They went still when they heard Dot’s light footsteps coming toward them at a trot.
“We’ve a new arrival!”
The tone of her voice said a good deal, but by way of expounding Dot merely rolled her eyes and fanned her bodice.
Which prepared Delilah and Angelique for the golden-haired, long-legged, strapping young vision standing before the fireplace in the reception room. The beaver hat he clutched in his gloved hand poured rain out on the carpet.
“Good evening, sir. I am Lady Derring and this is Mrs. Breedlove. Have you come looking for accommodation?”
“Accommodation?” He had snapping dark eyes and ruddy cheeks, and he seemed fair bursting with nervous, suppressed excitement. “Certainly, if that’s what you call it. Do you suppose you can, er . . . accommodate me?” He flicked his eyes between Delilah and Angelique and they lit with delight and surprise.
They hesitated.
“Perhaps,” Angelique allowed, cautiously.
“Oh, wait! I’ve got it now. I am here to request a room in the . . .” He bent toward them and whispered conspiratorially, “Rogues’ . . . Palace.”
Then he stood back and waited as if he’d uttered the password that would swing wide a magic second door and allow him admittance.
They gazed back at him. Puzzled.
“Sir, this establishment is called The Grand Palace on the Thames. Perhaps you saw the enormous sign indicating as much hanging from the building?” Delilah said this gently.
He looked puzzled but undaunted. “Well, it’s very dismal weather, you see, but I gave the hack driver the address and he brought me right to your door. Is this not Number 11 Lovell Street?”
“It is,” Delilah allowed, darting a glance at Angelique.
He seemed increasingly puzzled. But he still radiated suppressed delight, even an air of mischief. He was young enough, and perhaps innocent enough, that he’d never seen a need to hold his features still. “Oh, I think I see. Is this a test?”
“Of . . . sorts?” Angelique tried.
He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Hmm . . . oh, wait . . . wait.”
He reached into his coat and fished out a sheet of foolscap, folded into squares. He carefully unfolded it and consulted whatever was written upon it.
“I’ve come to sample the”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“the Vicar’s . . . Hobby.”
He waited.
His breath seemed held.
He was destined to hold it for a good long while, until Delilah said, “I’m afraid, sir, that we aren’t quite certain what you mean by that.”
He became brisk again. “Well, blast and damn, don’t you offer that anymore? Well, that’s a shame. Very well, then. Let’s see . . .”
He consulted the paper for a tick.
Delilah and Angelique exchanged another baffled, increasingly concerned, glance.
“If not the Vicar’s Hobby, I think I might enjoy the . . . Scoundrel’s . . . Wheelbarrow. A bit pricier, but still. You see. Sounds delightful.”
He said it on a hush. His cheeks pinkened, as if in a bit of embarrassment. Then he peered up at them, hopeful as a child on its birthday.
Angelique and Delilah were motionless as realization began to seep in.
“Sir, if we may have a look at your . . .”
“Certainly.” He surrendered the foolscap to Delilah’s extended hand.
Angelique peered over her shoulder as they reviewed what appeared to be a detailed menu.
“Oh!” Angelique said in amused recognition just as Delilah said, “Oh!” in horror.
Angelique caught hold of Delilah’s arm just in time to prevent her from hurling the thing upon the fire.
The young man understood their horror. At least he had the grace to scorch red.
He’d been had, and was just beginning to realize this.
“Where did you get this, er, menu, Mr. . . .”
“Farraday. Andrew Farraday. My friend Roddie gave it to me. Bloody Roderick! He’s the one who told me to come here.”
“I’m afraid if you’re going to use that language you’ll need to put a pence in the jar, and another for the previous expostulation beginning with the word blast. We shall not charge you this one time, but this is a warning,” Delilah said gently.
He blinked at her, astonished. Mouth dropped open. As if he’d been having a lovely dream about angels, who turned out to have fangs.
“Mr. Farraday, would you like to sit down by the fire? You’ll take a chill. We’ll bring you something hot to drink.”
