She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. In the beginning it was a dictionary. 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. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night.
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