “You, Lady Marguerite, in the country while he pursued the life
of a bachelor here in London. Drinking, gambling, whoring—”

“Ladies present!” Mr. Churchward protested faintly.

Henry bowed ironically. “Ladies, my apology. In brief, after a
year or so of this humiliation, Lady Rose set out for London with her child,
intent on pleading with her husband to take them back. According to the servants
at his rooms, Saint-Pierre turned her away. He told her that he had no further
use for her and never wanted to see her again. On the way back to Berkshire,
Lady Rose’s coach was ambushed and she was killed.”

Margery pressed her hands together. They were cold and
trembling. She felt chilled all over. There was a buzzing in her ears.

“It was a terrible, terrible business.” Mr. Churchward’s face
was pinched with old memories. “When the rescuers came upon the carriage they
found Lady Rose dead and the child vanished.”

Gooseflesh breathed along Margery’s skin again. The carriage,
she thought. The flight through the night, the tears…the memories that had
haunted her, that had lived at the back of her mind, were suddenly garish and
vivid in their horror.

“My parents quarreled that night,” she said very slowly. “I
remember now. There were raised voices. I think they were throwing things at
each other. A mirror broke.” She could see the shattered reflection and the
slivers of glass on the carpet. She could see herself cowering in a corner of
the room.

“My mama was crying,” she said. “She picked me up and ran out
and bundled me back into the coach and we set off for home—” She broke off,
shivering. On the edges of her memory she could feel the jagged horror of that
night. She had known that something was dreadfully wrong and that her world had
broken into a thousand pieces, but she had been too young to understand. “What
happened to him? What happened to my father?”

Mr. Churchward’s hands shook; his coffee cup rattled in its
saucer. It was Henry who answered.

“After your mama died and you disappeared, Saint-Pierre went
back to France,” he said. “There were those who thought he had arranged his
wife’s death and taken you away, but he always swore he was innocent of it.”

“I never saw him again.” Margery frowned. “I cannot even really
remember what he looked like.” She gave a violent shudder and covered her face
with her hands. Instantly, Lady Grant was by her side again, holding her close
in a comforting hug.

“Margery,” she said. “My dear child. Don’t think about it
anymore.”

“I don’t remember anything else,” Margery said. She put a hand
up to her head as though to soothe the jagged memories. “I don’t recall what
happened.”

“Good,” Lady Grant said robustly. “You must have been very
young. Of course you will not remember and it is better that you do not.”

Henry was looking at her quizzically. “You remember nothing of
how you came to be living in Wantage with the Mallon family?”

Margery shook her head. There were disconnected snatches of
pictures in her mind but nothing that made any sense. “I remember nothing else,”
she repeated.

She sat up straighter and ran her palms down her skirts,
fidgeting nervously, trying to gather some composure. She felt shocked and
distressed. The bottom had fallen out of her world and she had no certainties
anymore. She did not even know who she really was. Everything she thought was
true had been built on sand.

She looked up to see Henry’s steady, dark gaze on her. She
wished she could trust him and look to him for support and strength. She felt a
powerful impulse to turn to him. The intensity of her need shocked her. But hot
on the heels of it came disillusion and bitterness. Henry had deceived her. He
had done so callously, ruthlessly. She had to remember that his first loyalty
was to her grandfather, not to her. He was a man driven by duty, not by
compassion, a dangerous man to her.

“So it was Billy who went to you,” she said to Mr. Churchward.
“I wish he had spoken to me first.” She shook her head. Suddenly she wished—oh,
how she wished—that Granny Mallon were here with her sound good sense. She
longed suddenly for her parents; she wondered why they had never told her about
her true identity. Her past suddenly felt like a puzzle with the pieces broken
and reforming into new shapes. There were gaps and sharp edges and she was alone
in dealing with them.

“Jem!” She exclaimed. “I must speak to Jem. Surely he will
remember something of what happened?”

She did not miss the look that flashed between Henry and Mr.
Churchward.

“You may, of course, speak with your brother just as soon as it
can be arranged,” Henry said smoothly. “But in the meantime—” he glanced at the
pretty little china clock on the mantel “—it is a matter of urgency that we
leave for Berkshire as soon as we can.”

Margery felt as though everything was happening too quickly,
reality sliding away from her. She grasped for something familiar. “I want to
see Jem,” she insisted. “It cannot be so urgent that we have to go at once. We
could send for him—”

“You are seeking to delay the inevitable, Miss Mallon,” Henry
said, with brutal directness. “It is urgent we leave, because your grandfather
is dying. If we do not go at once, it may be too late.”

Margery’s gaze instinctively sought out Mr. Churchward. He
nodded. “Lord Wardeaux is correct. The Earl of Templemore is a very sick man. I
am sorry, my lady.”

My lady,
Margery thought.
Help
.

“I think,” Lord Grant said, effortlessly taking charge, “that
it might be a good idea to slow matters down a little. We shall send immediately
to Lord Templemore to tell him that his granddaughter is now apprised of her
situation and will be setting out for Berkshire later this morning. I am sure
that the good news will give him heart and lift his spirits. Then—” he smiled at
Margery “—Miss…um…Lady Marguerite will have a little time to prepare for her
journey, send a message to her brother to join her in Berkshire and do whatever
else is necessary.”

“An excellent idea, Alex, darling.” Lady Grant leapt in to
second her husband. “A lady has so many matters to consider at a time like this.
I shall advise Lady Marguerite on what to pack, though I scarcely know where to
start.”

“Please,” Margery said. “No more of this ‘Lady Marguerite.�� My
name has been Margery for twenty years and I cannot adjust to another now.”

Henry looked doubtful and Lady Grant seemed most put out. “But
Margery, darling,” she said plaintively, “that is a name fit only for servants
whereas you are going to be a countess.”

Margery blinked. She looked at Churchward again. “Am I?” she
said faintly.

“The Templemore title and estate is one of only a handful in
the country that may devolve down the female line,” Mr. Churchward confirmed.
“Until you were found, Lord Wardeaux was the Earl of Templemore’s heir—” He
stopped abruptly, his face the picture of guilt. There was a long, heavy
silence. Margery looked at Henry. His expression was completely blank.

“I see,” she said slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Churchward.” She
looked at the array of faces looking back at her. “I should like to speak to
Lord Wardeaux now,” she said. “Alone, if you please.”

“It would be most improper,” Lady Grant pointed out. “You are a
young, unmarried heiress.”

Margery laughed. “And I have been a young unmarried maidservant
for the last twelve years,” she said. “I assure you, ma’am, that my life has
been most improper by the standards of society and nothing will be able to
rectify that. Now, please, I would like to speak with Lord Wardeaux.”

And because she was now Lady Marguerite and heir to Templemore,
no one argued with her.

* * *

T
HE
DOOR
CLOSED
BEHIND
Lord and Lady Grant and Mr.
Churchward. Through the thick walnut panels Henry could still hear Lady Grant’s
voice. “This will set the town by the ears, Alex! How are we to make Margery
respectable enough to be a lady?”