Page 112 of Souvenir Heart

Her father rolled his eyes and released her. “We are family, Marguerite, our interests are the same.”

She doubted that. “If by ‘people’ you mean ‘potential husbands’,” she said, “if you are planning on arranging a marriage for me, papa, then stop. It will not be necessary.”

“You’ve grown unpleasantly frank since the last time I saw you. A most unbecoming trait in a woman—it must be the influence of your late husband and his revolutionary friends. Of course, marriage is necessary. How else will you live once I am gone?”

“I can care for myself.”

“Care for yourself?” Her father laughed. “What a ridiculous notion. You were on your own for less than a year in Paris and just look how that turned out. You were denounced, arrested, thrown into prison. If not for me, you’d still be in the Conciergerie. Or…” he paused dramatically, “dead.”

Marguerite resisted the urge to point out that it was Marcus and his team who’d ridden to her rescue, and that she’d actually rescued herself. “I can paint,” she said tersely.

“Paint?” he laughed again. “Are you planning to hawk your wares on the street? Like those women with their hot cross buns, or their sad bouquets?”

“I’ve already sold two paintings,” she persisted. “To a gallery. No street hawking was required. And I have a commission for a third.”

“Is that why you did not come directly to me when you arrived in England. Lord Grenville sent word you’d landed safely in this country three weeks ago. I waited. And waited. Wondering what could possibly be keeping you? I imagined bad roads, broken carriage wheels, the possibility you might have fallen ill.”

“You imagined all those things, and yet, you did not think to even send me a letter?”

Her father’s eyes narrowed, and his voice snapped like a whip. “Cancel the sales. Return the money. I will not have you disgracing both our names by sullying your hands with commerce.”

Marguerite’s chin shot up. “I will not cancel them. Nor will I return the money I’ve earned.”

“Earned?” Her father gripped her shoulders, and this time, there was nothing affectionate in his embrace, or gentle in the way he shook her. “You will.”

“I will not.”

Marcus, who’d been standing silently behind Marguerite, stepped forward, slid his fingers beneath her father’s, and deftly removed her from his grip. “Marguerite is a brilliant artist,” he said, “The only disgrace would be if the world never had the chance to see her work.”

“Marguerite? What gives you the right to call my daughter by her first name?” The comte’s gaze slid past her, settling on Marcus as if noticing him for the first time. “M’sieur…Tyndale, was it?” he frowned. “Forgive me, I do not know if that is your true name, but I see at least you are a man of your word. As the days passed, I had begun to doubt that. Still, I thank you for bringing Madame de Rouvroy back to me.”

“My pleasure.” Marcus’s eyes met Marguerite’s for a knowing instant, his lips curved, and he then dipped his head, acknowledging the comte’s expression of gratitude.

“But this is a family matter, M’sieur Tyndale. You have my leave to go.”

Marcus lifted his head, but made no effort to depart. Instead, he planted his walking stick firmly on the carpet and leaned on it.

The comte made a dismissive gesture. “If it is about the money, M’sieur Tyndale, I will send a letter to my bankers to arrange payment…”

Marcus raised a hand to interrupt him, “Tyndale is my name, M’sieur le Comte, but proper address would be Lord Radcliffe.” He straightened and smiled. “Marcus Tyndale, Viscount Radcliffe, at your service.”

“You…are…a viscount…and a spy?” the comte said, as if Marcus had just confessed to being the queen and a prostitute.

Marcus shrugged. “But you may call me Tyns, as most of my friends do. Or Marcus, if you prefer.”

“I do not prefer.”

“For, although we are not yet friends, we are family. And ‘Lord Radcliffe’ seems far too formal an address between a father and son-in-law.”

“Son-in… You?” The comte looked wildly from Marcus to Marguerite. “You are married? Without my permission?”

“On shipboard, while crossing the North Sea.” Marcus continued, seemingly unperturbed. “Most romantic. It seemed preferable to having your daughter travel unchaperoned and unwed. Would you have preferred that?”

“I…I….” the comte spluttered.

Marguerite, who was enjoying this turn in the conversation immensely, pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to add that unchaperoned and unwed was her preference.

“You cannot be married! Show me the license!”