What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know. Petite build, like herself. ’ She sipped at the liquid in her glass, but her eyes remained fixed, rather unnervingly, on Gerald. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. Go in, go in, Melusine prayed, hoping desperately that he would not change his mind and take another route.
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