“Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. She’s already spoken for. He was apt to play so many games, she was afraid she might have misunderstood. It was his belief that the French had enough troubles of their own in these difficult times without bothering to nose out British business. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. She ought to have leapt back on guard. Mild, you know, and boon. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension.
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