“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady.
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