There Francis stood in the pink reception room, smiling at her.
“I’ll sit with you, if you like,” Dot whispered.
Ginny thought hurriedly.
“That would be best, thank you, Dot.”
“I felt rather daring calling upon you at aboardinghouse,” Francis confided, his eyes sparkling. Dot had brought in tea; Ginny poured it and now Francis held a cup. She knew how he took it: one little spoon of sugar. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s not the most genteel of neighborhoods, is it, but it’s rather nice inside. If a trifle worn. And I’ve brought a new book of poetry. I think you’ll like it, Ginny. I ought to have said... you’re looking... so lovely.”
He was babbling, a little.
She felt slightly removed from her body, like a spectator watching a play. It had been only a few weeks since she’d seen him, but Francis suddenly seemed like a character in a book she’d read, not someone she’d known fondly for a good portion of her life, someone she’d expected to marry. She oddly felt epochs older than him, and he was older than her by a year.
“I do like it here,” she told him. “Everyone is very kind and the accommodations are so comfortable.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Dot beaming at the praise.
“I’ve never been to Fleegle’s,” he confided. “I’ve heard of it.” He lowered his voice. “Cambrough said he thought he saw that chap called the Reaper there. That’s a little unnerving, don’t you think? Cambrough has seen him only once before, in the Galleria. He has his owngaming hell. Quite a dangerous fellow. I’m glad you were spared the sight of him. Of course, he’s not welcome in White’s, so I would never meet him. Gaming is not how I prefer to spend my time.” He sniffed.
It’s not a gaminghell,a voice in Ginny’s head said. It sounded like Marchand’s.
“How thrilling and unusual to have seen him,” Ginny replied, chilled to the bone.
“London can be such a colorful place,” Francis said. “It’s not always safe.”
You don’t say, Francis.
“Indeed. But I feel very safe here. It’s quite good to see you, Francis.”
And she wasn’t lying. He was a kind, merry person as well as undeniably handsome—and he knew it but was still not too arrogant about it. He was clever but not dazzlingly so; he didn’t yammer on and on about himself like so many men liked to do. She’d always liked the way he seemed just a little in awe of her and just a little shy.
She could not remember why she’d liked this now. Perhaps it was because she’d had no basis for comparison.
Then she realized: She’d felt steadily admired, which was quite a fine feeling.
But she had not feltseen. And now she knew the difference.
The difference between him and Marchand was the difference between a scribble and a Caravaggio.
This epiphany introduced a new flavor of despair into the exciting blend of emotions already churning within her.
“When Henry told me you were in London, I simply could not resist the temptation to come and see you,” he said.
This sounded very nearly ardent, and Ginny went sharply silent, awash with trepidation.
“He mentioned you were in town on family business,” he added, into her sudden silence. “I imagine it’s something to do with preparation for the marriage settlement meetings for Felicity and Fiona?” This he said almost bashfully.
“Yes.” It wasn’t completely a lie.
She was overcome with a sudden vertiginous dread.
It occurred to her that Francis might be here topropose.
It would be a dream come true and her worst nightmare. It was not something she ever imagined occurring while she smelled faintly of donkey and sported purple circles under her eyes and had spent the entire previous night imagining the hands of another man roaming her body.
But she wasn’t mad. If he proposed, she knew there could be only one answer.
Like a green lad’s, Marchand’s heartbeat sped ever-faster the closer his hired hack drew to the Grand Palace on the Thames.
And once he’d disembarked, he paused again outside of it to admire the little gargoyles on the roof edge. And to heighten anticipation.
