Lady Derring Takes a Lover

by Julie Anne Long

  Dot was a savant, as it turned out, when it came to describing their arrivals. She was absolutely correct on all counts.

  “I know I’m an unprepossessing sort.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Delacorte,” they lied prettily, in unison.

  Perched on the settee, his feet just barely touched the floor. His black-and-gray hair was unevenly trimmed, and tufted out about his ears, which made him look incongruously like a baby bird. The toes of his boots were well creased, but they’d been polished, and the buttons on his waistcoat were nearly audibly straining. Delilah imagined the threads holding on to them groaning like tree branches stressed by a windstorm. One in particular looked moments away from launching.

  She canted ever so slightly to his left, lest it take out her eye.

  But the tailoring was good and his hat was brushed and tended and his greatcoat was new. Dot had taken them from him and laid them over a chair.

  His clothes clearly had not kept up with his appetite.

  His smile was vast, genuine, and rueful.

  His eyebrows were bushy affairs.

  His blue eyes were twinkly.

  And his speaking volume suggested he was standing on shore shouting a farewell to travelers sailing away in a ship rather than sitting across from two ladies on the settee.

  They quickly established that he wasn’t hard of hearing. Though demonstrating proper volume hadn’t yet encouraged him to calibrate his own.

  “I like my food, you see.” His stomach gave a resonant thud when he smacked it.

  Delilah kept a weather eye on the waistcoat button.

  “We’ve an excellent cook,” Angelique told him. “And nothing makes her happier than watching someone enjoy her food.”

  “I saw your advertisement in the apothecary and I thought, well, that’s the place for me! I like rules. I want a bit of civilizing, as you can see.”

  “We could all use a little help now and again,” Delilah soothed.

  “And I wanted a place what feels like home. Until I have a home of my own.”

  “Well, that’s precisely what we offer our guests, Mr. Delacorte,” Angelique told him warmly. “And we feel the ten pounds per week is worth every penny.”

  He didn’t blink, which meant he’d passed that particular financial test.

  “I’ve longed for a bit of looking after, but it’s hard to find a wife, you see, when I travel so much for my work. A fine, sturdy woman who wouldn’t mind coming along with me sometimes, but who keeps a home waiting for me. I’d like a bit of domesticating, perhaps.” He sounded wistful.

  “It sounds like a lovely dream, Mr. Delacorte. May we ask what line of business you are in?”

  “I import cures for ailments and I sell them to surgeons and apothecaries up and down the coast of England. Chinese herbs and bits and bobs from India with unpronounceable names, ground-up horns and testicles of exotic animals and the like,” he said cheerily. “Make a fair penny, or two.”

  Delilah and Angelique were startled rigid.

  Mr. Delacorte twinkled at them.

  His smile began to dim as the silence grew by seconds.

  “If we may make a suggestion?” Delilah said gently.

  “It was testicles, wasn’t it?” he said disconsolately. “It’s just that all I ever talk to is men, surgeons and apothecaries and the like, and one begins to forget how to speak to women.”

  “Well, here at The Grand Palace on the Thames we’ve a jar in the drawing room, and we ask gentlemen to put a pence in when they slip up and say a word that might be a bit rough in the presence of the ladies. We know how difficult it is, sometimes.”

  “Oh, aren’t you clever! You see, a little bit of help now and again to knock off my rough corners, if you know what I mean. I don’t mind a bit of nagging at all, if I’m to win over the right sort of wife for me one day.”

  Despite themselves, they were charmed.

  “Why don’t you enjoy your tea, Mr. Delacorte, while Mrs. Breedlove and I have a quick word about the availability of accommodations.”

  Angelique and Delilah stood in tandem and walked together to the opposite drawing room.

  They stood in thoughtful silence.

  They could hear Mr. Delacorte slurping his tea.

  “Ahh!” he said, with great satisfaction.

  “I think I would enjoy,” Delilah said slowly, finally, “seeing Mr. Delacorte and Captain Hardy in the same room.”

  Angelique smiled slowly.

  They returned to Mr. Delacorte, who looked up hopefully.

  “Welcome to The Grand Palace on the Thames, Mr. Delacorte.”

  Back at the Stevens Hotel, where probably every man—and they were all men—surrounding him in the restaurant was in the army or navy, Tristan had no compunction about abandoning his attempt to saw off a slice of chicken with the sad, dull utensil provided, and reaching into his boot for his knife.

  It was clean and sharp. Tristan took excellent care of his weapons.

  He handed the knife across to Massey, who grunted his thanks and sawed his own chicken.

  He knew better than to do that at a formal dinner table. When in Rome, however.

  “Lady Derring is one of the proprietresses of The Grand Palace on the Thames,” he told Massey. “Which is indeed a boardinghouse.”

  Massey gave a low whistle. “That is interesting, indeed.”

  The next challenge was chewing the chicken. They took a moment to accomplish this.

  Tristan sincerely hoped Lady Derring’s cook was as good as she claimed.

  “Is she pretty? Lady Derring.”

  Tristan stopped to stare at him.

  “That’s quite a vehement stare, Captain Hardy.”

  “Oh, forgive me. Have I hurt your feelings, Massey?”

