For some reason, he smiled slightly again. He shook his head, as if in response to some conversation with himself.
“You are going back to the Grand Palace on the Thames, Miss Woodville. I will not be traveling with you in that hack, for reasons I hope are obvious to you, given that you were raised the daughter of a viscount. You’re going to need your reputation, since you clearly have nothing else, and even if we’re enemies, I want the playing field to be fair. And I don’t want to be evicted from the boardinghouse, because the scones are worth committing crimes for and that bed is sinfully comfortable. Henceforth, you will not be wandering about the city unchaperoned. You’re a danger to yourself and others when you do that.”
“While it’s hilarious that you think you can tell me what to do, I do notwander. I’m not a toddler, Marchand. I always have a plan.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The hack driver cleared his throat. “Sir, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but will you and yer wife ah, yer doxy... ah...”
“She’s not my anything, good sir, unless it’s my pain in the arse.”
But Marchand sounded less rancorous and more grimly resigned, which she supposed was something of an improvement.
“Just lovely, Mr. Marchand. You’vesucha moving way with words.”
He deftly came out with what looked like another shilling, a princely sum for a hack driver, and handed it to the driver. “For your time and patience, with our apologies.”
The driver whistled. “For that much I can drive the two of you around while you tup back there if that’s what this is all—”
Marchand and Ginny made nearly identical aghast noises.
“Number eleven Lovell Street will do just fine, thank you,” Marchand told him. “Please take her there.”
He shut the door on Ginny, probably with some relief.
The hack rolled away, and she peered out the window at Marchand’s figure receding into the dark, whereheno doubt felt safe.
Chapter Eight
Spirits fueled by coffee richly enhanced by cream, a scone baked in heaven’s ovens, not one but two serendipitously found heart-shaped stones, and one sparkly grain of hope, Ginny embarked on her search for the vase the following morning.
Her plan, and she thought it was a good one, was to seek out the late earl’s solicitor to request another look at his will, in case any special bequests had been made. The Woodvilles had been provided with a copy of it, but she didn’t recall a mention of a Ming dynasty vase. Perhaps he would know where such a valuable piece had gotten to.
His offices were in Bond Street, and Dot had informed her that hack drivers knew they could frequently find passengers at the Grand Palace on the Thames.
So she went out into the little park in front of the Grand Palace on the Thames to wait for one to pass.
She lifted the little latch on the wrought iron gate, and froze.
The park already had an occupant.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Why, good morning to you, too, Miss Woodville.” Mr. Marchand was sitting on a bench.
His dark brown wool coat fitted to distracting perfection the wedge formed by the taper of his shoulders to his waist. His buckskins hugged the contours of the kind of thighs that could crack a walnut, should a person risk getting close enough to tuck one between them. The shining toes of his boots reflected a plump white cloud overhead. He was, as usual, almost too much to absorb.
“I’ve been wondering about something for a few days, Miss Woodville. As a young, unmarried woman of aristocratic lineage, shouldn’t you be trailed everywhere you go by some sort of glowering dowager who would rap me with a fan for even attempting to speak to you?”
She sighed. “Yes,” she admitted glumly. Because that was indeed usually how it was done.
Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “A lady’s maid not in the family budget?”
She stared at him in icy silence. He was too clever, and he also sounded faintly sympathetic, which stood all the bristles of her pride on end. There was no reason he ought to know any more of her business than he already did. But this was, in fact, exactly the reason she didn’t travel with a companion everywhere. And though she perpetually felt a little underdressed without a chaperone, she was also getting a little too used to it, and beginning to appreciate its benefits.
“What do you think I did with the rest of yesterday evening?” he asked.
“Debauchery,” she said firmly.
