Lady Derring Takes a Lover

by Julie Anne Long

  Tristan stared at the man thoughtfully, idly imagining what it would be like to lean over and perhaps violently head butt Lord Kinbrook.

  His own head was made of granite, both figuratively and literally.

  But Tristan had not risen to Captain of the King’s Blockade though superfluous applications of violence to members of parliament. He was not a legend in certain circles for impulse.

  He was, however, usually one step ahead of anyone who thought they could get away from him and his men.

  Not this time.

  It maddened him.

  “How thoughtful of you to consider Lady Derring’s welfare.”

  “I am at heart a decent man,” Kinbrook said. Piously. He laid down his cigar butt in a tray on the table. The smoke, vile yet somehow enthralling to aristocrats, curled from it.

  “Well, certainly now that you’ve unburdened your conscience, you can resume believing so, Lord Kinbrook.”

  Kinbrook looked at him sharply.

  Tristan wondered about Lady Derring, this pretty, frightened widow, and whether she would become a burden or a servant to some relative, or some man’s desperate mistress, and how the weight of fate tended to displace people.

  The way the cigar butt displaced Kinbrook’s brandy when Tristan plucked it up and dropped it in.

  The brandy seeped into the tablecloth as he and Massey took their leave of him, Kinbrook’s oath ignored.

  Chapter Three

  The world turned in woozy circles for a second when Paul, Lady Derring’s driver, helped her and Dot from the carriage outside of 11 Lovell Street.

  Which is when she realized she hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and Dot likely hadn’t, either.

  The darkness around them was alive. It, and its noises, was mysterious, but did not feel immediately menacing, any more than the woods at night did. It was interrupted by the glow of lanterns through windows of shops and pubs and presumably dwellings where humans lived, stacked upon each other in little flats. A hundred feet or so away from where they stood, hulking buildings rose; they were perhaps warehouses, or workshops. She had never been in this neighborhood before in her life.

  Above those, into the fast-deepening mauve of the night sky, rose the spires of ships, looking almost churchly. And high above those was the glowing disk of a full moon.

  Distantly, she heard voices raised in argument.

  Raucous laughter floated toward them from another direction. It concluded in a violent coughing fit and an extravagantly, protractedly juicy spit.

  She and Dorothy winced.

  Somebody screamed off in the distance. It was a bit difficult to tell if it was due to murder or glee.

  Dot jumped six inches and then nearly climbed Delilah like a frightened cat.

  Delilah batted her down and set her firmly away.

  “It was just someone expressing a powerful emotion, Dot. Nonetheless, it might be best to hold your hatpin in your hand.”

  “Very well, Lady Derring.” Dot’s voice was a little wobbly.

  The scent of sea was layered like a complex perfume, wild and briny, a bit foul, a bit sweet, carrying with it a bit of everything it swept through on its way to where they stood: tar and salt and smoke, among other things. A wind whipped through and tried to steal her hat and she slapped her hand down upon it. Their skirts billowed and lashed their legs.

  “Would you be so kind as to wait for us here, Paul?”

  Paul was one of the servants who hadn’t yet fled, but he’d told her he’d accepted new employment. And yet he’d been kind enough to drive her out to the docks without so much as a raised eyebrow. She wondered if he thought that, now that she was penniless, she was doing the practical thing and going straight away to join a brothel, because surely that’s where the brothels were, down by the docks.

  “Of course, Lady Derring.”

  He pragmatically yet surreptitiously laid his musket across his lap and retrieved a flask from his coat pocket.

  Lovell Street barely qualified as a street; it was more like a bit of fringe dangling at an angle from the main thoroughfare. As far as she could tell, three buildings occupied it.

  Number 11 was the largest.

  Her building was the largest.

  She had never owned anything of such significance outright before. Hers, and hers alone.

  Mine. She’d never realized what a powerful word it was.

  Of course, two prone bodies were propped at odd angles against it. Drunk rather than dead, she hoped. Prayed.

  One of them stirred and murmured, chuckling to himself.

