“Hainault was Celeste’s friend, and Celeste was Annabel’s enemy,” Courtlaw said. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. “Stop,” he said.
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