You can decide the point ofyou,he’d said.
“Mama.Help. Me.” She whispered it fiercely, pressing her fists to her forehead.
Was she merely bewitched by him, or had she changed? If she had, when had this metamorphosis taken place? Wasn’t it possible that when Peneus turned Daphne into a laurel tree tosave her from Apollo, Daphne had thought, “Huh! I suppose I’m a tree now! Why does it feel like I wasalwaysmeant to be a tree?”
Then again, Daphne probably still missed her nymph family. She wouldn’t even be able to talk to them if she was a tree.
Loneliness and fear whistled like an icy wind through Ginny’s soul at the thought of being so thoroughly cut off from the people she loved.
She at last carefully sat down at the writing desk and drew a half sheet of foolscap toward her, then dipped her quill.
She loathed conceding defeat. As she’d told Marchand once before (though with considerable bravado), no one got the better of her anymore. She was so accustomed to finding a solution that she could not quite accept she had exhausted every avenue. The back of her neck went damp from nerves as she wrote:
Dear Lord Sydenham,
I hope this message finds you and the countess well. I fear I write with disappointing news. After a concerted search and a number of inquiries, I regret that I am unable to locate the Ming vase that once belonged to the late Earl of Highgrove. Its fate remains unknown. I wondered if I may call upon you tomorrow at two o’clock to discuss different terms for the repayment of the debt. If you would kindly send word to me care of the Grand Palace on the Thames at 11 Lovell Street, I should be most grateful.
Yours sincerely,
The Honorable Guinevere Woodville
She would ask Mr. Pike, the footman, to take it to the earl first thing tomorrow morning.
She did not feel optimistic about her chances. But the earl had extended hope to her once before. Perhaps he’d do it again.
She wrote a list of her remaining options as cold-bloodedly as she was able.
When she was done, it looked like this:
Spend a night in Marchand’s bed.
Her palms grew damp as she stared at the words. She sat and experienced the slow, heavy thud of her heart, the flush of heat through her body, the sharp pulse of longing between her legs, as for the first time she felt herself seriously contemplate it. Not out of outrage. But as a rational form of salvation. As a choice she would make for herself.
This frightened her so much she threw the foolscap on the fire, as if it were cursed, and went to bed.
Over the past few mornings Ginny had begun to find the rhythmic sound of Mr. Delacorte crunching on fried bread at breakfast almost soothing. She’d already eaten the scone brought into her room by the maids earlier, because only a fool would pass up that opportunity. But she did like eggs and kippers, too.
They were the only two people left at the breakfast table.
Ginny examined the reflection in the side of the coffeeurn. Purple shadows curved beneath her eyes. She’d tossed and turned fitfully the night before. Her bed was no longer a sanctuary. The very word “bed” conjured Mr. Marchand.
Last night, in her imagination, he’d touched her everywhere, in every conceivable way. Her skin had come alive with such yearning awareness that even the soft slide of her night rail over it was as sensual as hands.
She longed for him to return and equally dreaded it.
Suddenly Mr. Pike appeared in the doorway.
She’d asked him to take her message to the Earl of Sydenham this morning, and she’d seen him leave with it.
As if in a dream, she watched him move over to her, carrying a little silver tray.
On it was a message.
She peered down at it.
It was sealed with an “S” pressed into red wax.
Her heart gave a single, hard jolt.