Marchand tried the doorknob.
When it turned, she caught herself just as she was about to clap her hands in delight. What kind of lady felt triumphant instead of chagrined that they were breaking into a house?
“Stay behind me,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
Which is when she noticed he had a gun in his hand.
He had a gun in his hand!
“Why thegun?” she whispered indignantly. “Where did thatcomefrom?”
“You should always have a gun in your hand when you break into a house. Close the door. Quietly.”
Dense, cold, musty air engulfed them. She saw at once that the candles in the sconces wore a fine coat of dust, as if they hadn’t been lit or replaced in some time.
He put a finger to his lips and an arm out to stop her. They listened.
She heard it then, too: Low, desperate voices, in the cadences of a furious argument.
“Give it to me. Give it to menow.”
“Do you want it likethis?”
“Yes, damn you! I want it!”
Her heart was now pounding so hard her chest felt bruised.
“Are they arguing about the vase?” she whispered to Marchand.
He was frowning and looking perplexed.
Which was none too comforting.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered again, unnecessarily, because she hardly inclined to dart ahead of him. “And walk quietly.”
Why on earth she obeyed him instead of hiking her skirts in her hands and running out the door was beyond her. It was too late; curiosity was her besetting curse.
They moved through the foyer, toward what she suspected was a drawing room, the usual architectural configuration in a town house like this one. The door of it was ajar about a foot.
As they drew closer, other sounds, confusing ones, gradually became audible: a rhythmic smacking of some kind, as though someone was striking a smooth object. A peculiar dry scrabbling, like mice living in upholstery. A kind of creaking noise, the sort a rocking chair in motion might make. Muffled oaths. All in all, it sounded like some kind of scuffle.
She threw a sharp, frightened look up at Marchand.
Oddly, his expression had subtly transformed to one of pure bemusement.
Gently, very, very slowly, he pushed the parlor door wider.
She peered past him into the dim room.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to something pale near the back wall.
She froze, transfixed in disbelief as her vision adjusted.
It appeared to be a vast pair of white buttocks.
The buttocks were bobbing up and down on the settee, which was swaying and squeaking violently on spindly legs. Two feet, clad in women’s sensible walking shoes, were perched on either side of the buttocks. What looked like serviceable wool stockings were bunched around their ankles.
The owner of the feet gave the buttocks a loud smack. “Give it to me faster!”
