The wind blew hard and rattled the windowpanes. Why must it rain tonight, of all nights? Fighting a relentless impatience, Véronique paced back and forth across the carpet while Gabrielle sat in a chair, watching the flames dance wildly in the grate. “Come and sit down,” Gabby said. “You’re making me nervous, and you’re not making the time go by any faster.” Véronique shut her eyes and massaged her temples. “You’re quite right. I must try to relax.” She glanced up at the clock on the mantel. “Only one more hour…” She wondered if Pierre had consumed the wine yet, for she had managed to wrestle his supper tray out of the maid’s hands in the corridor, slip the laudanum into the decanter, and deliver it to him herself—under the pretext of speaking to him about what happened in the garden earlier that day. She promised Pierre that she would not tell the marquis what he had done if he promised never to do anything like it again.
