“Expending ‘a little effort’ appears to be something she isunableto do of late.”
“You seem to have taken a decided interest in my sister.” Jean-François’s gaze turned worryingly intrigued.
The frequency with which that trap had been laid at Norwood two years earlier was still exhausting to recall. “I was raised to be a gentleman, which means I do not ignore a lady’s distress.”
“And you are accusing me of doing precisely that?” Jean-François couldn’t seem to decide whether he was offended or made hopeful by Aldric’s interference in his sister’s concerns. He was enough to make a person dizzy.
The door to Céleste’s room opened. Henri stood on the threshold, Adèle in his arms. His eyes met Jean-François’s and clouded. Henri was not one to grow angry; he was more likely to be hurt and upset. The fact that coming face-to-face with his brother brought pain to his eyes was yet another item on the growing list of reasons Jean-François Fortier deserved to be landed a facer.
Henri stepped back and motioned them both inside. Jean-François entered, all defensive haughtiness. Aldric tucked himself unobtrusively into a corner.
Aldric spotted Adèle watching him. He knew he could be intimidating, and he didn’t want the little girl to be afraid of him. He offered a little smile. She returned it with a tentative one of her own.
“Mlle Fortier’s condition has grown unexpectedly worse since I last saw her,” the doctor said.
Marguerite came swiftly inside in the very next moment. “I’ve been looking for you, Jean-François. The letters are not where you left them, and I—” She suddenly realized the room was not empty. Her gaze darted about, not settling on anything for long. She moved closer to her husband and, lowering her voice, said, “Did you move those letters?”
“We can discuss the letters later.”
“But they are gone,” she whispered. “What if somebody finds them?”
“Not now,” he repeated tensely.
Aldric’s gaze happened on Céleste during the tense exchange. She was very interested in the discussion, and it was an interest that didn’t seem to be simple curiosity. These missing letters were significant.
How many secrets could one family hold?
“Has Mlle Fortier not been resting as I recommended?” Dr. Mercier asked. “I was very clear about how crucial that was. What rest Mlle Fortier has been afforded is not proving sufficient.” The doctor managed to maintain a deferential air while still being firm. It was a very wise approach with Céleste’s prickly brother and sister-in-law.
“There is a lot that must be accomplished while we are in Paris,” Jean-François said. “She cannot simply cease her participation in Society and undermine everything we are building and attempting to bring about. She can rest as much as she wishes when the social whirl has ebbed.”
Please. I am in need of a doctor. I know myself to be growing more ill.Aldric pushed aside the memory of Mother’s voice, of her misery. He pushed aside the pain that always accompanied those memories.
“As a man of medicine who has seen Mlle Fortier’s condition deteriorate,” the doctor said, “I would recommend she not merely limit her social obligations but that she leave Paris altogether and spend a few quiet months in the countryside regaining her strength.”
“Absolutely not,” Marguerite declared. “Our fortunes and standing have never been better. This is our best chance for securing her an advantageous match. How are we to do that if she is hermitted away at Fleur-de-la-Forêt?”
“We will not entertain such a ludicrous idea.” Jean-François added his thoughts to his wife’s. “You know my position on you thwarting our efforts, Céleste. You know the consequences.”
“I like Paris,” Céleste said. “I am not eager to leave.”
“Tell that to this doctor, then.”
She continued speaking to her oldest brother. “Perhaps, rather than my leaving the city, we could simply curtail my engagements a little, just until I’ve regained a bit of my strength.”
“We would not leave Paris either way,” Marguerite insisted. “Not now. Not when things are—”
“Missing an additional Society gathering each week could be permissible,” Jean-François said. “But only if you are far more cooperative at the ones you do attend than you have been.”
“I’ve not been uncooperative,” she said, “only tired.”
“Arguing with me is unlikely to prove effective.” It was a warning.
What a bounder.
“I hadn’t intended to argue. I’m sorry.” Such easy capitulation pointed toward miserable outcomes from previous arguments. That was horrifyingly familiar.
“We will consider adjusting your social calendar,” Jean-François said.
