Page 72 of Souvenir Heart

“It’s my hair that’s the problem.” Marguerite gave a watery laugh.

He glanced over at her, at the thick tangles of wet hair hanging down to the curve of her towel draped hips.

“There’s just so much of it…” Clutching the towel with one hand, she lifted a dark hank with the other. “And it’s full of that…odor. I was trying to wash it when you knocked. Making a mess of it really. Foolish to try with just a basin and a hand towel, but…I had to.”

The heart-twisting desperation was back in her voice. Marcus looked down at the pools of water splattered around the too-small basin on the floor.

“Would you,” he said cautiously, “like one of us to wait in the hall while you wash? And when you’re ready, come in and help you wash your hair?’ He curled his hands into fists. He didn’t want Andre anywhere near her hair, or any part of her for that matter, but the thought of touching her drove him nearly as mad.

“That trunk, the one with the clothes,” her voice trembled. “Would there be combs and brushes in it?” Hair pins?”

“I haven’t inspected the contents, but it belongs to the sister of an earl.” A woman who not only had access to the finest shops in London, but had also packed with an eye to shackling a notorious rake. And succeeded. “I expect so.”

“I don’t wish to impose...” She worried at her lower lip, the blush in her cheeks deepening.

Marcus suspected her sense of propriety was warring with her need for cleanliness.

“But there’s really no helping it.” She looked pointedly at him. “You’ll stay? And help me?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. Wanted not to notice how the water from her hair made sections of the towel cling to her skin.

He looked at Andre, who had turned slightly and was studying them both. Andre shook his head. “The lady asked for you. And I’ve sworn an oath never to touch a lady’s hair.” He gave Marguerite an apologetic shrug. “Four sisters. Unfortunate prank involving a curling iron, red sealing wax, and one of the older ones. Amelie.“

“Amelie?” Marcus said, momentarily distracted by Andre’s mention of one of London’s reigning beauties.

“Yes, that sister. The others held me down while she beat me with a hairbrush. Couldn’t walk properly for days. Her threat of vengeance if I go back on my word haunts me still. You can wield a hairbrush can’t you, Scribbler?”

Given the number of wenches he’d seen perched on Scott’s lap, Marcus wasn’t entirely sure he believed Andre was a haunted as he claimed. Though Lady Amelie was indeed a force to be reckoned with.

“Excellent.” Marguerite interjected. “Citizen Tisset…no, M’sieur Tyndale, is it not? I would be delighted to take you up on your kind offer.”

There was an expression of relief mixed with critical amusement in her eyes that reminded Marcus of her self-portrait.

“You can add maid services to my dear father’s bill, can you not?”

Forty-Five

As soon as Marcus and Andre left the room, Marguerite buried her face in a wet washcloth with a mortified groan. Shaky as a newborn colt, she’d managed to spill most of the water in the pitcher in her attempt to wash her hair. Sticky with soap, still redolent of the prison, she’d been eyeing the splattered pools on the floor, wondering if there was any way to use them to try and rinse at least some of the mess off, when they’d walked in on her.

She waited, breathless, for several moments, just to be certain there’d be no more unexpected interruptions. Then she dropped the towel, picked up the soap, stepped into the washtub, which was just big enough to stand in, and began scrubbing. She scoured and sluiced until her skin was pink and stingingly raw. Then she inhaled deeply; with the exception of her tangled hair, the smell of the prison was almost entirely gone.

She glanced over her shoulder; Marcus had taken the clothes she’d thrown on the floor. Then back over at the trunk he’d said should have everything she might need. A night dress? A wrapper? Ordinary items that seemed like unimaginable delights.

Wrapping herself in a fresh towel from the pile he’d placed on the table, she hurried over to the trunk. She lifted the lid but found it difficult to see inside with only a single lamp on the table. Grasping a handle, she dragged it closer to the light.

“Everything all right in there? You haven’t fallen, have you?”

“I’m fine.” She lifted out a cotton nightdress, pausing to admire the fine stitching, then shrugged into it, luxuriating in the whisper of fine softness against her skin. “Just need to find a…” She rooted around in the trunk searching for a wrapper, a shawl, another layer of coverage even though she was very much aware he’d seen nearly every inch of her already. A fresh wave of mortification swept over her. “Shawl,” she said, tossing a length of red and gold paisley over her shoulders.

He was being paid to help her. She was just a job to him. Why should she care what a hired man thought of her?

There was a knock at the door.

“Madame de Rouvroy? Are you ready for me?”

Her chest felt as if it was full of bees. Dragging the mass of her wet hair out from under the shawl and over her shoulder, she hurried back to the bed, skirting the chaos of pitchers, bowls, water and towels she’d left on the floor. “Enter, M’sieur Tynsdale.”

For a moment, she wasn’t sure why she’d asked the stony-faced man who entered to help her.