  “I’m only noting it,” Massey said easily. “Because if she is pretty,” he continued, when Tristan didn’t take up the subject, “one wonders why a pretty, penniless widow would choose to run a derelict boardinghouse rather than marry again. After proper mourning is observed, of course. Or one would think a relative would take her in.”

  “I wondered the same thing.”

  “So she is pretty.”

  Tristan paused to choose a word.

  “She is tolerable.” He was darkly amused at himself for this assessment.

  Massey stared at him, with a furrow of suspicion in his forehead.

  “And before you ask, Massey. Yes, Mrs. Breedlove is pretty, too. And the boardinghouse, as such, can no longer be considered derelict. It’s very well kept. Which leads up to the questions of where said penniless widow found the money to repair and furnish the boardinghouse. And print rules,” he said grimly.

  “There are rules?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  There was a silence as they both determinedly chewed. They’d masticated hardtack and biscuits. This chicken hadn’t a prayer of defeating them. Torturing them, perhaps, when they attempted to digest it later.

  The clink of silverware and male laughter filled the silence.

  “What does she look like?” It was as if Massey couldn’t help himself. “Lady Derring.”

  Tristan sighed heavily and laid down his fork. “Honestly, Massey.”

  “Humor a man who misses his sweetheart, sir.”

  “What’s your sweetheart’s name, again?” Tristan said, devilishly.

  “Emily,” Massey said patiently.

  Tristan chewed his chicken. Then said, “Petite. Black hair. Brown eyes.”

  For the first time it occurred to him what a disservice those descriptors did people. These were the ones always trotted out, along with the occasional “and she has a hump” or “his legs are uncommonly long” or that sort of thing. The table was “brown.” Lady Derring’s eyes had a rare luster like the stock of his pistol, polished to a gleam. And a depth that called to mind calm seas, with all the potential of storms to pull a ship under.

  He doubted any woman would want to hear such a thing. Gun stocks and that rot. But
his notions of beauty were singular.

  “Mrs. Breedlove is fair with light eyes,” he added.

  Mrs. Breedlove was also a very different woman than Lady Derring. He could see it at a glance. Oddly, he was glad someone more cynical was in partnership with Lady Derring.

  “How did you establish that it is indeed a boardinghouse, Captain Hardy?”

  “After a fairly rigorous interview, I was led to a room that seems comfortable. While I haven’t been able to look into every room or every part of the house—though I intend to do that—I have no reason not to believe that the other rooms are similar.”

  “Oh, she interviewed you rigorously, did she?”

  “I command you stop leering right now.”

  When Tristan spoke like that even the people nearest gave a little shudder and wondered why the temperature had just dropped several degrees.

  Massey got control of his expression.

  “In addition to the rules, there is a curfew, and a jar in which to place a pence if you curse in front of a lady. The interview took place because apparently she needed to ascertain whether I was suitable.”

  “Sounds precisely like the type of boardinghouse a fine lady would run, sir.”

  “It does, at that.”

  “What is your room like?”

  “The counterpane is quilted and blue. The bed could fit two people the size of me. There is an adequate wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a writing table.”

  “Are the pillows soft?” Massey said wistfully.

  Tristan had indeed punched the pillows. They’d billowed like clouds. One of the advantages of being a soldier was that one never took for granted creature comforts.

  He’d in fact stood in that room arrested in a moment of unguarded, absolute wonder. That little flower in a vase on the writing desk, the braided rug next to the bed, the clean, smooth counterpane of a vivid, lovely blue—these were the sort of touches women thought to do to a house—and it was a bit of a trap. One could get to like and need softness and comfort and clean things. One struggled to fight one’s way out of them as though they’d indeed fallen into a deep pillow.

  But because Massey knew him and would half expect it, he rolled his eyes. “By definition, pillows are soft, Massey. And before you ask, the chamber pot has blue periwinkles on it.”

  Massey’s eyes crinkled. “Me brother has a chamber pot that makes it look as though you’re pissing in the king’s mou—”

  “We serve at the pleasure of the crown.”

  It was a sharp, coldly worded warning.

  The king was wildly unpopular, but he was the representative of the country Tristan would fight and die for, and of all English citizens, and as such, Tristan was loyal to the bone.

  He had his own opinions about the king and Massey likely knew them. The king was more complicated, and less happy, than anyone understood. He hadn’t been born to rule. Not everyone had the luxury of a destiny that fit them like a suit of clothes. But he would die for that king.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Tristan allowed a little moment of silence for the admonishment to sink in.

  And another moment to scoop into his mouth a few peas.

  “Keep in mind that many a man has been murdered in a comfortable room.”

  “Have they, sir?”

  Tristan sighed. “Oh, probably.”

  Massey grinned at this.

  “I won’t be that man, Massey. I will talk to the guests and have a look around once I’m inside the building. I should like you, Morgan, Halligan, Roberts, and Besson to make a note of who exits and enters the building at all hours, so take it in shifts and assign extra men as you see fit. I’m to meet the three other guests tonight because apparently there’s a mandatory gathering in the drawing room four nights per week.”

