He would have to make sure of her silence. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. ‘Did you see the man?’ Gerald asked. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. She held out both her hands. She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather.
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