Chapter Sixteen #2
grace, humor, courage, panache, and a healthy helping of insufferable arrogance. She could only begin to imagine all of the
things he’d been compelled to do to become the person he was today, so very many of them unsavory.
All of those experiences were the scaffolding upon which his extraordinary character had been built.
The daughter of a viscount could hardly veer farther away from her upbringing than passionately kissing a rogue in a graveyard.
And not just any rogue. An orphan bastard who had once eaten a rat, rammed a cutthroat in the larynx with his elbow, was apparently
wealthier by far than the Woodvilles, and had been instrumental in divesting the Woodville heir of his fortune, but who had
essentially looked after their daughter as though she was infinitely more valuable than the Ming vase they were seeking.
One might even say—though this felt like the height of heresy—better than the father who could not have been bothered to drive
his high-flyer carefully.
She could too vividly imagine how stricken her parents would be if they’d known about him, however. How betrayed they would
feel.
But, oh, God . . . when she was in Marchand’s arms, she could feel how badly he’d needed to be held.
Almost as desperately as she’d wanted to hold him.
Her heart twisted.
She could not bear to be the reason he suffered another single moment of pain or loss.
And yet it seemed inevitable.
You can decide the point of you, he’d said.
“Mama. Help. Me.” She whispered it fiercely, pressing her fists to her forehead.
Was she merely bewitched by him, or had she changed?
If she had, when had this metamorphosis taken place?
Wasn’t it possible that when Peneus turned Daphne into a laurel tree to save her from Apollo, Daphne had thought, “Huh! I suppose I’m a tree now!
Why does it feel like I was always meant to be a tree? ”
Then again, Daphne probably still missed her nymph family. She wouldn’t even be able to talk to them if she was a tree.
Loneliness and fear whistled like an icy wind through Ginny’s soul at the thought of being so thoroughly cut off from the
people she loved.
She at last carefully sat down at the writing desk and drew a half sheet of foolscap toward her, then dipped her quill.
She loathed conceding defeat. As she’d told Marchand once before (though with considerable bravado), no one got the better
of her anymore. She was so accustomed to finding a solution that she could not quite accept she had exhausted every avenue.
The back of her neck went damp from nerves as she wrote:
Dear Lord Sydenham,
I hope this message finds you and the countess well. I fear I write with disappointing news. After a concerted search and
a number of inquiries, I regret that I am unable to locate the Ming vase that once belonged to the late Earl of Highgrove.
Its fate remains unknown. I wondered if I may call upon you tomorrow at two o’clock to discuss different terms for the repayment
of the debt. If you would kindly send word to me care of the Grand Palace on the Thames at 11 Lovell Street, I should be most
grateful.
Yours sincerely,
The Honorable Guinevere Woodville
She would ask Mr. Pike, the footman, to take it to the earl first thing tomorrow morning.
She did not feel optimistic about her chances. But the earl had extended hope to her once before. Perhaps he’d do it again.
She wrote a list of her remaining options as cold-bloodedly as she was able.
When she was done, it looked like this:
Spend a night in Marchand’s bed.
Her palms grew damp as she stared at the words. She sat and experienced the slow, heavy thud of her heart, the flush of heat
through her body, the sharp pulse of longing between her legs, as for the first time she felt herself seriously contemplate
it. Not out of outrage. But as a rational form of salvation. As a choice she would make for herself.
This frightened her so much she threw the foolscap on the fire, as if it were cursed, and went to bed.
Over the past few mornings Ginny had begun to find the rhythmic sound of Mr. Delacorte crunching on fried bread at breakfast
almost soothing. She’d already eaten the scone brought into her room by the maids earlier, because only a fool would pass
up that opportunity. But she did like eggs and kippers, too.
They were the only two people left at the breakfast table.
Ginny examined the reflection in the side of the coffee urn. Purple shadows curved beneath her eyes. She’d tossed and turned fitfully the night before. Her bed was no longer a sanctuary. The very word “bed” conjured Mr. Marchand.
Last night, in her imagination, he’d touched her everywhere, in every conceivable way. Her skin had come alive with such yearning
awareness that even the soft slide of her night rail over it was as sensual as hands.
She longed for him to return and equally dreaded it.
Suddenly Mr. Pike appeared in the doorway.
She’d asked him to take her message to the Earl of Sydenham this morning, and she’d seen him leave with it.
As if in a dream, she watched him move over to her, carrying a little silver tray.