  Chuckling wasn’t terribly sinister, was it?

  The building was about the width of two and a half townhouses and filthy with coal smut. A battered sign creaked and swayed on rusty chains in front of it; whatever it had once said had worn away.

  She shifted her gaze upward; were those gargoyles?

  Suddenly something savory wafted out the door of what appeared to be a little pub adjacent. Her stomach, a crucible of terrible emotions all day and filled with nothing else, growled.

  The pub’s battered sign, rocking and dancing in the wind on its chains, read “The Wolf And.” The final word was no longer legible.

  Ladies did not frequent coffeehouses or pubs, she knew, unaccompanied or not. But what did she have to lose? If she was kidnapped and sold into slavery or murdered for the joy of it, it would at least be a dramatic denouement to her story.

  She was hungry and thirsty and doubtless poor Dot was, too. They would enter her building fortified.

  “Dot, we’re going into this pub to have a meal and perhaps a coffee.”

  Dot hesitated. “Oh, Lady Derring, but ladies don’t—”

  “Widows may go wherever they choose. But widows ought not go alone, which is why I’m grateful for your company.”

  Dot looked relieved. “Is that so? I’m right famished, Lady Derring.”

  “Well, in we go then.”

  The Wolf And was snug and nearly dark as a cave and glowed like an ember thanks to a healthy fire at one end and a series of lanterns hooked across the smoke-dark beams.

  A century of smells seemed to have soaked into the timbers of the place—smoke, ale, food—and she wouldn’t be surprised if blood had found its way into the mix. It was pungent, but not oppressive.

  A young woman with a resolute expression and dark hair scraped and pinned back away from her face was swishing a rag over the bar with one hand and pushing a sloshing tankard over to a man with the other. Next to the fire, another man in a chair snored like a tree branch cracking. Another two men were in the corner, heads together, speaking in murmurs.

  The barmaid looked up. “Look what the wind blew in! Are ye lost, my dears?”

  The unexpected kindness, and the smoke, made Delilah’s eyes sting a little. “No, but we are famished. Have you anything that might make a good dinner?”

  “I’ve meat pies. Not rancid yet, I shouldn’t think. Bought from the pie man earlier today.”

  “That’s quite an endorsement. What sort of meat?”

  “Does it matter much if ye’re hungry, lass?” Pragmatic. Unapologetic.

  “I suppose not. We’ll have two meat pies, please. Have you any tea or coffee?”

  She studied them a moment. “I’ll bring you coffee, bless your hearts, but it won’t be the sort you’re used to, I’d warrant. My name is Frances.”

  “Thank you, Frances.”

  She didn’t offer her name in return.

  She and Dot settled at a little battered table and Frances returned apace with two meat pies.

  Delilah counted out a few coins and Frances beamed. She had all of her teeth, which was probably quite an accomplishment here at the docks.

  And then Delilah and Dot tore into their meal like caged beasts.

  The pie wasn’t terrible—whatever the meat was, perhaps offal and a shred or two from some animal’s flank, it was liberally spiced and churned up with potato. It filled the pit of her poor stomach a
nd she felt immediately better.

  The coffee arrived a moment later. Other than its color it bore little resemblance to the brew she’d become accustomed to. But it was hot and wet and she drank it.

  It helped to have begun life in a certain genteel poverty. She had a feeling flexibility was going to figure largely in her future.

  “Oh, Lady Derring,” Dot said suddenly. “There’s a lady sitting alone over there. Perhaps we ought to ask her to join us.”

  Delilah doubted the word lady applied, but she looked.

  The woman in question was dressed all in black and sitting very, very still. Which could be why they hadn’t noticed her at all.

  “Dot, ladies sitting alone in pubs are usually looking for . . .”

  Then she saw the hat resting on the chair opposite the woman.

  A black one, with a jaunty feather.

  Something about the cant of her head . . .

  The color of her hair . . .

  Delilah’s heart lurched.

  She stared.

  “Please wait for me here, Dot.”

