The buttocks complied with speed.
“Argh! Oh no!WHY?” Ginny shouted before she could stop herself, and slapped her palms over her eyes as if someone had cast acid into them.
Marchand leaped between her and her view of the heaving bodies and fanned out his arms.
He could do nothing to drown out the shrieks, grunts, oaths, squeaks, and rustles as the lovers scrambled apart and attempted to reassemble themselves.
There fell a silence.
“Miss Woodville, why don’t you wait in another room while I have a conversation with...”
He swung the gun in the direction of the settee.
“Mr. Benson and Mrs. Cartwright,” the man breathlessly volunteered. “Is you robbers? Please don’t shoot us. We ain’t robbers, neither.”
She noticed that none of the names were Henrietta Parker.
“...while Mr. Benson and Mrs. Cartwright get sorted out.”
He did not have to make that suggestion twice.
Chapter Nine
Ginny found another smaller drawing room on the same floor, which was also dusty, musty, cold, and empty apart from a single settee. The floors were bare.
She hoisted the blinds and parted the curtains to allow in some light, then sat down and waited, numbly contemplating her choices and listening to the unintelligible murmurs of conversation coming from the next room.
Once again, she was both mortified and fascinated.
Presently, Mr. Marchand found her.
He studied her from the doorway for a moment before approaching.
“It seems Mrs. Parker unfortunately passed away in Italy a few weeks ago. Mrs. Cartwright was her housekeeper and Mr. Benson was her butler, and they received word of it only a week ago via letter.”
“I see. How sad.” Itwassad.
“Mrs. Cartwright was upset, and needed comforting, so, ah, Mr. Benson was cuddling her.”
Ginny stared at him balefully. Judging from the heat, herface was a uniform shade of crimson. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Marchand.”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Do you need smelling salts?”
“Why, have you got any?” she said somewhat bitterly.
“No. I was just curious.”
This made her bark a short laugh. But it tapered into a sigh.
He cleared his throat.
“I imagine it can be a little distressing to witness that sort of, ah, intimacy, when you didn’t expect to. It’s natural to feel...”
She was amused at his caution and almost touched by his attempts at sympathy.
“Disturbed? Inconvenienced? Embarrassed? Deeply regretful?”
“If those are the things you feel, then those are the things you feel.” He looked amused. And not at all uncomfortable.
