Chapter 66
VOLUME TWO: DEDICATION
London 1810
There was nothing wrong with pistols at seven paces at dawn. Except dawn was at eight o'clock tomorrow, and Splendor had a dressmaker's appointment then. Three thimbles and the scissors had smacked into the back of the Chinese dressing screen the last time she'd wandered in ten minutes late. Madame Renare had said these were meant for her assistant, that paying customers, even those who were well behind with their bills, were sacrosanct. Splendor knew she lied, that Lady Haskins, who always had the next appointment, would depart wearing Splendor's guts for garters if she were late again. And if she didn't bring the money to pay the bill.
Worse than not being able to do that, she was going to be shot at dawn. Or rather, eight o'clock.
Checkmate. If she'd known that one word was going to cause all this trouble, would she have said it?
When she'd promised Gabe she wouldn't do anything to draw attention to herself, too.