She’d kicked off her slippers; they were lined up on the soft green and pink rag rug.
She stood up and stretched, then slid her feet into them and slipped out the door and dashed down the stairs.
She rounded the corner of the first-floor landing.
Then froze mid-step.
Her lungs seized.
If she’d been a forest creature, every hair on her head would have gone erect.
Mr. Marchand was coming up the stairs.
Mr. Marchand was coming up the stairs!
She prayed this was merely a hallucination, a fever dream born of the stress of the day, a trick of the light. Perhaps her vision would clear and it would prove to be Mr. Delacorte instead.
But the rank shock on Mr. Marchand’s face dashed this hope.
Like the pair of cats in the alley outside, they remained tensely still, abject horror and antipathy ricocheting between their locked gazes.
Unfortunately he looked even more fascinating in theshadowy light of the stairwell than he had in his office, if more sinister.
“Mr. Marchand, it is very bad of you to pursue me here,” she finally whispered fiercely. “Howdareyou?”
“What onearthare you running on about, Miss Woodville? The notion that I would ever need topursueany woman is comical.” He said this with flat conviction.
The arrogance of him.
“I suppose it would be difficult for them to pursue you if they’re tied up withropes.”
He blinked. “I beg your ever-loving pardon?”
They were conversing in hissing volumes.
She did not expound. She still had no idea what he did with ropes or why Lady Tomelty had bothered to mention it, but his confusion seemed genuine enough.
“A better question is what the devil areyoudoing here, Miss Woodville? I’ve already been generous to you with my time, despite the fact that you intruded upon my business through dishonest means without an appointment. If your intent is to continue bothering me about your brother’s debts, I assure you it will not go well for you.”
“Oh, my goodness, how very, very sinister, Mr. Marchand.” She clapped a hand over her heart in feigned terror. “Icame to London expressly to resolve my brother’s predicament. Dear friends of mine told me to call here at the Grand Palace on the Thames for accommodation, as our very kind proprietresses were ladies to the core and would be glad to look after me. It’s a very exclusive establishment, and Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand thought I would fit right in. So I can’t think why they would have allowed you to stay.”
It was becoming clear that she simply could not sink any verbal barbs into him. His eyes lit up with relish at every challenge.
“My home is getting a new roof and repairs are being made to Lucifer’s Fall, hence I needed other accommodations.Imade arrangements to stay here several weeks ago. Lord Bolt is an old friend of mine.”
She was taken aback. “But he seems so nice.”
It was oddly liberating to say exactly what she wanted to say, unfiltered, even if this meant her worst, most sardonic self was unleashed. Because Mr. Marchand didn’t even blink. His eyes merely widened with a dangerous sort of amusement. As if he dared her to keep talking.
“In light of our previous exchange, thegentlemanlything for you to do—though I do understand that ‘gentlemanly’ might be a foreign concept to you, Mr. Marchand, based on your previous behavior—would be for you to leave and find other accommodations.”
“Is that so? Tell me, Miss Woodville, how ladylike is it for a young, unmarried woman to show up unannounced at a gentleman’s gaming establishment and lie in order to meet alone with the proprietor who is, according to your exacting standards, patently not a gentleman?”
This brought her up short. It was an excellent point.
She thought furiously.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What if I told Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand that you propositioned me, Mr. Marchand?”