Read Chapter 17: The Confrontation

Marguerite’s heels clicked against the marble as she swept into the Comtesse’s antechamber, her chin high, her hands steady despite the storm in her chest. The Comtesse de Brissac sat beside the window, a cup of chocolate poised at her lips, attended by two maids who looked up in surprise.

“Marguerite.” The Comtesse’s voice carried no alarm. She set down the cup with feline grace. “You are far from your mistress’s chambers.”

“I have come to speak plainly, Madame.” Marguerite inclined her head, just enough to show respect without bending. “About the Duchesse de Montfort.”

The Comtesse’s smile did not waver, but her eyes sharpened. She gestured to her maids. “Leave us.”

The door clicked shut. Marguerite stood in the center of the room, the silence stretching taut between them like a wire.

“You have been poisoning her,” Marguerite said.

The Comtesse laughed—a light, silvery sound that did not reach her eyes. “A grave accusation. You should be careful. Words like that have led lesser women to the Bastille.”

“I have seen the vials. I have seen the effects. I have held a note in your handwriting—not signed with your name, but written by your hand. You set Armand de Vaudreuil upon her like a lure. You sent Mlle de la Mothe to silence me, and when she failed, you silenced her.”

The Comtesse rose slowly from her chair, smoothing the silk of her gown. She was taller than Marguerite, and she used the height to her advantage, stepping closer until the space between them was little more than a breath.

“You are either very brave or very foolish,” the Comtesse murmured. “Perhaps both. But tell me, little maid—do you truly believe the Duchesse is an innocent in this?”

Marguerite’s jaw tightened. “I believe you are the architect of her suffering.”

“Do you?” The Comtesse’s smile widened. “Then you have not read the note carefully. It bears the Duchesse’s own initials, does it not? Her own cipher. I did not forge it. I merely… delivered it to the right hands.”

The words landed like a slap. Marguerite felt the ground shift beneath her feet but held her ground.

“You lie.”

“Do I?” The Comtesse circled her slowly, her voice a silken thread. “Ask yourself why the Duchesse dismissed your warnings so easily. Why she invited Armand back into her home despite your protests. Why she never once questioned the source of her sudden illness. She is not a fool, Marguerite. She is complicit—perhaps not in the method, but in the motive.”

Marguerite’s pulse hammered. She thought of the Duchesse’s flat expression when Mlle de la Mothe’s death was announced. The way she had turned away from Marguerite’s pleas. The intimate history with Armand that she refused to explain.

“You have no proof,” Marguerite said, but her voice faltered.

The Comtesse stopped before her, close enough that Marguerite could smell the rosewater on her skin. “No proof,” she agreed. “And neither do you. We are two women holding shadows, accusing one another of the same crime. But I have something you do not.”

“And what is that?”

“The King’s ear.” The Comtesse’s eyes glittered. “The favor of Versailles. And a reputation that will not be tarnished by the word of a lady’s maid who broke into my chambers and stole from my furniture.”

Marguerite’s blood chilled. She had been careful. She had worn gloves. She had replaced the drawer’s contents exactly.

The Comtesse tilted her head. “You did not think I would notice a single strand of hair missing from my private keepsake? You did not think my maid would report the disruption of my rooms?”

“I took nothing.”

“You took evidence.” The Comtesse stepped back, relishing the moment. “But that evidence implicates your mistress, not me. Go ahead. Present it to anyone you wish. The King. The police. Madame de Maintenon herself. All they will see is a servant accusing a noblewoman of attempting to poison her own mistress—a noblewoman who, I must remind you, is beloved at court.”

Marguerite’s hands trembled at her sides. She had miscalculated. She had walked into this confrontation expecting to face a wicked woman, but wicked women were rarely stupid. This one had planned for every outcome.

“If you try to harm her further,” Marguerite said, forcing steel into her voice, “I will find a way to destroy you. Even if it costs me everything.”

The Comtesse smiled with genuine amusement. “I expect nothing less. But you should return to your mistress now. She will need you soon.”

It was a dismissal, but it felt like a threat. Marguerite turned on her heel and left the room, her heart pounding so loud she feared it would betray her. Behind her, she heard the soft click of the Comtesse’s cup returning to its saucer.

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The Duchesse’s seizure came that night, in the third hour after midnight.

Marguerite had been dozing in the chair beside the bed, exhausted by the day’s events, when a strangled gasp tore through the darkness. She snapped awake to find the Duchesse’s body arching off the mattress, her limbs jerking wildly, her lips frosted with white spittle.

“Christ,” Marguerite breathed, and flew to the bell pull.

Servants scrambled. A page was dispatched for Dr. Beaumont. Marguerite fought to hold the Duchesse’s shoulders still, to keep her from biting her tongue, to stop her from thrashing against the carved posts of the bed. The seizure went on for what felt like an eternity—violent, convulsive, inhuman—and then, abruptly, the Duchesse went limp.

Marguerite pressed her ear to the Duchesse’s chest. A heartbeat. Faint, but present.

Beaumont arrived within minutes, his wig askew, his bag clutched to his chest. He took one look at the Duchesse’s pale face and muttered a string of curses. Without a word to Marguerite, he drew a small glass vial from his bag, pried open the Duchesse’s clenched jaw, and poured its contents down her throat.

The Duchesse coughed. Her body shuddered. And then her eyes fluttered open.

“What—what happened?” she whispered, her voice raw.

“You were poisoned,” Beaumont said flatly. The Duchesse gazed at him wildly. He ignored her and turned to Marguerite. “When did it start?”

“Not an hour ago. The one before was smaller, three days past. This was worse than all the others combined.”

Beaumont pressed his lips into a thin line. “The dose has increased. She was meant to die tonight.”

The Duchesse struggled to sit up, her hands scrabbling at the sheets. “Die? I—who would wish me dead?”

Marguerite and Beaumont exchanged a look. The Duchesse saw it, and her already pale face drained further.

“Tell me,” she demanded. “Tell me who.”

“Armand,” Marguerite said quietly. “The Comtesse de Brissac. They are working together.” She did not add what she suspected about the Duchesse’s own complicity, but the words hung in the air between them like smoke.

The Duchesse stared at her, something flickering in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or guilt. Then her gaze dropped.

“I sent for Armand because I believed he had changed,” she whispered. “I wanted to believe—God help me, I wanted someone to love me as I once loved him.”

Marguerite’s anger softened into pity, but only for a moment. “You must write to the King. Or allow me to go to Madame de Maintenon.”

The Duchesse shook her head weakly. “The King’s mistress will not see a lady’s maid.”

“Then she will see you.”

“I cannot rise from this bed.”

“You need not.” Marguerite’s voice grew hard. “You must only be well enough to take tea with her tomorrow. And I will be with you.”

The Duchesse hesitated. For a long, terrible moment, Marguerite thought she would refuse. Then the woman’s shoulders sagged.

“Very well. Tomorrow.” She closed her eyes, exhaustion claiming her. “But do not fail me, Marguerite. She will not protect a servant who cannot name her enemies.”

Marguerite looked down at her hands. She had the note. She had the vial. She had her mother’s letter, still unopened, tucked against her heart. Whatever it said, whatever truths it unlocked, she could not afford to carry secrets any longer.

“I will not fail you,” she said.

But as she stood watch over the Duchesse’s restless sleep, she knew the promise was fragile as glass. Madame de Maintenon was the most cautious creature at court. She would demand proof. She would demand names.

And Marguerite had only suspicions and shadows.