His shoulders relaxed and his gaze wavered. 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. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. " "And money?" "I'll have plenty, if I'm careful. It was empty. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. He had already shown the covering envelope and its instructions to Ruth, and she had ignored or misunderstood the warning.
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