Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Petite build, like herself. ‘What else was there to do? He paid off the servants and left old Pottiswick in charge, saying that the place would have to remain empty until the heir was found. She received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. But this was a vicomte’s sister. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. But he had been forewarned by his great-nephew. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. We felt like thieves.
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