Like every young man, he was helpless against warm motherliness.
He sank down next to the fire on one settee and seemed prepared to be doted and waited upon. Clearly he was accustomed to it.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Farraday, that your friend Roderick has pulled a prank. We are a respectable boarding establishment. We are not what your friend Roderick has suggested to you we are.”
It seemed no one quite had the nerve to say bordello or whorehouse.
“You’re not a . . .” he said to Angelique.
She shook her head.
He turned to Delilah. “And you’re not a . . .”
Delilah shook her head, too.
He looked shattered.
“So neither of you are . . . and this isn’t a . . .”
It was rather sweet that this clearly well-bred young man couldn’t bring himself to use the word whore in front of two women who, only seconds earlier, he fervently hoped would be administering the Scoundrel’s Wheelbarrow.
“Breedlove?” he repeated. “Lady Derring,” he emphasized meaningfully. “But surely, with names like those . . .”
They both shook their heads.
“Forgive me. Well, I’m terribly embarrassed.”
“And you should be,” Delilah said almost tenderly.
Angelique stifled a laugh.
“I don’t get up to that sort of thing, ever, you know.” He beseeched them with big dark eyes.
“We can tell,” Angelique assured him.
He looked crestfallen and a little anxious. “I daresay. Well, that leaves me in a bit of a bind. I’ve no place to stay for the night.”
“Well, what brings you to London, Mr. Farraday, besides those, er, pastimes?” Angelique asked.
He blushed again. Then fidgeted a little.
At last he sighed. “I bolted, you see,” he said earnestly.
They didn’t see.
“Bolted?” Delilah prompted, gently.
“I bolted because I don’t want to marry her!” he blurted, in frustrated anguish. “I was meant to propose—everyone expected it of me—and I couldn’t bring myself to do it and so . . . well, I bolted. Was days away from a house party where it was supposed to happen to much rejoicing, and in my bed at the coaching inn, and I thought, sod it, I can’t, I just can’t. And I left. I suppose that makes me sound heartless and callow.”
They contemplated the responses that were most honest and truthful: a swift boxing of the ears or a why, yes, you great oaf, you’re a cad of the first water.
“We think you sound just like a man,” Delilah decided upon finally, sweetly.
Also truthful.
“Thank you.” He beamed.
They both fought powerful urges not to roll their eyes.
“I am not proud of myself, mind you, but I’m too young to be leg shackled and I’m not in love with her. She’s my friend! How tremendously odd would it be to marry someone who has been your lifelong friend?”
“It actually sounds quite tolerable, even preferable,” Delilah said.
“I’d like a chance to be in love, you see. A little passion. A little excitement! A little adventure! Some worldly experience!” He blushed a little again.
They both could volunteer to him that worldly experience wasn’t precisely what it was cracked up to be.
Though Delilah, when he’d said that, was surprised to realize she might like a little more of that as well.
&n
bsp; She thought of Captain Hardy’s long-legged stride as he disappeared out the door this evening. Where did he go?
Why had the tiniest part of her gone with him?
“Before we permit you to stay, we’ll need to learn a little more about you,” Angelique told him.
“You’re going to interview me for suitability. But . . .” He looked bewildered. “This is a building by the docks.”
“By the River Thames, London’s glorious lifeblood. A place where travelers from all over the world first lay foot on British soil. It is the very beating heart of London. By the docks!”
She made docks sound like Fields of Gold.
“But you’ve a man sleeping across your entrance. He said you were coldhearted.”
“It’s adorable that you think he’s sleeping,” Angelique said at the same time Delilah said with great delight, “Only one man?”
Mr. Farraday’s eyes darted toward the door. Then back to them.
He jounced his leg uneasily.
They smiled upon him warmly.
His frown disappeared. He appeared to be basking in their pretty smiles.
Delilah smoothly continued, “It’s just that the poor man outside was refused entrance to The Grand Palace on the Thames on the grounds that he’s a bit of a rogue and he has been drinking away his sorrows ever since.”
