"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. A hansom stopped a little way off. “No, it was simple. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. You have neither reason nor logic. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. His friendship seemed a thing worth having. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. She put her head out of the window. Yes, this was a little better.
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