Chapter Nine #2
“Do you recall in particular a little blue-and-white porcelain vase with flowers and birds on it?” Ginny asked. Her heart
was thundering.
“Oh, she had a good dozen blue-and-white vases! She did so like her chinoiserie.” Mrs. Cartwright pronounced this “chinwossy.”
“She didn’t love one more than another, because she loved everything the earl gave her. But I do remember the one with the
birds. Had funny dark lines on the bottom, like a child had scribbled on it? The earl gave it to her, so she was right fond
of it anyway.”
“It had sentimental value to the earl as well, which is why we are inquiring,” Mr. Marchand said smoothly. “Miss Woodville’s
family would like to keep it in his honor. When did you take them to Fleegle’s, if I may ask?”
Ginny almost wished she could reach out and grasp Marchand’s hand as she awaited the next words.
“Two days ago.”
“Thank you for your time,” he said briskly. “I wonder if you would mind if we had a look about the house?”
“You’re the one with the gun, Mr. Marchand,” Mr. Benson said. “Would it make a difference if we minded?”
“None whatsoever,” Mr. Marchand confirmed.
Ginny and Marchand performed the quickest imaginable search, side by side, wordlessly. He wouldn’t let her wander about alone, on the off chance anyone else was lurking in the closets or bedrooms.
But the upstairs rooms were all but stripped of furnishings, fixtures, and carpets. A scrap of ribbon remained on one floor.
She picked it up and held it briefly. She knew a swift stab of sadness for the woman whose house this had been. Her throat
went tight again. Nearly every trace of Henrietta Parker had been erased. No dishes, cutlery, or pots and pans remained in
the kitchen.
She looked up to find Marchand watching her.
Finally, he touched Ginny’s elbow as a signal. They bustled out of the house, leaving Mr. Benson and Mrs. Cartwright sitting
somewhat forlornly side by side on the settee. Still holding hands.
She wondered if they’d resume what she and Marchand had interrupted when they departed.
“Do you think they’re in love?” she asked Marchand. “Mr. Benson and Mrs. Cartwright?”
She asked it mainly to see how his expression would change.
“Well, they must be, Miss Woodville.” He said it indulgently, on a slow drawl. “Whatever else could it be?”
The driest irony she’d ever heard.
The man clearly possessed not a shred of romance.
“But they’re not married.”
“Matrimony is hardly a prerequisite for what they were doing.” He was very amused. “Neither is love. Nothing but appetite is required for that, Miss Woodville.”
She felt a bit foolish. But when she pictured Mr. Benson’s and Mrs. Cartwright’s linked hands, she was tempted to argue the
point.
Suddenly she noticed there were two hacks waiting outside the house.
She turned toward Marchand wonderingly.
“They’ve been waiting there for some time. I arranged for them before I arrived,” he told her. “Nearly anyone will do anything
for the right price.”
They regarded each other for a beat of silence.
“Nearly,” she reminded him.
The lowering light was behind him. In it his face was pale gold and his eyes were silver and his edges were gilded. He looked
exactly like a person who could persuade anyone to do anything.
“You will take one hack back to the Grand Palace on the Thames, Miss Woodville, because Fleegle’s Emporium of Wonders, whatever
the devil that is, won’t be open after dusk. And I will take the other back to Lucifer’s Fall to address a little business
before I return to the boardinghouse. I’m prepared to escort you to Fleegle’s tomorrow afternoon about two o’clock.”
His presumptuous ordering her about still abraded her nerves, but less than it had even hours ago.
His sheer competence, and the money he threw about like he was Midas himself, made her nervous.
She was afraid to get accustomed to it, but it wasn’t easy to resist. It was as though a too-tight belt she’d worn around her rib cage for years had finally been loosened a few notches.
She wondered if it was a strategy, on his part.
If she didn’t put up a bit of a fight, sooner or later he’d order her to lie back and hoist her skirts and she would obey out of sheer habit.
She could see no reason to argue with him about her own personal hack, however.
Instead of lifting her this time, he offered his hand to help her up, and she took it.
She was shocked when her cheeks went warm as he closed his fingers around hers.
She ducked her head briefly and released him swiftly.
When she looked up again, she caught an expression she could not quite interpret fleeing from his face. She might have called
it rapt if he’d been any other man.
As far as she was concerned, he’d been instrumental in her family’s catastrophe, but he also could have easily let her twist
in the wind. She was still a lady.
She remembered her manners, because he deserved that much.
“Thank you for your help today,” she said almost shyly.
He touched his hat. “Anything to keep you from ruining me, Miss Woodville.”