This wasn’t entirely untrue.
Mr. Farraday might be country gentry, but he wasn’t a fool. He took this in with an eyebrow dive.
And then he began a surreptitious and more thorough inspection of the premises. Perhaps beginning to become more resigned to the reality of things, his eyes flicked up to the ceiling, took in the chandelier, scanned the floors, the stairs.
She imagined he lived in a manor house in the country, built a century ago to withstand anything from marauders to visits from wandering royalty.
His expression suggested he was satisfied, if not ecstatic.
“But I’ve no other place to stay tonight,” he fretted. “Nobody knows I’ve bolted to London and I don’t want anyone to know.”
“Fortunately, we have a marvelous room just come available. And while you certainly look like a gentleman and we have sympathy for your plight, there’s no guarantee you shall have a place to sleep tonight, either, until we learn a bit more about you.”
Flattery, vague threats, a faint air of menace, a certain risk—her mother would have been appalled to find all of these things in Delilah’s conversational repertoire, and moreover, that she found them rather invigorating.
“I’m certain I can pass your interview. I think I’d like to stay at least a fortnight.”
“Have you twenty pounds upon your person? You’ll need to pay in advance of your stay, you see.”
“Twenty pounds!”
“Mr. Farraday,” Angelique interjected, her voice all velvety sympathy. “It’s a filthy night, and there’s no guarantee of getting a hack or, if you manage to get to Mayfair, room at the inn. Or at any other inn. And it will cost you considerably more. I assure you, ten pounds is a bargain for what we have to offer.”
“Your morning and evening meals are included, and we have a fine cook. Our staff will launder, press, and mend your clothing during your stay. We will bring up to two libations to your room on a given day before nine in the evening, and our cook has a collection of simples and tisanes should you feel your health is in need of bolstering. We’ve mandatory nightly gatherings in our drawing room and we’re certain you’ll find it comfortable and amusing. Our aim is to make it feel like home.”
“But at the moment home is what I’m trying to leave!” he said wildly.
“A different kind of home. With more liberty. With delightful new friends.”
“But no freedom to curse or stagger about drunkenly or entertain dubious lady friends in your room,” Delilah added.
His lower lip began to extend a trifle glumly.
“There is an ale room and coffeehouse adjacent. And you may take cigars and brandy in a separate room after dinner with our male guests.”
His face reflected some cautious cheer.
“And we’ve planned to have musi—”
Angelique shook her head so vigorously a bit of a breeze was created.
“And we’ve a list of rules,” Delilah amended smoothly.
There would be time to broach the subject of musicales later.
“Rules?” It was a cry of melodramatic anguish.
“All the finest, most sophisticated establishments have them,” Delilah improvised. “Why don’t you review them, Mr. Farraday? We’ll have a fire built in your room and your pillows fluffed. Would you like us to prepare chocolate or perhaps a coffee, and send someone to help you off with your boots so you can warm your feet at the fire?”
These words—fire and fluffed and chocolate and boots and feet—were chosen just for Mr. Farraday, who, they were both convinced, was indeed not ready to be leg shackled and would make a woman miserable, but could be lulled into complacency with the comforts of home.
His gaze swung between Delilah and Angelique and he was partially melted, partially worn down, in the face of their feminine determination and pretty solicitousness.
“Chocolate would be lovely,” he admitted.
“Read the rules first, Mr. Farraday. And if you would be so kind as to show us your ten pounds?” she said gently.
Chapter Twelve
“Sorry, guv. Sold two, and at ten pounds each. I’ve none left.” Mr. Wilkie, the apothecary, peered up at them through wire spectacles. His blue eyes were both shrewd and sympathetic.
Massey feigned crushing disappointment as Tristan sighed and tucked the cigar back into his pocket as if it were a gold doubloon. He gave it a pat, which seemed to release the scent of smoke from his coat. It was pungent from the evening he and Massey had spent jostled in filthy, crowded local pubs striking up casual conversations and slipping into them questions about The Grand Palace on the Thames.
