Page 113 of Souvenir Heart

Marcus glanced at her; they’d discussed the likelihood that her father would make this demand, but her new-found freedom was hard won and she was uncomfortable with even a forged certificate. “I’ll bring it the next time we visit.”

“I refuse to recognize this union! You do not have my blessing!”

“As I told you,” Marcus continued, “even before I met your brilliant, beautiful daughter, the love of my life…”

“I will have it annulled.”

“Far too late for that…” he paused, turning to smile at her. And while she suspected it was for dramatic effect, the warmth in Marcus’s eyes made her melt and sizzle like butter in a hot pan. She flushed.

His smile widened briefly into wickedness; then he turned back to her father. “Mon cher papa, I have no intention of keeping your money.”

Beneath its powder, her father’s face had turned a shade that nearly matched his red taffeta coat.

Marguerite raised a hand and interjected, “But I do.”

Her father gasped. “You…you…you. You will return my money immediately!” He raised his index finger in a gesture that had once made her think of the hand of God.

“Your money? The money you insisted on transferring to me when the new government started seizing the assets of the aristocracy? Even though you knew it would look suspicious. That it could put my life at risk if it were discovered?” Marguerite didn’t add, which is why I’d immediately moved it to an account in Geneva.

“I knew you’d be fine. You were married to a Girondin. And you’re a woman.”

“Ah, yes, a woman. I remember how you laughed when the laws were changed so women could inherit. How you said, when you signed the money over to me, that you supposed a woman inheriting it was still better than a pack of murderous Republicans stealing it.”

“It was a temporary transfer.”

“That’s not what you said at the time,” she pointed out.

“It was a desperate situation. You have no idea how to manage money.”

She’d actually done quite well managing it, but she had no intention of telling him that.

“You will regret it if you do not return it to me.” Again, her father shook his finger at her.

Marguerite tilted her head, as if considering. “I don’t think so.”

Her father’s face darkened to a shade that matched the ribbon on her hat.

“I will make you pay.” He glanced over at Marcus, “I will make you both pay.”

“You may certainly try,” Marcus said agreeably. “Although, I suspect it will make Marguerite feel even less generous about giving you a portion of what any court of law would agree are her funds.”

“You…you…fortune hunter,” the comte shook his furious finger at Marcus.

“If by fortune, you are referring to Marguerite, then I quite agree,” he said, then turned to look at Marguerite. “She’s a rare treasure.”

“And to think Andre said extemporaneous speech wasn’t one of your finer skills,” she marveled. “He was quite wrong.”

“He often is,’ her not-quite-husband agreed, and held out his hand. “I think our business here is done. Shall we go home, my love?”

Epilogue

JULY 19TH, 1793.

I’m on my way.

Four simple lines, written in an elegant script on a slip of paper. It was embossed with the Radcliffe coat of arms and set on a silver tray beside a fine porcelain teacup, pot of steaming tea, and silver tongs. Upon reading the contents of the note, warmth flooded Marguerite’s body. A warmth that more than matched the sunlight streaming in through the long windows of Marcus’s studio.

Slipping it into the pocket of her smock, she made a slow turn around the room, still marveling at finding herself in this utterly foreign and fabulous place. The room was exactly as Marcus described it during their escape from France: wide and airy with an arched and timbered ceiling, a perfect southern exposure from rows of lancet windows, uneven floorboards. She had no doubt, glancing at the massive carved fireplace, that it was impossible to keep warm in winter. But for now, with her easels lined up in front of the window, a growing portfolio of sketches leaning against one wall, and her art supplies spread on the canvas-covered dining table, it was near perfection.