’ ‘Your husband?’ Gerald tutted. Get on, do. A stomacher, fastened by imitationdiamond buckles, girded that part of her person, which should have been a waist; a coral necklace encircled her throat, and a few black patches, or mouches, as they were termed, served as a foil to the bloom of her cheek and chin. Will you not remember what has passed between us? I have the right to take my place by your side. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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