When he stirred again, and opened his eyes to the stark light of the room, he found himself alone in the low wooden bed. As he had lain on his back, lost in a troubled sleep, the covers had been neatly tucked in, and her pillow plumped and arranged alongside his. Only a woman would take the time to be so neat, Percy mused vaguely.

He sat up, and combed his fingers through his dishevelled fair hair, pausing with his hands clasped against his head. The apartment was silent. Where had she gone? As he freed himself from the bed clothes and put his feet to the floor, he glanced around for any sign of her. Their entrance into the room had been somewhat hectic, he remembered that; but now his clothes were neatly folded on the closed trunk that contained her trousseau, and her wedding gown was arranged with infinite care over the back of a winged armchair that stood by the window. The delicate material of the dress, aged to a mellow cream with age, seemed to absorb the daylight and glow like a pearl. It had been her mother's, she had told him, her eyes shining with emotion – but later she had laughed when he had worried about damaging the dress. She would understand, had been the coquettish explanation.

"Margot?" He suddenly called, not expecting a response. Footsteps clicked across the floorboards of the parlour, however, and a moment later the door swung open. She stood in the corner, one hand still on the handle, waiting.

Percy took in the fact that she was dressed with a sense of finality that caused his heart to thud in his throat.

"Did we sleep in, m'dear?" He forced, his voice sounding scratchy as he battled with a mouth that was suddenly very dry.

"Please hear me, Sir Percy," she announced, and he noticed that her voice was not exactly steady either; "I have to tell you this."

She left the doorway, covering the Savonnerie carpet with determined steps, only pausing when her knees met the frame of the bed. She looked down on him, with eyes that seemed unnaturally large and impenetrably deep, wringing her hands against the material of her skirts.

Percy hastily stood up. He was still only clothed in his shirt, and wanted to seek what little control he could gain over the situation in those few extra inches of height. "Yes?"

She took a deep breath and then reached for his hands, which hung nerveless by his sides.

"Percy –"

It seemed important to him that he should speak first: "Is this about the Marquis de St Cyr?"

Marguerite froze, startled by the abrupt question and his awareness of the situation. "Yes…"

"About his arrest?" His hands, which were resting in her trembling fingers like dead weights, now dropped back towards him. Everything in his behaviour towards her – in his voice, his expression, his posture – was suddenly in unison with her conscience.

Struggling with emotion, Marguerite turned away. She was all too aware of the setting – the rumpled bed clothes, her trousseau still packed away, the light of day on her mother's dress. An hour ago suddenly felt like another age.

She tried to start at the beginning: "Armand –" But although her mouth formed her brother's name, her voice struggled to make a sound. No, I can't hide behind Armand, she thought, grateful for once that her words had dried up; I must tell him my part first, I must own to my actions.

"I know the Marquis from the Theatre," Marguerite said in a curiously flat voice, as though she was reading aloud from an unfamiliar script. "He's a familiar face there, a generous patron of the King's players, and personally known to a few of the societaires. He used to bring his daughter to his box. Angéle," she almost spat the name.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm trying to explain how our paths crossed – the Marquis and myself," she spoke slowly, steadily, trying to keep her emotion under control; "and the Theatre is where Armand first saw Angéle."

"Armand?" Percy found himself wearily leaning against the bed for support. As he listened to Marguerite's low voice, he suddenly felt lost, as though he had been thrown together with a complete stranger. "What does your brother have to do with your denouncement of the Marquis?"

She turned on her heel to face him, her faultless complexion mottled with angry blotches of red, and her eyes welling up with tears. "I knew that somebody had told you!" Marguerite blurted. "But I never thought that you would believe them!"

"So it's not true, then?" Percy met her outburst calmly, striving to mask the sudden giddiness he felt as he waited for her response. He watched her slender frame shudder with violent passion as she staggered back from him; her eyes betraying that she was more afraid than angry.

"How can you ask me that?" she whispered.

"Is it true, Marguerite?" he repeated, his voice shaking. Why was she doing this to him? All it needed was one word, and this whole nightmare could be over.

"Yes!"

Percy's breath caught in his throat, and he forgot how to swallow. He actually had to concentrate so as not to choke before her; not to let her see how she had caught him off guard. God knows he had thought about this possibility ever since learning of the St Cyrs, but just as men talk of death without considering their own, he had obviously never accepted it in his heart. That one word, and the defiant way she had spat it out at him, numbed Percy's senses. He didn't think about the consequences, because he couldn't think at all.

Marguerite slid down onto the edge of the bed that was between her and the floor when her legs gave way. Her vision was blurred with hot tears that flowed onto her cheeks when she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to cry in front of him, but she was equally thankful that she had an excuse not to look at him. That fleeting look of horror on his ashen face still reflecting in her mind was enough.

He had wanted the truth. He had fired those ugly words – accusations – at her for a reason. Obviously, her fears had been correct: somebody had told Percy about the connection between the beautiful republican actress and the betrayed nobleman, and he had instantly condemned her. Why he had chosen to play with her – why he had gone ahead with the wedding, why he had consummated the marriage! – she didn't understand, but she knew he didn't want to hear her say anything more than she had given him. In his mind, she was guilty. Well, now he had his answer, and she was trapped as his wife.

Gripping the foot of the bed for support, she rose to leave. That feeling of weightlessness seemed to have passed, and Marguerite hoped that her legs would not fail her. Wiping the tears from her cheeks and blotting her eyes, she started for the door.

"I shall be at home," she announced, meaning her old rooms with Armand. It had been a slip of the tongue, not intended as a comment on their marriage, but Marguerite neither corrected herself or turned to find out his reaction. Indeed, she still refused to look at him.

Not knowing what else to say, she simply walked out of the room and closed the door.