On it was a message.
She peered down at it.
It was sealed with an “S” pressed into red wax.
Her heart gave a single, hard jolt.
She gingerly accepted it. “Thank you, Mr. Pike.”
He bowed and backed away.
She held it for a long moment, simply breathing, looking down at it, heart pounding sickeningly.
While it remained unopened, hope remained.
It rattled in her hands as she broke the seal.
Dear Miss Woodville,
The news about the vase is indeed disappointing, but I don’t think another discussion is worth my time or yours. I look forward
to the fifteen-thousand-pound payment at the end of the month.
The countess and I send our best to you and your family.
Yours,
Lord Sydenham
She stared at it until the letters swam beneath her vision. Her head rang as if it were made of metal and had been whacked
with a spoon.
It seemed she wasn’t constitutionally capable of accommodating the total eradication of hope.
“Miss Woodville,” Mr. Delacorte said gently. He sounded concerned.
Her expression must have told him something was amiss.
Possibly he’d said her name more than once and she was only now hearing him.
She looked up at him blankly.
“Would you like to come with me to visit your donkey?”
She blinked. Of all the things anyone might have said to her then, somehow it was the only right one. It was kind, it was
ridiculous, it interrupted her despair, and she liked donkeys.
“Yes, please,” she said meekly.
Off they went.
The donkey seemed content in the livery stable surrounded by horse friends. Patting her and feeding her carrots restored Ginny’s
spirits somewhat. Mr. Delacorte went off with his medicine case to visit apothecaries, and she returned to the Grand Palace
on the Thames.
“Miss Woodville, you’ve a guest!” Dot greeted her at the door, her eyes dancing. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial
hush.
Ginny’s heart lurched again. What if it was Sydenham, having a change of heart?
And a guest would arrive when she smelled a bit like a donkey.
“Did he happen to volunteer his name?”
“Mr. Balfort.”
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Francis! But how?
Then she recalled that Cambrough had said that Francis was in London, too. How odd that she hadn’t bothered to retain that
information.
Her head swiveled to look where Dot gestured.
There Francis stood in the pink reception room, smiling at her.
“I’ll sit with you, if you like,” Dot whispered.
Ginny thought hurriedly.
“That would be best, thank you, Dot.”
“I felt rather daring calling upon you at a boardinghouse,” Francis confided, his eyes sparkling. Dot had brought in tea; Ginny poured it and now Francis held a cup. She knew how
he took it: one little spoon of sugar. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s not the most genteel of neighborhoods, is it, but it’s
rather nice inside. If a trifle worn. And I’ve brought a new book of poetry. I think you’ll like it, Ginny. I ought to have
said . . . you’re looking . . . so lovely.”
He was babbling, a little.
She felt slightly removed from her body, like a spectator watching a play. It had been only a few weeks since she’d seen him,
but Francis suddenly seemed like a character in a book she’d read, not someone she’d known fondly for a good portion of her
life, someone she’d expected to marry. She oddly felt epochs older than him, and he was older than her by a year.
“I do like it here,” she told him. “Everyone is very kind and the accommodations are so comfortable.” Out of the corner of
her eye, she noticed Dot beaming at the praise.
“I’ve never been to Fleegle’s,” he confided. “I’ve heard of it.” He lowered his voice. “Cambrough said he thought he saw that
chap called the Reaper there. That’s a little unnerving, don’t you think? Cambrough has seen him only once before, in the
Galleria. He has his own gaming hell. Quite a dangerous fellow. I’m glad you were spared the sight of him. Of course, he’s not welcome in White’s, so I would
never meet him. Gaming is not how I prefer to spend my time.” He sniffed.
It’s not a gaming hell, a voice in Ginny’s head said. It sounded like Marchand’s.
“How thrilling and unusual to have seen him,” Ginny replied, chilled to the bone.
“London can be such a colorful place,” Francis said. “It’s not always safe.”
You don’t say, Francis.
“Indeed. But I feel very safe here. It’s quite good to see you, Francis.”
And she wasn’t lying. He was a kind, merry person as well as undeniably handsome—and he knew it but was still not too arrogant
about it. He was clever but not dazzlingly so; he didn’t yammer on and on about himself like so many men liked to do. She’d
always liked the way he seemed just a little in awe of her and just a little shy.
She could not remember why she’d liked this now. Perhaps it was because she’d had no basis for comparison.
Then she realized: She’d felt steadily admired, which was quite a fine feeling.