“So witnessed,” Mr. Marchand said shortly. The deal was official.
But for some reason Marchand looked faintly troubled.
Deal thusly sealed, Ginny didn’t want to be in that room withanyof these people for one moment longer.
“Thank you, Lord Sydenham, Lady Sydenham. Your offer is gracious beyond words. I’m certain you’ll want to spend some time chatting with Mr. Marchand, so I’ll bid you good night. It was so very lovely to see you. And it was apleasureto meet you, Mr. Marchand. No, don’t stand, please! I can see myself out. I remember the way. Thank you so much for your kindness andhospitality. And I’ll see you again when I bring your vase to you in a fortnight!”
She leaped to her feet, bobbed the world’s swiftest curtsy, trailed a gaily waving hand, and bolted.
She was already in the hall before anyone could reply.
She could hear her own shoes echoing absurdly on the marble, as though she were being chased.Clickclickclickclick.
She might even have fluttered Farnham’s coattails with the breeze she created as she passed him when she dashed out the door.
Chapter Seven
Outside, she was shocked to discover that the day was still suspended between sunset and nightfall. Less than an hour had elapsed while she was inside, even though it had felt like an eternity. The sky was striped in beige and indigo and the shadows were long and rapidly getting longer. Lamplighters had already begun their work. Her path was somewhat illuminated as she jogged along.Please let there be a hack, please let there be a hack.
Unfortunately it was a peculiar hour for anyone to be coming and going, and hack drivers knew it. None came along.
And then—predictably—she heard boot heels on the pavement some distance behind her. She nearly growled in frustration.
She knew exactly who was bearing down on her before she even turned.
She accelerated to a ridiculous trot.
She glanced over her shoulder. The unmistakable silhouette of Mr. Marchand was looming.
He merely needed to lengthen his stride to be upon her in seconds.
And then she passed what looked like—and surely it was kismet, because how else would she have been able to see it in this light?—a bright stone right there on the pavement. Was it shaped like a...
It was!
It was speckled white and gray and shaped like a heart!Exactlywhen she needed it. She whirled and lunged for it.
Just as Marchand’s foot was about to come down on it.
His reflexes were extraordinary.
He performed a high kick to avoid crushing her hand, hopped backward on his other leg, flailed his arms like windmill blades, and spent a second or two teetering north and south in a valiant effort not to topple.
He managed to right himself, but not before he lost his hat.
It was now tumbling down the pavement.
When he turned to give chase to it, she snatched up the little stone.
It would be ridiculous if she continued running. So she waited.
Mr. Marchand returned to her, hat in hand. His hair had flopped over his brow. His furiously affronted expression reminded her of the Woodvilles’ pet goat, William, who was outraged whenever they dragged him away from eating everything in his favorite flower bed.
A nervous laugh escaped her.
Laughing was a mistake, judging from Mr. Marchand’s expression.
“Help me understand, Miss Woodville. Do you find it funny to lunge at my ankles like a rabid spaniel?”