He sought the balm of Scarlet. She had become his light, his everything, and he needed her in this moment more than ever. His pace quickened as he moved toward the ballroom. Her smile, the touch of her hand, would be sufficient. He could not burden her with his plight tonight, but he would confide in her tomorrow. Perhaps between the two of them and the prince himself, they might discover a solution, or at least a way to get word to the Pimpernel.

A flash of yellow captured his attention, and Suzanne de Molier stepped forward from the hedges on his right.

He startled. “Lady de Molier.”

“You traitor!” She swung at him with her palm, missing his cheek by a hair as he dodged away.

“What is the matter with you?” Matteo took two steps back, eyeing her.

“The DuPonts.”

Matteo stared at her in confusion. “What about them?”

“All dead because of you. Don’t play stupid with me. You may have fooled the others, but I know your true character. I saw the denouncement myself.”

Matteo’s hands went cold. “What are you talking about? Have the DuPonts—?”

“As you well know, met with their fate at La Guillotine three weeks past, at your own hand. Denounced them, you did. And what for? Because of a childhood beating?” She stood before him, breathing hard, looking as if she would give anything to swing at him again. “I loathe you.”

Matteo staggered back two more steps. Éléonore had done it. She had gone ahead and used his name. He choked out his question, “And the children?”

“All of them. Including their young grandchild.” Suzanne watched his face. “Could you really not know?”

His words, his evidence, had killed an entire family. Matteo shook his head; staggering, he lost his balance and fell into a hedge. The heavy branches caught his fall, scratching his face and poking into the backstitching of his new jacket. In a daze, he righted himself, pulling off sticks and leaves, tearing the fabric in the process and loosening the threads. Turning, he began walking toward the house. “I must find Scarlet.” He stumbled twice but managed to stay upright.

A servant stopped him at the door. “My lord, you look unwell. Might I pour you a bit of brandy?”

He did not remember answering, but he followed the servant to a pantry near the kitchen and drank whatever the man gave him. He leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. How would he ever leave this new inferno? When would he finally escape Éléonore’s claws? She did whatever she chose whether he obeyed her wishes or not. But if he didn’t, Potier was sure to be next in line.