Jeanne hesitated and was lost.
The Marquis freed himself, had walked down the stairs and was inside his carriage before she could think of another way to prevent him leaving.
“Fabian! Fabian!” she cried out, but it was too late.
The carriage door was shut and the horses were moving off.
She could only stand watching him go, feeling, although she hoped that she was being imaginative, that he was leaving and she would not see him again.
The Marquis meanwhile sat back and, putting his feet up on the opposite seat, began to plan where he would go.
He told himself that the only way to avoid what he knew would be a great deal of unpleasantness would be to leave Paris.
He was used to women telling him that they loved him in a way that they had never loved anybody before.
‘Love’ was not a
