Chapter Twenty-Two
“I didn’t know when to tell you. Please forgive me if you feel as though I ought to have told you before the weddings. Because
I am telling you. I’m not asking you.”
She had hastily gathered her worried siblings for a family meeting in the Woodville drawing room, before her sisters could
go off on wedding journeys to the Continent.
She told them about Gabriel Marchand.
She told them about St. Giles, and about his son, Michael, and about Lucifer’s Fall. She told them how he had gone out of
his way, even risking his life, to help her solve a very serious problem about the estate, and that he had at all times kept
her safe. She told them he was funny, kind, wise, admirable, noble, and brave, and that he smelled wonderful.
She left out a good deal, and steadfastly refused to embellish with details, but Felicity and Fiona, eyes wide, mouths agape,
hung on her every word as if it was the kind of vivid tale Mrs. Pariseau read aloud in the sitting room.
Instead of “happily ever after,” she concluded by saying, “I love him very much, and I want to marry him.”
“Oh, my good heavens. How romantic! He must be so in love with you,” Fiona breathed.
“Sick with love over her, I should say,” Hogarth confirmed.
Ginny looked at him sharply. But apparently, just like the secret of his disastrous wager, he was going to keep to himself
why he believed this about Marchand.
“Ginny,” Felicity said. “Of course you would fall in love with someone like that. Francis is far too ordinary for you. I’ve
always thought so.”
Fiona nodded vigorously.
Ginny was surprised to hear that they thought she shouldn’t marry someone ordinary.
“And he’s rich?” Fiona wanted to know.
“Very,” she confirmed.
“Well, if anyone in my new family objects to him . . . that’s simply too bad,” Fiona said loftily, with a pretty shrug. “They
cannot and will not stop me from seeing both of you.”
“Likewise,” Felicity confirmed.
They all suspected it wouldn’t quite be that easy. But if there was anything the Woodville siblings understood, it was things
that were not quite easy.
“Well, I’m the Earl of Highgrove,” Hogarth said. “I’m the head of the family. You have my blessing. Marchand is a good man,
Ginny. I like him, though I confess I’m also a little bit afraid of him. He’ll take good care of you and your children. I
suspect he would kill for you. You deserve someone who would do that, anyway.”
Ginny closed her eyes and exhaled and they all gathered around to embrace her. And she held on to each of them tightly.
And that left Francis.
She decided it was kindest to tell him in a letter, rather than subject him to the humiliation of visiting with the happy
expectation of an enthusiastic acceptance of his proposal.
Dear Francis,
I have cherished our friendship, and it has been an honor to be esteemed by a person as fine and kind as yourself. It therefore
grieves me greatly to share news which I fear will hurt you, and perhaps forever cost me your regard.
I have fallen in love with another man, who loves me in return. While this recent development has taken me quite by surprise,
our feelings for each other are genuine, profound, and permanent. I cannot now conceive of a future without him, or with any
other man.
I felt it would be unconscionable to wait another day to tell you.
I greatly regret causing you any pain. I swear upon all I hold dear that it was never my intent to mislead you with regards
to my nature of affection, if this is indeed how you feel.
I wish for you the joy of the true love that you deserve. May life shower you and your family with blessings.
I will always think of you warmly.
Yours sincerely,
Guinevere
Her palms went clammy as she read the letter. The moment she sent it, her destiny would be sealed.
Finally, she sprinkled it with sand, took a deep breath, and squeezed her eyes closed against the image of Francis’s face when he read it.
How she loathed the very notion of hurting him. How unfair that claiming her happiness might cost someone else theirs.
But how did she know what lay in store for Francis? Like Marchand said, life was a tide that rolled in and out.
And it seemed to her that she was a little mad to send this letter before she’d even had a proposal. She supposed it was possible
that Marchand had expired suddenly, or eloped with an actress. Where would that leave her?
Grateful for her time with him.
She would simply spend her life spoiling her nieces and nephews. There could never be anyone else for her.
I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me, Gabriel had said to her.
Her trepidation dissolved into a peaceful certainty.
She gave one of the Woodville footmen two shillings to deliver the letter to Francis at his father’s estate.
By the time he read it she would be on a mail coach to London.
“Are you sure this is where you’d like me to leave you, miss?”
The hack driver sounded dubious, and a little concerned.
“Of course,” Ginny reassured him. “It’s kind of you to ask, thank you. I’ll be fine. I’m expected.”
