A vast, glossy desk occupied the center of the room. On the wall flanking it was a painting of an elderly man, nude apart from an artfully draped scarlet robe, hunched over a writing table strewn with open books and decorated with a human skull. The man’s bald head and the skull both glowed gold in the light of a candle.
“Oh, my goodness...” She was dumbfounded. “That’s not... that can’t... is that... is that aCaravaggio?”
Mr. Marchand turned his head. “So I’m told,” he said shortly.
“It’s... unmistakable. The chiaroscuro... thatred...”
“Indeed. Caravaggio was by many accounts an ill-tempered, murderous thug who made extraordinary art, which I think says something amusing about the relationship between beauty and goodness. And there’s a skullrightthere on his desk. All of that is reason enough to like it, don’t you think, Miss Woodville?”
As an opening salvo this was brilliant. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond.
“It was given to me to settle a debt,” he added.
That “d” word seemed to pulse in the room.
She cleared her throat.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Marchand. I imagine you’re a tremendously busy man.”
“Oh? What do you imagine I do?”
She welcomed the bracing surge of irritation.Fleecing aristocratswas obviously the correct answer.Whatever rogues get up to,possibly with ropeswas another. How very tempted she was. She was not incapable of coming out with that sort of thing.
Mr. Ogden’s entrance saved her from sinking her cause within the first few moments. He slipped into the room and delivered a sheaf of papers and a little bundle wrapped in brown paper and string into Mr. Marchand’s outstretched hand.
“If you’d like to sit down, Miss Woodville?”
Mr. Marchand drew out the chair opposite his desk. It was plump and upholstered in cognac-colored velvet, the first truly decadent thing she’d seen here. She settled in.
He took a seat at his desk.
There passed a moment of mutual assessment, during which she could all but feel his eyes rifling through her soul.
The merciless light of day revealed to her that Mr. Marchand was not young. Nor was he precisely old. His wavy dark hair gleamed mahogany where the sun touched it and picked out a few silver threads. His nose appeared to have been broken once, which somehow only added intrigue, and a thin white scar bisected one end of an eyebrow. It seemed improbable to her that anyone had been able to slice him; his face had clearly been chiseled out of granite, from the sharp edges of his jaw to the steep rise of his cheekbones. Except his mouth, which was rather beautiful. Supple and sultry. It looked as though he might actually use it to smile now and again.
She wasn’t certain whether she thought he was attractive. It seemed the wrong word. One wouldn’t say, “My, look at that attractive man-eating tiger,” for instance.
Her breath had gone shallower. She’d tensed her stomach muscles. She didn’t know if she didn’t want to look away from him or didn’t dare look away from him. They seemed one and the same.
He retrieved something from the little sheaf of papers Mr. Ogden had brought in.
“‘Dear Mr. Marchand,’” he read. “‘I would like to callupon you at my earliest convenience to discuss an urgent matter. This is regarding an incident that took place in your establishment a week ago. I believe the members of your club unfairly tookadvantage of my brother’s youth and naivete for personal gain, to devastating effect. I should like to meet with you to discuss ways to remedy the harm done. I am certain that together we may reach a mutually satisfying solution. Yours sincerely, the Honorable Guinevere Woodville.’”
It sounded rather brazen and incendiary when she heard it read aloud. She’d written it in the heat of urgency when she’d arrived at the Grand Palace on the Thames. If she had known ahead of time that Mr. Marchand possessed those shoulders, she might have reconsidered her approach. He did not look as though anything ever twinged him. Certainly not guilt or sympathy.
Mr. Marchand’s expression still revealed nothing as he idly tapped his fingers on the desk. The sun picked glints from a gold ring on his finger. Instead of a signet, it featured an exquisitely wrought ivory skull. Of course.
“I confess I’m a bit puzzled by the assertion in your letter, Miss Woodville,” he began politely. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to explain it to me?”
She cleared her throat. “I assume you are aware, Mr. Marchand, that my brother has inherited another title as a result of a distant relative’s demise. As of a fortnight ago, he is styled both the Earl of Highgrove and the Viscount Woodville.”
“I’m aware. He announced this at Lucifer’s Fall a week ago when he climbed up on the billiard table and shouted”—he ruffled through the papers Mr. Ogden had brought in, which seemed to be notes—“‘Huzzah! I’m an earl! I’m an earl!’”
This he read the way an actuary might recite a table of figures.
He looked up at Ginny expectantly.
Ginny was speechless.
