Author's Note: You, my dear readers, are awesome, wonderful, and amazing. Especially those of you who have left reviews. They make my heart happy, and a lot of them are more eloquently worded than anything I could ever write. Thank you so much.
My beta, Kim, is also awesome, wonderful, and amazing.
Enjoy!
MARGOT
Margot had never seen her mother so calm, not in her entire life. And sitting next to her on the sofa was absolute torture, because it felt like Margot's heart was about to jump out of her throat, and she had to clasp her hands tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. How could her mother be so serene? It was impossible! She obviously didn't understand what was going on.
They sat like that for what seemed like hours, with Emily shivering under a blanket across from them, in complete and utter silence. The other servants, even Margot's governess, had been sent back to their rooms, and Gregoire and Papa had disappeared entirely.
Finally, tea arrived, served by the Housekeeper, Eleanor. Margot glanced at the tiny sandwiches and petite-fours arrayed on the platter and her stomach turned at the thought of eating sweets while Lena and Abby were...
Better not think about it. Better to wait until she could get away from the adults and go find Samson. He would know what to do.
He would get them back safely.
After Eleanor served them tea, she discreetly slipped out of the room, and silence once again descended over the parlor.
"Emily, are you feeling any better?" Regina asked in a kind, gentle voice. Margot glanced up at her mother, wondering at the calmness in her tone.
"Yes, my lady," Emily whispered.
"Are you sure you are unharmed?"
"Yes, my lady."
"You have done an excellent job, Emily. Are you aware of that?"
Emily blinked, and as the words sank in, her trembling began to subside. Margot watched the exchange, fascinated.
"Do you mean it?" Emily whispered, her voice high and thin.
"I do, my dear," Regina replied solemnly. "You have shown great courage and fortitude today, and for that you will be rewarded."
The tense, rigid set of Emily's shoulders loosened. "I was just doing my job, my lady."
"Nevertheless," Regina replied with a nod. "Gerald is very proud of you."
Margot wondered for a moment why her mother was mentioning their butler, but then she saw how Emily's eyes lit up, and her back straightened with pride.
She thought perhaps that, to the maids, making the butler proud was akin to Margot making Papa or Samson proud.
Suddenly, she realized what was going on. Her mother was trying to make Emily feel relaxed, to make her stop crying and shaking. And, apparently, her mother was very good at that.
"Now, can you tell me what happened, Emily?" Regina asked with an encouraging smile.
Emily nodded slowly. "We took the carriage to Hyde Park around three of the clock, my lady, just myself and Miss DeLacey and Lady Helena. There weren't many people there at that time, so the ladies decided to walk through the trees a bit, on the path. It was quiet, and a bit too isolated for my tastes, but it was what the ladies wished." She hesitated, and closed her eyes for a moment, and when she spoke again it was in present tense, as if she was reliving the moment in her mind. "We walk some ten or fifteen minutes when I see two men appear out of nowhere in front of us. I'm about to say something when someone grabs me, puts his hand over me mouth, and puts a gun to me head." Her voice trembled. Margot felt herself trembling, too. Panic was rising, slow and unstoppable inside her. "He says to the ladies, 'If you move, she dies,' and I realize he's talking about me. And then Lady Helena says something to him - I don't remember what - and after a moment, he lets me go. And Lady Helena looks me right in the eye and tells me to go home, and so I did. I turned and ran fast as I could." She looked up and met Regina's eyes, and her lower lip trembled as she choked on a sob. "I'm so sorry, my lady. I know I shouldn't have left them like that. I know it."
"Nonsense, Emily," Margot's mother said instantly, the firm, confident tone in her voice cutting through the room and silencing Emily's tears. "You did exactly what you should have done, and no one thinks any differently."
Margot nodded to emphasize her mother's words, and Emily sent her a small smile.
"Emily, did you recognize any of the men?" Regina asked.
"Only one, my lady," Emily replied instantly, eyes wide. "The man who put the gun to my head. It was Viscount Stanford."
Margot made the mistake of looking up at her mother just in time to see Regina's mask slip. The color drained from Regina's face, her shoulders dropped just slightly, and the air rushed from her lungs, as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. She sucked in one trembling breath, and then, just as quickly, the façade returned, Regina straightened, and she nodded.
Panic surged inside Margot. She'd known her mother was faking it, that she was pretending not to be upset to keep Emily calm and collected. But she had never seen her mother break character in front of someone who wasn't family. Not even two years ago, when Lena had been so very sick, and a heavy, unspoken sadness had haunted the Dubois family for months on end. Even then, Regina had put on that mask whenever someone visited, or when she was required to attend balls or dinner parties, and it had never slipped.
A heartbeat later, an enormous crash echoed throughout the house. The teacups rattled in their saucers, and all three of them jumped, and looked around with wide eyes.
"Was that thunder?" Emily whispered.
"I do not think so," Regina replied slowly.
Margot was on her feet and heading for the door before she realized it.
"Gogo? Tu restes dans la maison, tu comprends?" Her mother's stern command faded to nothing as she ran down the hallway. Stay in the house, understand?
"Oui, Maman," she said to herself, sliding around a corner, ignoring the stitch in her side as she leapt up the stairs to the second floor. She made her way quickly to the back of the house, where the entrance to the attic was, and skidded to a halt at the foot of the attic stairs.
Something made her pause, even in her panic, and she couldn't figure out what. Nor could she shake the feeling. She frowned and crept up the stairs, then slowly, carefully opened the attic door, stepped inside, and waited for her eyes to adjust.
