Chapter Four #2
She’d kicked off her slippers; they were lined up on the soft green and pink rag rug.
She stood up and stretched, then slid her feet into them and slipped out the door and dashed down the stairs.
She rounded the corner of the first-floor landing.
Then froze mid-step.
Her lungs seized.
If she’d been a forest creature, every hair on her head would have gone erect.
Mr. Marchand was coming up the stairs.
Mr. Marchand was coming up the stairs!
She prayed this was merely a hallucination, a fever dream born of the stress of the day, a trick of the light. Perhaps her
vision would clear and it would prove to be Mr. Delacorte instead.
But the rank shock on Mr. Marchand’s face dashed this hope.
Like the pair of cats in the alley outside, they remained tensely still, abject horror and antipathy ricocheting between their
locked gazes.
Unfortunately he looked even more fascinating in the shadowy light of the stairwell than he had in his office, if more sinister.
“Mr. Marchand, it is very bad of you to pursue me here,” she finally whispered fiercely. “How dare you?”
“What on earth are you running on about, Miss Woodville? The notion that I would ever need to pursue any woman is comical.” He said this with flat conviction.
The arrogance of him.
“I suppose it would be difficult for them to pursue you if they’re tied up with ropes.”
He blinked. “I beg your ever-loving pardon?”
They were conversing in hissing volumes.
She did not expound. She still had no idea what he did with ropes or why Lady Tomelty had bothered to mention it, but his
confusion seemed genuine enough.
“A better question is what the devil are you doing here, Miss Woodville? I’ve already been generous to you with my time, despite the fact that you intruded upon my business
through dishonest means without an appointment. If your intent is to continue bothering me about your brother’s debts, I assure
you it will not go well for you.”
“Oh, my goodness, how very, very sinister, Mr. Marchand.” She clapped a hand over her heart in feigned terror. “I came to London expressly to resolve my brother’s predicament. Dear friends of mine told me to call here at the Grand Palace
on the Thames for accommodation, as our very kind proprietresses were ladies to the core and would be glad to look after me.
It’s a very exclusive establishment, and Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand thought I would fit right in. So I can’t think why they
would have allowed you to stay.”
It was becoming clear that she simply could not sink any verbal barbs into him. His eyes lit up with relish at every challenge.
“My home is getting a new roof and repairs are being made to Lucifer’s Fall, hence I needed other accommodations. I made arrangements to stay here several weeks ago. Lord Bolt is an old friend of mine.”
She was taken aback. “But he seems so nice.”
It was oddly liberating to say exactly what she wanted to say, unfiltered, even if this meant her worst, most sardonic self
was unleashed. Because Mr. Marchand didn’t even blink. His eyes merely widened with a dangerous sort of amusement. As if he
dared her to keep talking.
“In light of our previous exchange, the gentlemanly thing for you to do—though I do understand that ‘gentlemanly’ might be a foreign concept to you, Mr. Marchand, based on your
previous behavior—would be for you to leave and find other accommodations.”
“Is that so? Tell me, Miss Woodville, how ladylike is it for a young, unmarried woman to show up unannounced at a gentleman’s
gaming establishment and lie in order to meet alone with the proprietor who is, according to your exacting standards, patently
not a gentleman?”
This brought her up short. It was an excellent point.
She thought furiously.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What if I told Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand that you propositioned me, Mr. Marchand?”
Her heart was racing by the time she’d finished her sentence. Because this might have been one risk too many.
Mr. Marchand narrowed his eyes. “What if I told them that you, to my great shock, sorrow, and dismay, propositioned me?”
“Wha—you—I did no such thing!” She nearly squeaked it.
“But no one would blame me for making that inference, given that you had come straight to see me after sending me a letter
including suggestive language to that effect. It’s the usual vague sort of thing ladies say when they’re negotiating that
type of arrangement. I could even produce your letter. It would be my word against yours.”
That type of arrangement. As if it was a common occurrence.
Surely this wasn’t true?
The things she didn’t know, and didn’t want to know but actually rather did want to know, a little bit, were legion. She flailed
inwardly.
She decided he must be bluffing.
“How on earth would I know about suggestive language? Those can’t have been ladies who wrote to you.”
“So you admit you have no idea what ladies usually do,” he drawled.
She sucked in a sharp breath and stared at him.
“You’re an awful person.” Her words emerged on a hush, oddly sounding more impressed than distressed. She supposed after a
fashion she was. He was very good at whatever he was.
“Yes,” he agreed almost exasperatedly. As if he’d been trying to convey this all along.
A silence during which they remained fused in a mutual glare lasted a few moments.
“Well. It seems we are both victims of the world’s ghastliest coincidence, Mr. Marchand.”
“Indeed.”
“Surely, we can fix it so that we don’t need to speak to each other, and we certainly never need to be alone together. The
sitting room might be purgatory a few nights of the week, but I’ve endured worse,” she told him loftily.
“As have I, Miss Woodville. Shall we shake on it?” The devil’s eyes were glinting.
“Good try, but absolutely not.” She swiftly clasped her hands behind her back.
“Very well, then. I look forward to ignoring you, Miss Woodville.”
As he passed, she heard a soft rustling sound.
If she was not mistaken, he was chuckling.