“You needn’t worry. There isn’t any aggression in him, Far.” Fanny appeared from one of the many doors off the main hall, and Madame de Genlis with her. She was carrying two pistols, both of them cocked and ready to be fired at Marcus.
“He is nothing but curiosity, Comte Philippe,” Madame de Genlis confirmed. She smiled at Marcus encouragingly. “He has prepared a poem for you.”
Sadly, Marcus couldn’t remember a single word of “Le mondain.” Once again he dipped into his memories of Hadley for reinforcements.
“‘Children’s children are the crown of old men; and the glory of children are their fathers,’” Marcus said, with all the conviction Madame de Genlis could have wanted.
“Oh, well done.” The voice of praise was scratchy and nasal, with a bit of a wheeze at the end that might have been a chuckle. There was another man on the stairs. “Proverbs. Always suitable—especially when the sentiment is sincere. A very sensible choice.”
The man descending the stairs had a balding head slightly too large for his body, and a waistline that rivaled Colonel Woodbridge’s. The sweet scent intensified, and along with it came the iron-rich tang of black ink. He peered at Marcus over a set of spectacles. There was something familiar about him, though Marcus was sure they had never met.
“And what do you say to that, Marthe?” His grandfather was now close enough to see the trembling of his limbs as Marcus’s nerves got the better of him. Marcus closed his hands into fists and took a deep breath.
A small, wizened old woman with glimmering eyes and a maternal air came from the shadows. Here was the woman Fanny had promised he would meet—Marthe.
“Madame.” Marcus bowed. “My mother would have been envious of your gardens. Even in winter, they are impressive.”
“A man of faith—and charm, too,” said the man on the stairs with another wheezing chuckle. “And it would seem he knows something of jardins and potagers, and not just medicine.”
“His heart is true, but there is a shadow in it,” Marthe pronounced, scrutinizing Marcus closely.
“Matthew would not have been drawn to him otherwise.” His grandfather’s quiet sigh floated around Marcus.
“Put him out of his misery, my dear comte,” the man on the stairs advised. “The poor boy reminds me of a fish caught between cats. He is certain of being eaten, but does not know which of us will have the honor of picking over the bones.”
Heavy hands came to rest on Marcus’s shoulders and swung him around. Philippe de Clermont was a giant of a man, as muscular as his elderly friend was soft and doughy. He had thick, burnished golden hair and tawny eyes that saw—everything. Or so Marcus suspected.
“I am Philippe, your grandmother’s mate,” his grandfather said, his voice soft. Philippe waited the space of a human heartbeat and then continued. “It is a sign of respect, among our people, to turn your eyes away from the head of the family.”
“Respect is earned. Sir.” Marcus kept his gaze on his grandfather. Staring into the eyes of a man so ancient and powerful was not an easy task, but Marcus forced himself to do it. Obadiah had taught him never to look away from anyone older and stronger than you were.
“So it is.” The corners of Philippe’s eyes creased with something that, in a lesser being, might have been amusement. “As for this darkness we all feel, you will tell me about it one day. I will not take the knowledge from you.”
It had never occurred to Marcus that someone other than Matthew might learn of his past through bloodlore. Philippe’s words, which appeared to be tender and paternal, sent a chill through Marcus’s bones.
“You have done well with him, daughter. I am pleased,” Philippe said, turning to Fanny. “What shall we call him?”
“He is called Marcus, though he tried to get me to call him Galen, and Gallowglass called him Doc,” Fanny said. “He slept for a moment the other day, and cried out for news of Catherine Chauncey.”
So Fanny was spying on him, too. Marcus’s eyes narrowed at the betrayal.
“Marcus. Son of war. And Galen—a healer. I cannot fathom where the name Chauncey came from or what it might mean,” Philippe said, “but it must be precious to him.”
“Chauncey is a Boston name.” The bespectacled man studied Marcus carefully. “I was right, Comte Philippe. The man is not from Philadelphia at all, but from New England.”
The mention of Philadelphia brought the man’s face into sharper focus, and Marcus realized who he was.