She wasnevergoing to love the way he issued orders. “But what if theydohave the vase?”
“Even so, I am very certain they want to rob you,” he repeated dryly. “And they don’t have the vase. I can say that with about one hundred percent certainty.”
“But if theydohave the vase, I can have it as soon as today,” she insisted, a little desperately.
“They’re going to try torobyou, Miss Woodville.” He was exasperated now. “I know that corner of the park. It’s near all the gentleman’s clubs. It’s an excellent place to do some robbing, if you’re of a mind. I’ll hand that to them. And if there’s anything I’ve learned definitively from my storied career, it’s when a man is up to no good. If we both go, they’ll rob both of us, or kidnap you. Maybe a little of both. Or worse. You will not be going. And I will not take you there.”
How had her life come to this? Was she really a hairbreadth away from a possible kidnapping because of avase?
“Do you genuinely think there’s a possibility of all of that robbing and kidnapping?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. You might be sheltered, Miss Woodville, but surely even you know there’s a higher chanceof being robbed than finding a Ming vase in a park. I need you to believe me.” The last words were terse and adamant. She could tell he was very nearly offended that she was arguing the point.
“But there’s achanceof finding it.” She could hear the anguish in her voice.
Whereupon he fell abruptly, grimly silent.
They sat that way for a time. Staring down each other yet again.
“Honestly, Mr. Marchand, who would look at you and think, ‘I can successfully rob that man’?”
This made him give a short, humorless laugh. “You’d be surprised at how many bloody stupid people live in London.”
But fear had her in a vise again. She simply could not relinquish what seemed like her only chance to repair this Hogarth-wrought disaster. She could all but feel again the wind of the abyss whistling beneath her feet.
“Mr. Marchand... I... I don’t know what else todo.” Her voice broke.
He did not reply. The grim line of his mouth tightened.
His expression remained implacable.
She drew in a long breath, and exhaled at length. “Very well. If you won’t go with me, Mr. Marchand. I’ll go on my own.”
She said it softly and evenly.
It was a test, and they both knew it.
He didn’t like it one bit. Surprised anger flashed in his eyes.
His expression now was thoroughly forbidding.
The little hairs at the back of her neck buzzed as if in anticipation of a lightning storm.
’E be a dangerous man. One of the worst men in London, Mrs. Haddock had called him. He probably was, for many reasons. Not the least of which was that he was the reason that she, Guinevere Woodville, was discovering she had a taste for danger.
He’d been right when he’d accused her of being a gambler. Because she’d essentially just made a reckless wager. And as she waited for his reply, she teetered on the dizzy verge of an exultation she was afraid to examine too closely.
It had little to do with the vase, and everything to do with the man.
Because she knew what his answer would be.
And she thought she knew why.
He drained his ale. He referred to the time on his pocket watch.
“I’ll go with you,” he said quietly.
“Therearevendors here. Look, Mr. Marchand!”