That realization drove right through him like a sword.
Two things shocked him: how savagely that hurt.
And how wholly unprepared he was for how savagely that hurt.
His mind momentarily blanked.
“I’m Mr. Gabriel,” he completed quietly.
Two bright pink spots of shame flared high on Ginny’s cheeks.
She turned away toward the window.
The two men bowed to each other.
Francis obviously didn’t recognize Marchand by sight. But given the young man’s age and social rank, it was all but impossible that he wouldn’t know Marchand’s name. Many of his friends and their fathers were likely members of Lucifer’s Fall.
And Francis’s expression would change pretty rapidly if he knew the Reaper not only stood right in front of him, but was personally acquainted with Miss Guinevere Woodville.
Ginny’s reputation and future prospects would be in ashes in seconds.
For an instant, a primitive, unworthy instant, Marchand imagined the aftermath of that. Would she then be forced to turn to him, if she had no other prospects?
He was a man who would do nearly anything to get something he wanted. But when he realized he would rather die than do that to her or to himself, he grimly realized just how far gone he was.
Dot was studying him curiously.
He prayed she wouldn’t interject.
“How long will you be staying, Mr. Balfort?” Marchand asked. “Have you taken a room at the Grand Palace on the Thames?”
Too late he realized he ought to have replied “A pleasure to meet you” first, but he was not in the mood to lie. And besides, life was short, and Marchand would have decisions to make right away if Balfort was staying. Such as whether poisoning him or throwing him off the roof would be the better option.
“I’m returning home to Sussex in an hour or so. I just thought it was a lovely coincidence that Ginny was in London, too. Like kismet. I’ve been traveling a bit and it’s been too long since I’ve seen her.” He cast a blushingly wistful look at her that made Marchand feel dirty, jaded, and a thousand years old.
“Three weeks,” Ginny said.
“Nearly four,” Francis retorted merrily.
Ginny was so pale her freckles stood out in stark relief. She had definitely sensed the tenor of Marchand’s mood. She kept her eyes fixed on him, as if she didn’t trust him not to do something—how had she put it?—unexpected. “I suppose it is.”
“What’s that in your hand, Mr. Balfort?” Marchand asked.
The boy was holding a little book.
“I was just reading a favorite poem to Ginny,” he said.
“Do you write poetry?” he asked the boy.
He looked at Ginny, and he could see in her eyes—eyes that, as far as he was concerned, were the only poem the world had ever needed—that she remembered their conversation outside the Earl of Sydenham’s house.
“I’ve given it a try,” Balfort admitted. “Do you, Mr. Gabriel?”
“Oh, yes. Lately I’ve been struggling with one particular rhyme.”
A tentative smile appeared on Ginny’s lips.
An awkward silence ensued.