He pushed her small hand into his jeans. The room was dark and dusty. 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. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. He was all alone, too. .
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