“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. Melusine’s eyes shifted. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket.
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