She led them farther in through an arbor and toward the shed at the back of her garden. Blessedly alone, she opened the door and ushered him inside. “What is it?” Dread filled her. “What news?”

“I received this letter today from our contact at the Bastille. That family we lost, the DuPonts . . .”

Scarlet’s heart sank. The wedding preparations and festivities had helped ease her heart about her failure in France. “What about them, Simon?”

“We have the letters of denouncement.”

She studied him with interest. They had been trying to discover how to stave off the denouncements, or at least to hear about them as early as possible. It seemed their spies had discovered a treasure of knowledge.

“Prepare yourself, Scarlet.”

Simon’s eyes held such sadness, her heart pained within her. “Tell me. What could be so awful?”

Instead of speaking, he handed her the letter itself. It read,

The DuPonts denied food to the poor thrice in my eyesight. They refused to share of their great abundance and, at one point, while going at unacceptable speeds in their carriage, barreled down an elderly man in the middle of the road. He was thrown to the side into the mud, breaking several bones, and they, unaware, because they didn’t even slow to take a look. The man would have died had he not friends nearby who happened upon him.

Scarlet shook her head. “If the aristocrats of France had only been more giving, perhaps some of this awful terror could have been avoided.”

Simon’s eyes held an uncharacteristic amount of sympathy, and he gestured with them for her to look again at the letter. “It is signed.”

“Oh, yes.” She brought the paper up closer to her face. “Matteo Durand.” Her throat felt tight. “It cannot be.” Her hands trembling, she lowered the paper.

Simon continued to watch her with intensity.

She continued. “Have we checked the handwriting? How could it be him?”

“Of course. I have checked and checked again. He denounced them the week before he arrived here in England. Those I have asked say he has an old childhood grudge against the DuPonts for whipping him. Apparently he was caught taking apples from their tree as a child and beaten soundly for it.”

“I do not believe it. He would never.”

Simon held out his hands. “I did not want to believe it either—”

“Of course you wanted to believe it. You have not trusted him, ever. Before we even left to rescue him, you accused him.”

“That I did, but I have since come to know him, or so I thought.”

“You do know him. This can be explained. I am sure of it.”

“You are too close to the situation.”

“What are you saying? That my instincts can no longer be trusted?”