In St. James’s Park they passed tables ladened with meat pies, fresh flowers, fruit, baskets and pottery, various tonics in dark bottles, and bundles of dried herbs. The latter made her think of Mr. Delacorte. All of these wares were presided over by cheerful, beckoning merchants. Potential customers clustered about. It looked quite benign, even festive.
Ginny’s mood was improving by the second, which it probably had no right doing, given her circumstances. But she was outside on a fine enough day, in an interesting park she’d never before visited, accompanied by a huge, glowering man. Hope, while gasping for breath, had not yet been entirely extinguished.
Then Marchand flicked cold water on her mood.
“Miss Woodville, if someone sees you with me, they will make the kind of assumptions about you that I am certain you will not appreciate. I am neither unknown nor inconspicuous in these parts. You might want to keep your head down if you don’t want to become gossip sheet fodder.”
She kept her head down.
Mr. Marchand’s tense alertness and surly mood discouraged any impulse she might have to chat.
He remained unhappy with her. In the hack on the way to the park he’d tried to convince her to go back to the Grand Palace on the Thames while he went to investigate the alleged vase merchant instead. She’d refused. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him to do it. It was that sheneededto see that vase with her own eyes. If it was there, she wanted to bear witness to the miracle that would make all of her problems disappear.
She also suspected he was unhappy with himself.
Because he’d agreed to do it because he simply couldn’t help himself.
A disorienting realization was taking shape as they strode along in silence. Here she was, willingly following deep into a park a man she’d known for mere days. A man who not onlywasn’ta gentleman, but who had frankly propositioned her. Logic insisted there was a greater than zero possibility that he would drag her into a bush and ravish her, despite his pattern of nearly chivalrous behavior.
And yet here she was with him, anyway. Not one particle of her thought she should run away.
So far, all Marchand had done was look after her in a way that no one else had done for almost a decade.
She wondered if it was pathetic that this was all it took to make her follow a strange man into the woods.
After all, people look after sheep for a time before they enjoy a mutton feast.
“I would be delighted to be wrong about Mr. Cook’s intentions,” he finally said. It sounded reluctantly conciliatory, but he gave the man’s name an ironic frisson. As if he was certain it was an alias.
Presently she heard the gurgle and splash of a fountain. She risked a look up then.
They had entered a somewhat unkempt little grotto—the grass and flowers overgrown, grass raggedy at the edges of the walkway—surrounded on three sides by tall shrubberies and hedges.
And in the middle of it a little wizened man stood behind a table scattered with knickknacks. He wore a brown cap.
His eyes were small, bright, and twinkly, like a bird’s.
She gasped, thrilled. “Are you the man with the bird vases?”
He bowed. “Why, I am indeed, miss! I’m ’appy to know my reputation precedes me. Come ’ave a look! Mayhap yer ’andsome fella will buy a few trinkets for you.”
Ginny turned triumphantly shining eyes on Marchand.
She recoiled when she saw how cold and remote his were.
He all but glued himself to her side as they approached the table. Her heart kicked painfully in anticipation as she sought out flashes of blue and white among the bowls and vases and little birds. She hoped the two pounds in her reticule would be enough to make the vase hers when she found it.
But it became apparent in seconds that the vase wasn’t there.
Her eyes passed again and again over the array of wares, her breath going ragged, her entire being desperately resisting the moment when the truth must inevitably sink in and obliterate hope.
She dreaded turning to Marchand and seeing confirmation of her folly reflected in his face.
Her head shot up when the shrubbery behind the table began to rustle violently.
And out popped the man she’d seen in Fleegle’s.
In his hand was a pistol, and he’d aimed it right in the dead center of her chest.