  She scarcely noted that she’d risen from her chair. But she was moving across the room, slowly, toward the woman as though some external force impelled her.

  She stopped at the table where the lone woman sat staring at what appeared to be a small, nearly full glass of sherry.

  A somewhat haunted, hunted expression fled from Mrs. Angelique Breedlove’s face when she looked up. She looked as weary as Delilah felt. As though she were beyond surprise.

  They stared at each other.

  “Are you going to toss a drink into my face? Or do you have an absurd, tiny pistol in that tiny, absurd little reticule?”

  Mrs. Breedlove said it lightly. But her eyes were cool and there was something of the coiled spring about her posture.

  Delilah matched her tone. “What a waste of a drink that would be. And you appear to be wearing silk. Did my husband buy it for you?”

  This was the person she was, apparently, when nobody was around to tell her who she was or who she ought to be. An ironic person. Someone who came out with questions just like that.

  It was as liberating as loosening her stays.

  “Yes,” the other woman said.

  They regarded each other with less hostility than one might imagine. More in the manner of two people who’d just discovered they’re not alone on a previously deserted island, and who are uncertain as to whether this new person is a cannibal or not.

  “May I sit down?” Delilah surprised herself by asking.

  Surprise flared in the other woman’s face.

  After a hesitation, she gave a slow, wary nod.

  Very, very gingerly, as if it was the very first thing she’d ever learned to do on her own, Delilah pulled out the chair.

  And settled herself into it.

  For a moment the silence was nearly ringing at their table, as if they were alone there beneath a dome.

  Mrs. Breedlove’s eyes were hazel, and her lashes were thick and gold. She was admittedly very pretty, but she didn’t in the least resemble Delilah’s notion of a fallen woman. Apart from perhaps the dashing hat. She’d always assumed fallen women were daring dressers.

  “We haven’t actually been formally introduced, Tavistock’s amusing performance notwithstanding,” Delilah began. “My name is Delilah Swanpoole. Countess of Derring.”

  The other woman smiled faintly. “Ah, yes. Formality. We mustn’t abandon that even in the face of penury. I would rise and curtsy, but once I sat down I felt as though I may never stand again. My name is Mrs. Angelique Breedlove.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Her face lit with amusement, and for a moment Mrs. Breedlove looked five years younger than the haunted soul she’d seemed an unguarded few minutes ago. “What decent English mother names her daughter Angelique? And my mother was decent, I assure you. I was born Anne Breedlove, in Devonshire. The ‘Mrs.’ is an honorific I bestowed upon myself. It makes me more respectable, you see.”

  Mrs. Breedlove was winning the irony competition.

  They resumed the stares. Angelique’s chin was up ever so slightly, the only hint that she perhaps had a good deal to be defensive about. Her posture suggested it had gotten that way through repeatedly walking across a room balancing a stack of books as a child, the way Delilah’s own mother had trained her. Mrs. Breedlove’s pride was evident.

  “May I ask you another question?” Delilah said finally.

  Mrs. Breedlove nodded slowly.

  “Were you my husband’s mistress?”

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Breedlove’s little smile was weary and taut. “Do you often ask questions you already know the answer to?”

  “A simple yes or no will suffice, Mrs. Breedlove.”

  “Yes, for the last three years. Which I’m certain would be your next question.”

  Delilah took in this information wordlessly.

  She knew what she ought to feel. Or rather, what she was expected to feel. But she was beginning to understand how filtering her true self through a screen of oughts and shoulds had diluted her essence little by little, like water added to whiskey. If she wasn’t careful, there would be nothing left of her, whoever she once was, before Derring.

  And God help her, she could not find it in herself to regret that Derring had mostly neglected the marital bed for the last two years, regardless of the reason.

  Her next question required her to reach into a heretofore untapped reservoir of nerve. It was just that she needed to know the depth and breadth of the lies that had apparently formed the foundation of her life before she could free herself from them. She took in a subtle sustaining breath.

