Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. "That I can't say. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. ‘You the fellow Gerald spoke to?’ Kimble flushed beetroot, and Melusine had a flash of insight. 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. It’s an engagement ring.
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