She saw him, a shadow within shadows, pacing the width of the attic in almost complete silence. The air around him seemed to sparkle and flash, as if he was filled with a lightning storm, a mass of scorching power barely contained within his body. The only sound was the soft swish of his linen shirt and the muted tap of leather boots.
Something made her want to turn and run. She wasn't sure what it was, or why. She had no reason to fear Samson. Nevertheless, the urge to flee did not lessen.
She whispered his name, and his entire body snapped to attention, whipping around to face her.
When his bright, golden eyes landed on her, the sheer fury in them froze her in her tracks. In that moment, he was not Samson. He was not her friend. He was not her guardian.
He was not even a man.
For that one brief, heart-stopping moment, he was pure animal, driven by rage and pain and despair. Her instincts recognized the look of a caged predator, and kept her completely still. If he attacked her, she would not stand a chance, and she knew it.
A split second after the stillness came the fear. Her heart started pounding, and she sucked in a huge breath to scream.
The look on his face, and in his eyes, shifted from fury to terror to abject misery in an instant. He stumbled back, away from her, as if she was the predator, not he.
And, just like that, she understood.
She saw his entire life mirrored in those three emotions. Anger that he could not control, fear of the consequences of that anger, and sadness - so much sadness - for the loss he had caused and endured.
Her fear dissipated. She snapped her mouth shut and the scream died away in her throat. She lifted her hands, palms out, in the age-old gesture of peace. Her heart tightened in her chest, crying out in sympathy for the pain she saw in him.
"Samson, it's alright," she said, trying her best to mimic her mother's soothing tone.
Samson blinked, and then he closed his eyes and lowered his head. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I did not mean to frighten you."
"Don't be silly," she said with a deliberately arrogant sniff. "You didn't frighten me. I just surprised you, that's all."
A ghost of a smile curled his lips, and then it was gone. He turned and started pacing again.
"That noise," she said gently, "was it you?"
"Yes," he replied, his voice flat and toneless. He turned his head and glanced towards the far end of the attic. Margot peered through the shadows and beams of fading sunlight and gasped when she saw a storage trunk that had been smashed into splinters against the brick wall of one of the chimneys. Those trunks were enormous, and incredibly heavy.
But, of course, it was no surprise to her that he had such inhuman strength.
She'd realized a long time ago that he was not quite human.
"Do you know what has happened to Lena and Abby?" she pressed.
"Yes," he replied. When he said nothing more, Margot frowned irritably.
"Well, aren't you going to rescue them?"
He stopped, and pinned her with those golden eyes. They were so bright they seemed to glow.
"Of course I am," he said calmly. Margot felt her panic dissipate. She could not help but smile at his confidence. He was a force of nature, unstoppable and overwhelming, and he would not rest until he brought Lena and Abby home safely. "But first, I need to speak with your mother."
GREGOIRE
A crash echoed through the house, as if something very large had fallen and shattered. Greg and his father both glanced up at the ceiling with frowns. Then their gazes snapped back to each other.
"Helena lost the child when Stanford abandoned her," his father finished, his voice grim.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Greg demanded, curling his hands into fists as he fought the growing urge to punch something.
"You would have killed him," his father replied. "It was all I could do to keep myself from killing him."
"So you just let him go?!"
Philippe Jean-Marc, Vicomte de Millau, one of the great Spymasters of England, fixed his son with a very solemn, intense glare. "Son, after what Stanford did to Helena, I made damn sure that I ruined that man," he said, his voice deadly soft. "I bought his debts and unentailed properties and ran him out of England. I made him a beggar and a thief. He was a wretch, addicted to opium and stricken with syphilis."
"But why?" Greg demanded. "Why not just kill him?"
Why not just let me kill him?
He wasn't upset that his father had chased the bastard halfway across the world instead of sticking a knife in his gut. He just didn't understand it.
His father turned away and clasped his hands behind his back, and said nothing for several moments.
When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Because death was too good for him. I wanted him to die, certainly. Miserable and alone, unloved and forgotten. But first, I wanted him to suffer."
"You should have put a bullet in his brain," Greg said, shaking his head. "I don't understand."
A heavy sadness shadows his father's eyes. "And I hope you never do, my boy."
"Why did you let him come back?"
"I didn't," Philippe said grimly. "I had no idea he was here until we saw him at the Opera the night of our arrival."
Now that was highly unusual. As a Spymaster, Philippe was privy to any information he wanted. He knew what the Prince Regent had eaten for breakfast that morning.
"Someone was hiding him from you," Greg said with a frown.
Philippe nodded. "He was given unlimited access to funding, and he used it to bribe his way back into high society. That is why your Uncle Benjamin had Stanford in his box at the Opera that night. He was trying to determine how Stanford managed to return without warning."
"But why? Why did he come back?"
Why step into a snake pit full of people so eager to see him dead?
His father shrugged, a very French gesture that Greg's mother had tried for years to break him of. "I do not know. He disappeared again shortly after he met with Lena, and I have been unable to locate him. I have spent most of my time hunting him down."
A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Gerald opened it without waiting for an invitation. "My lord," he said quickly, "I have dispatched three footmen to the location Emily has given to Lady Dubois, as you instructed."
Philippe nodded. He turned to his desk, grabbed his pen and scribbled something onto a sheet of vellum, folding it quickly and sealing it with a splash of candlewax. As he pressed his signet ring into the cooling wax, he looked back up to Gerald. "Send a footman to the Home Office with this note. The guards will know what to do with it." He handed the letter to Gerald, and then glanced over at Greg. "And please send someone to fetch the Earl of Montford. I believe he will wish to be present for this undertaking."