  “Were you . . . were you in love with Derring? Was he in love with you?”

  Angelique’s eyes flared in astonishment and something like jaded amusement, which she quickly squelched.

  She regarded Delilah with something like sympathy, tinged with perhaps a little condescension.

  But she was silent for a moment.

  “Forgive me, I’m trying to decide which answer will be both accurate and sparing of your feelings.”

  “I no longer have feelings, so you needn’t worry on my account.”

  The corner of Angelique’s mouth quirked. “Ah, yes. The numbness. Don’t worry, all of your feelings will return with a vengeance at an inconvenient time.”

  “You’re a sage as well as a mistress, then, Mrs. Breedlove?” The woman’s jaded worldliness was beginning to abrade her nerves. And, to be perfectly honest, her pride. She was accustomed to being a countess: to issuing orders, albeit pleasantly. To commanding a certain respect and deference, without, of course, having done much of anything to deserve them apart from marrying an earl.

  Perhaps this was why she perversely admired Mrs. Breedlove’s worldliness, too. It seemed borne of an earned confidence. The sort gained from experience.

  “I believe I do have a specific sort of wisdom to impart,” Angelique said coolly. “And no. I didn’t love him, Lady Derring. Nor did he love me. I’ve come to believe that romantic love is a fallacy. I think life is cobbled together by business arrangements and compromises, and it’s this fact—the pure business of it all—that I hoped you wouldn’t find hurtful. It suited him to have a mistress, I believe, because all of his friends had one, even that odious little Tavistock. The way it suited him to buy sculptures and urns and whatnot. I feel as though I was collected, and as my straits were dire when we met, I was grateful. I did spare a thought or two for you, but not many, I confess. Under certain circumstances moral cringing becomes a luxury.”

  Delilah absorbed this silently. She didn’t know whether it was a relief to know or not. It certainly rather bleakly echoed her own conclusions about life and “love,” which interestingly wasn’t entirely pleasant to hear. It confirmed her own instincts about Derring. She supposed there was a bit of satisfaction in that.

  And yet something about the unad
orned directness of this answer was exhilarating. Refreshingly lacking in self-pity, illusions, delusions, or obfuscation, and sprinkled liberally with multisyllabic words. She did enjoy intelligence. Frankly, it was like breathing clean air, which was in short supply in London. When one literally has nothing left to lose, communication probably got more efficient.

  But the cool, dry recitation had cost Mrs. Breedlove, somewhat: her chin had hiked, her face was taut and pale.

  How had such a woman come to such a pass?

  “Certain circumstances?” She tried to sound cool, but sympathy had crept into her voice.

  Angelique’s hazel eyes were fixed searchingly on Delilah’s. Something she saw there made her suddenly pivot toward the bar.

  “Frances, love, would you bring my friend a sherry? A large one?”

  “No, thank you,” Delilah said firmly. “I seldom drink. I’m not even in the habit of taking sherry after dinner.”

  “You will tonight,” Angelique said. “I think you need it, and besides, that way we can be certain you’ll ask all of the questions you wish to ask and you shall be honest with me and I shall be honest with you.”

  Delilah considered this. “Very well. I’ve nothing to steal, so there’s very little risk in getting so drunk that you’re able to rob me. And if you attempt to sell me to a brothel, my ferocious lady’s maid, Dot, will stab you with a hatpin.”

  It was rather dark, as jests went. And it was a jest.

  Mostly.

  Dot, hearing her name if not the context, yawned, smiled shyly, and gave a little wave with the hand wielding the hatpin, then tucked her chin into her chest again and continued dozing.

  Mrs. Breedlove glanced at Dot then back at Delilah, eyebrows raised.

  Her eyes flashed genuine, nearly mischievous amusement.

  Delilah was dangerously close to rather liking Mrs. Breedlove.

  It seemed unlikely that this little pub would stock something so native to fine drawing rooms as sherry, but Frances rummaged beneath her bar, produced an appropriate little glass, glugged the sherry into it, and brought it over.