It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. *** Gerald vaguely noted that his junior leapt to his feet at sight of his former commander, and that Lucilla sat with her mouth at half-cock, dread in her face. She felt terrible lying to him. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. “Bother it all!” she swore.
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