This last part wasn’t entirely true. She was arriving unannounced. But she was reasonably confident of her reception.
And as the hack drove away, the handsome Grecian-style building that she’d only visited once before, the day her life had changed forever, was once again before her.
Her heart already galloping as if it couldn’t get to him fast enough, she took a long, long breath and moved toward the entrance
of Lucifer’s Fall.
It was surprisingly very quiet, and some premonition made her halt.
And that’s when she saw that the windows were boarded.
Her heart gave a lurch.
She stared. Confused.
And then icy unease crept over her skin like a frost.
She inched closer to the building, dread quickening her breathing now.
The elegant sign that said “Lucifer’s Fall” was gone. She stared, her mind blanking, at the bare place it used to occupy next
to the entrance.
No bulky, glowering guard stood at attention near the entrance.
Something was terribly wrong.
She could now hear the panicked rush of her breath in her ears.
She froze, flailing inwardly. Horribly disoriented.
She jumped and whirled at the sound of a cough.
She hadn’t noticed the man standing to the far left of the entrance. His girth was nearly as imposing as Mr. Delacorte’s and
the excellent fit of his coat and the shine on his boots suggested he was prosperous, if not officially a gentleman. He was
reviewing the time on a gold pocket watch and impatiently shifting from foot to foot.
“Sir . . . ” she ventured.
He looked up, startled. And then he gawked at her, clearly utterly nonplussed to see a young woman alone in front of an obviously
deserted, boarded-up gaming palace.
“Madam,” he replied cautiously. He tipped his hat, revealing a balding pate.
She swallowed because her mouth was parched with fear.
“Sir, can you tell me . . . did . . . did . . . something happen to Lucifer’s Fall?”
“Oh, it’s closed, forever, madam. Lucifer’s Fall is no more.” His brow furrowed in a faintly disapproving, fatherly sort of
way.
And just like that, the bottom dropped out of her world.
She needed something to lean on; her legs were threatening to give way.
“Why on earth are you looking for Lucifer’s Fall, young lady?” he pressed.
That was really none of his business.
“But . . . I just . . . it can’t be closed.” She could scarcely hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears.
“Well, clearly it can be, because it is. Surely you can see for yourself.” He gestured broadly at the building, seemingly affronted that she didn’t
believe him.
Surely this couldn’t be happening?
Was this her punishment, then, for leaving?
Who did she think she was, to believe she could bargain with fate?
“But . . . when did that happen?”
“Oh, must be well-nigh a month ago.”
A month ago! Right after she’d left Gabriel!
How surreal that this man before her could sound so blithe about what constituted the end of her world.
“But . . . but what about Mr. Marchand? Where did he go?” She was nauseous with terror now.
“Oh, God only knows where Marchand has got to,” the man said, irritably.
He again consulted his watch.
She gave another start when she became aware of voices calling to each other very nearby. It sounded like two men engaged
in a passionate debate.
“Steady! Back it up, back it up. What the devil are you doing, Jenkins? This thing don’t bend, for God’s sake!”
She stared, astounded, as a man dressed in workman’s trousers, heavy boots, and a cap emerged from the alley between the former
Lucifer’s Fall’s building and the building adjacent. He was walking backward in a crablike crouch, his hands behind his back.
In them he balanced one end of what turned out to be a long, rectangular slab of wood, about three feet tall.
A few moments later, another man in workman’s attire appeared—Jenkins, no doubt. He was supporting the weight of the back
end of the slab. All in all, it was a good ten feet long, if she had to guess.
They didn’t see her as they gracelessly swung their cargo about.
She staggered backward as she dodged out of their way.
They maneuvered the slab until it was horizontal with the front of the building. Then lowered it gently to rest against the
wall and stood back, swiping their gloved hands in that universal gesture of satisfaction with a job well done.
On it, in tall, regal gold letters, the slab read:
The Marchand Academy
Her breath stopped. The words seemed to shimmer with portent.
It was a sign.
In more ways than one.
A blast of hope thawed the frozen knot of her heart. Goose bumps spangled her arms.
What was happening?
She whirled at the sound of yet another man’s voice coming from somewhere in the alley. “We’re going to need at least two
ladders to hang that, lads.”
And just like that, her heart soared like a flung discus.
“Three would actually be better, because that sign is so fine and heavy.” The voice, closer now, sounded pleased about this. “I