Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. His blood would be sweet with it. Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. I must have been very wound up.
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