The light that had flooded the bedroom earlier in the day now filled the main reception room of the spacious apartments. Percy stood by the window, staring alternately at the Paris life beyond and at his own reflection. A crumpled sheet of paper, nipped between his forefinger and middle finger, rested against his thigh. 'Heaven only understands your motive, M.,' Percy mentally reread the lines of the letter; 'but I am afraid your gesture will never be matched in deed. The Marquis and his family cannot be saved – they are to perish this very morning in the Carrousel.'

"Heaven may understand," Percy told the suddenly oppressive silence, "but I do not."

He had been the first to receive the letter, intended for Marguerite, earlier that morning. Frank, his trusted valet and only servant whilst in Paris, had apparently fought an internal battle over whether or not to disturb his master, only choosing to err on the side of caution because the courier had told him that the message was urgent. With his bride resting in his arms, Percy had dextrously opened out the hand-delivered note, unaddressed and unsealed in the sender's haste. He had read the words that were now echoing in his brain, before calmly passing the note back to Frank, with an instruction to "Leave it on the tray in the hall." He didn't know if Marguerite was aware that he had read the missive, but later, after her tearful departure, he had found the letter hastily twisted into a taper and poked into the grate of the fireplace.

So clever, Percy thought to himself; but what happens now?

He still loved her, if not quite as blindly as he had done mere hours before. Physically, he fancied he could still smell the perfume of her hair, taste her lips, hear her musical laugh. Emotionally, he was lost. The sudden confrontation had left him dazed – even though the fate of the Marquis must have been hanging over both of them throughout the wedding ceremony and their all too brief honeymoon, he had been unprepared for the note and her unabashed declaration of guilt. Marguerite, too, he believed, had been unaware that he suspected anything until he had pre-empted her confession. Until she read the note, he thought. Why did it all matter so? He didn't know why she had denounced the Marquis – he had initially thought it purely political, at best patriotic, and even now could only wonder as to any personal connection between the murdered family and the St Justs – but the truth was it didn't really concern him. Rash pride had resulted in his taking the moral high ground, and stunned disbelief had let her walk away without an explanation, because what had really stung him was her duplicity. She had waited until she was trapped before owning to him so momentous a secret, relying on her tears and his slavish devotion to soften the blow. If the Marquis had somehow escaped death, would she have continued to hide from him this chapter of her past? Percy couldn't help but feel that Marguerite's confession had been defensive rather than penitent, and that she really felt no remorse for what had befallen the ci-devant noble family. After all, she was a republican, and it was revenge firing this country's new politics, beneath all the idealistic talk of liberty and fraternity – revenge for past generations, revenge for yesterday, what difference did it make?

Percy closed his eyes. He balled the paper he was holding into the palm of his hand, turned, and blindly threw it in the direction of the fireplace. He needed her here, he needed her to tell him that it was all right to love her, that this whole revelation hadn't changed who she was. But where was she, for this first complex test of their union? Hiding on the Rue de Richelieu with her brother. Percy decided to wait. He would have Frank pack her dress away, and then let Marguerite be the one to decide if Armand should send for his sister's possessions, or if she and her trousseau were to accompany him across the channel. He would no longer sacrifice his dignity for her love. If, once her famous wit was no longer marred by her temper, she chose to return, he would not make it difficult for her. Perhaps they would come to an arrangement, but he would never let her see how much he suffered, how much she had hurt him. He had placed all in her – faith, love, happiness – and she had carelessly accepted what she could neither appreciate or give in return.

"I hope the crossing will not be too rough," Armand spoke, watching his sister's profile as she looked out to the horizon. Her features were serene in the early morning light, but she would not meet her brother's gaze, and had barely spoken during the carriage ride to the coast. Sir Percy, too, seemed unusually restrained and brusque, even for an Englishman.

"It should be passable once we get to the Daydream," Percy answered distantly.

Husband and wife stood before each other, but both were looking out to sea. Percy was watching for the boat that would take them to his yacht, and then on to England, whilst Marguerite's eyes merely reflected the waves that would soon bear her away from her brother and the country of her birth.

Armand was still unsure whether his sister really wanted to leave, but it was too late to ask the question now. After a fortnight of false starts, and many changes of heart, Marguerite had finally returned to her husband. When she next saw her brother, it was to tell him that she was leaving for Dover early the next morning. She had told him no more – whether she had explained about the Marquis and if Percy understood, or even if she was happy. But to one who knew Marguerite as Armand did, her inability to look him in the eye seemed answer enough for how she was feeling. A consummate actress, Marguerite's emotions were locked in her eyes – she could control her beautiful face, regulate her voice, and move with confidence, but the only way to disarm her eyes was to turn them away.

"I am afraid the boat might be slightly uncomfortable, m'dear," Percy drawled, as he caught sight of Briggs, his skipper, returning to the harbour; "but it is only a short trip. I'm afraid we cannot wait for the tide to come in."

"Thank you for your consideration, sir," Marguerite answered. She turned her head to her brother, and glanced at him, but then looked to the floor as she said, "Au revoir, Armand."

He pulled her to him, and she gasped with the pressure of unexpressed sentiment. "Dear Armand!" She whispered in his ear. "Promise you will come to me as soon as you are able?"

"Of course, sweet one," Armand told her, releasing her to share a kiss on each cheek, "but you will need time alone with Percy first, to adjust –"

"Non!" Marguerite pleaded. "Armand …"

"Lady Blakeney?"

Armand looked up, and Marguerite turned to see Sir Percy Blakeney waiting with one hand held out to his wife, whilst Briggs quickly secured the boat against the landing jetty in the background. Marguerite inclined her head in acknowledgement, and turned once more to her brother, offering a small smile over her shoulder.

Armand's parting memory of the sister who had never really left his side since she was born was of a tall, slender young woman, neatly dressed in a travelling coat and grey silk petticoat, taking the hand of her new English husband and being gallantly aided into a waiting boat. He had hoped for a last glimpse of her glorious red-gold curls, hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat, or of her large blue eyes, averted from his gaze, as she sailed away from him. But without the happiness that lit her looks from within, Armand was content to remember his sister as the feted actress, loved by her audience, and only worry about her in her new life.