‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. “Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. 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. Diane Vorsack was a disaster waiting for a place to happen, with a heartily established dislike for the Beck clan.
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