Gerald caught the look and slipped the weapon into his pocket. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. During the wet monsoon the west beach was always littered. 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. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. It tore her apart. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés.
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