“Oh, you don’t want to go there, guv,” he’d been told more than once. “Not the kind of place a body wants to be.” Which was funny, given that Tristan and Massey had just been compelled to break up a knife fight and counsel the two involved into shaking hands.
No one could tell them why they shouldn’t go there, instead of to a pub that had bloodstains on the floor, for example. It was a mystery. Especially since the entire time he was there he couldn’t help imagining the fluffy pillows, the blue counterpane, the warm drawing room filled with people who weren’t trying to get drunk or murder one another.
He was relieved to return—before curfew, of course—even if it felt as though he’d accomplished nearly nothing.
Last night he’d dreamed of Lady Derring, sitting across from him, her big brown eyes enigmatic, smoking one of those foul cigars, and was appalled to have awakened still in his smoky clothes when he’d meant to try to peer into the keyhole of Suite Three. The damn bed was simply too comfortable.
He’d punished himself by walking past the breakfast aroma of eggs and sausages gloriously wafting from the kitchen and met Massey to visit Mr. Wilkie, the apothecary. He’d sent a half dozen other men to question other merchants.
“That’s a shame about the cigars, Mr. Wilkie. A friend of mine said he bought his here some time ago. Perhaps you remember him? A Mr. Delacorte—”
“Ah, Delacorte!” The apothecary brightened. “Good fellow, that one. Sold me an impotency cure quite popular with my customers. I don’t suppose either of you need—”
“No,” Tristan and Massey said simultaneously.
“Oh, well, of course not,” Mr. Wilkie soothed. “But should there come a day . . .”
He trailed off at Tristan’s blackly incredulous expression.
“Mr. Wilkie, do you know if or when you’ll get more of these marvelous cigars in?”
“Well, I expected a few going on a month ago, in fact, but haven’t yet seen them. Good thing I didn’t pay in advance, like I do with some of my orders. I would
not be pleased.”
Interesting timing. Tristan felt a tiny pinprick of hope.
“I’ve an acquaintance, the Earl of Derring, who was able to get some, but I don’t know where.”
Wilkie’s expression showed nary a flicker of recognition. “He’s lucky then,” said Mr. Wilkie earnestly. “Perhaps he’d be inclined to share them with you.”
Massey pushed a pound note toward him.
“Would you be willing to tell me where you got them?”
Wilkie eyed it speculatively, then sighed, and pushed the pound note back. “Oh, now, gentlemen, what manner of businessman would I be if I revealed my supplier? I don’t know his name. Just a bloke, you see.”
He gazed evenly up at Tristan and Massey. His shop might be stocked with expensive ointments and unguents whose ingredients were murky and mysterious things in jars, but his conscience was apparently clear. After a fashion.
Hell’s teeth.
Massey waited for a cue from Tristan.
Tristan weighed barking something about being on the king’s business, because frankly this painstaking business was maddening. But that might sound an alarm among area merchants. Which might get back to the smugglers.
They would have to maintain their painstaking approach.
“Thank you, Mr. Wilkie. If you could recommend a local merchant who might have a few—”
“Oh, any of them might.” He waved an airy hand. “I don’t rightly know.”
The bell jangled on the door as a customer entered, and he and Massey took their leave.
He imagined tonight he would dream of needles and haystacks.
His mood was dark indeed by the time he made an appearance in the drawing room of The Grand Palace on the Thames that evening, and wasn’t improved when he saw, sitting on one of the settees, a strapping young man whose blond hair swooped over his brow à la Byron, posture alertly erect, arms crossed tightly across his chest and hands tucked into his armpits, as though he feared someone would reach in and pluck out his heart. He was jouncing one knee. His expression was decidedly bemused, uncertain, a trifle mutinous. The face of one who wasn’t certain whether or not he was dreaming and rather hoped he was.
Lady Derring Takes a Lover Page 12