He was certain Miss Woodville somehow sensed it.
She’d begun to test her power over him.
She could never win a contest of wills against him, of course. He couldn’t help this. Winning was what he did; it was how he was made. And he knew that girl was all untapped sensuality—pupil flares and flushed cheeks did not lie. He did not for an instant believe she would take him up on his original offer, but he was confident that in a matter of days, if he really wanted to, he could be admiring the firelight-burnished curve of her round white arse as he took her from behind in front of his hearth. And she might wonder how on earth she had come to be on her hands and knees in front of a bastard from St. Giles, but he would know. Because he would have subtly, gradually steered the both of them right up to that moment.
He was smarter than that.
Few women were more dangerous for a man like him than a virgin aristocrat with a messy life.
As he idly picked up another vase he surreptitiously admired the sway of her walk as she moved down the aisle. The bands of muscle across his stomach went taut in a reflex as old as time. As if his body was preparing to pounce.
Darkly amused, he drew in a steadying breath, put the vase down, and picked up another one.
“Pardon me, madam, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Fleegle a few minutes ago. Are you looking for a white vase with blue flowers and a pair of lovebirds on it?”
Marchand’s head shot up alertly. A strange man was addressing Miss Woodville.
“Yes!” Miss Woodville confirmed eagerly. “Iamlooking for a vase with birds on it!”
Marchand narrowed his eyes. The man was dressed a bit like Mr. Ogden, though everything about him was considerably less crisp and shiny. His boots were scuffed, his coat was rumpled, his hair was a bit greasy. Something about the glittery intensity of the bloke’s gaze plucked a warning note from Marchand’s intuition. Every decent man knew better than to directly approach a young woman to whom he’d never been formally introduced, unless she was on fire and needed to be extinguished.
Marchand began casually inching toward them.
“Me name’s Cook, madam. I was in yesterday with a friend who buys up everything he can find what’s got birds on it. Right popular, those. He sells them again in the southeast of St. James’s Park, by the fountain, near all the other vendors. I’m certain he bought a vase what sounds just like that one. We’ll be there between three o’clock and five o’clock today,if you want to”—the man froze when he noticed Marchand’s eyes boring into him—“have a look. I hope ye find your vase, miss.”
He shrunk away. Then he speedily looped around the shelves in the middle of the shop and exited, the bell jingling on the door behind him.
Marchand handed off the last chinoiserie fake—just flowers, no birds, no marks on the bottom—to an elegantly dressed matron standing near him, who had been reaching for it. She smiled meltingly at him and murmured her thanks. He nodded politely.
“Ginny? Miss Woodville? I thought I heard your voice!”
Marchand swiveled again.Ginny, was it? Who on earth were all these men appearing out of nowhere? Was Fleegle’s known for assignations? It was remarkable he hadn’t heard about it, if so.
This new male voice sounded refined. Also, absolutely delighted to see her.
But Marchand stiffened when an utterly stricken expression flashed across Miss Woodville’s face.
“Oh, my goodness. Lord Cambrough. What a wonderful coincidence!” Miss Woodville—Ginny—darted a nervous look in Marchand’s direction before she curtsied.
He understood at once: It would bedirefor her if anyone she knew saw her with the Reaper, of all people.
He turned his face away and feigned rapt fascination for the bowl he hefted in his palm. But he kept his body angled slightly toward her so he could surreptitiously monitor the proceedings.
“You forgot to call me Henry,Ginny.” Lord Cambrough, alanky, good-looking young fellow, swept off his hat to reveal wavy blond hair. “After all, we’ll be family soon.”
He sounded playful, but Miss Woodville now looked positively queasy. “Ha! Of course,Henry. I do look forward to that happy day, and I know Felicity certainly does, too. I’m certain the two of you will have a long, happy life together. What brings you to London?”
Ah. So Lord Cambrough was her sister Felicity’s fiancé.
Marchand put the bowl down and reached for a vase.
He knew it was probably only a matter of seconds before Lord Cambrough asked a question that Miss Woodville couldn’t possibly answer without lying.
Unless she wanted to lay waste to her reputation.
No wonder she was terrified.
Marchand’s mind whirred. He would need to solve this problem quickly.