  Massey’s eyes had gone misty. “A gathering in a drawing room sounds rather nice. I can’t wait until Emily and I have our own drawing room.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes.

  Tristan was unaccustomed to aimlessness or leisure for the sake of leisure. His life had been composed of taking action, planning action, or waiting for action. Attacking, defending, fleeing. Shouting orders or taking them. Aiming a gun, wielding a mop. That sort of thing.

  Nothing in his experience to date had involved sitting—just sitting!—quietly at a little table in a firelit room while two maiden aunts stared at him in apparent horror from a dark corner.

  “He’s not quite as fearsome as he looks,” he heard Lady Derring whisper to them.

  Although in truth it was more of a stage whisper.

  He quirked the corner of his mouth dryly and lowered his head to his book. He’d brought to the boardinghouse a satchel of belongings, including a change of clothes, tooth powder, shaving soap and brushes, and a book. He’d been attempting to read Robinson Crusoe for some time now. He’d gotten to page five over the past three months or so. Something always interrupted.

  “How do you do,” he’d said gravely, earlier, when he’d been introduced to the Gardner sisters.

  The one called Miss Margaret had uttered a sort of squeak and ducked her head. Which was massive, he noted. He’d seen the whites of her eyes before she did that.

  She hadn’t lifted her head since, that he’d noticed.

  She was a strapping woman. Perhaps a retired laundress.

  The other, Miss Jane, had said, “How do you do,” so quietly he could easily have imagined it. She had the sort of voice a bird would use if a bird could speak.

  Where on earth had Lady Derring and Mrs. Breedlove found these two?

  “Miss Margaret is shy,” Mrs. Breedlove had explained on a whisper a moment later, though this was a secret to no one, least of all Margaret.

  Despite the fact that he felt as though he was quite literally in Purgatory—the place beyond which he was not allowed to move—doubtless the sentimental Massey would find it pleasant.

  An old brown-and-cream brocade settee nearly the size of a barouche was arrayed at an angle across the room. An assortment of mismatched little tables—he’d chosen one for himself at a gentlemanly distance from the fire, along with a wooden-backed chair—were studded with little lamps. The leaping fire threw a flattering light upon all the ladies present except for the Gardner sisters, because they had chosen the corner farthest from the fire, apparently seeking the quiet and the dark. Lady Derring and Mrs. Breedlove were glowing like lovely candles in their chairs. Lady Derring’s head was bent over an embroidery hoop.

  Perhaps the embroidery was destined for a pillow. Perhaps it was an image of a man putting a gun to his head because he was forced to sit quietly in a drawing room.

  He supposed it was “cozy.”

  Dot, the maid, was mending something. “Ouch,” she said softly.

  A second later: “Ouch,” she muttered again.

  He’d noted the pianoforte against the wall and amused himself by imagining what it would be like to glue it shut, and to watch them struggle to get it up to no avail.

  He had no objections to music. It was just that he had a weakness for music played well, and it so seldom was in drawing rooms such as these.

  “I count only two guests, Lady Derring. Where is your third? Did this person pay an additional fee to escape the drawing room? If so, I must shake his hand to congratulate him on his bargaining skills.”

  She regarded him coolly a moment. Then her head swiveled.

  “Ah, here’s Mr. Delacorte! Why don’t you go and have a smoke and a chat with him in the gentlemen’s room, Captain Hardy?”

  It sounded like an order. So he went.

  Chapter Ten

  The room set aside for gentlemen to smoke and curse in was set off the drawing room. Some pains had been taken to make it pleasant. Three large brown upholstered chairs with winged backs were arranged about a low table upon which a man could heave his booted feet, if he so chose. The carpet featured a black-and-brown scrolled pattern. Presumably the sorts of colors that could disguise sm
oke and any other unspeakable thing a man might take it into his head to do.

  He and Delacorte stood about for a wordless moment, like two dogs tied up outside while their owners have tea in a shop.

  “You missed a truly splendid dinner,” Delacorte began. “It was remarkable, in fact. The things the cook can do with a sauce. Was all I could do not to lick my plate. Even I know enough not to do that! Ha ha ha!”

  Tristan smiled tensely.

  Mr. Delacorte was hearty. He didn’t speak so much as boom, like a man shouting over a crowd at a race track, cheering on a horse.

  “But I’ve nothing on Miss Margaret Gardner’s enthusiasm. Shoveled it in with both hands as though she thought it might be snatched away any moment! Never saw a woman with an appetite like that.”

  Tristan stifled a sigh. Now he had something to look forward to at dinner the next day.

  “So you’re a captain, eh? Career naval officer?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you know Admiral Nelson?”

  “Served under him.”

  Nelson, like God, needed no further exposition.

  “WELL.” Delacorte stood back and planted his hands on his hips. “I’d warrant that makes you a hero, too, you old sea dog!”

  “No,” Tristan said.

  That wasn’t entirely true—a street rat from St. Giles doesn’t rise to be an infamously effective, ruthless naval captain without someone bandying about the word hero. The king himself had used it. Once. In a private conversation, granted.

  It was just that the heartier Delacorte became, the more air he expended, the less air Tristan felt inclined to expend in the form of words, as if to maintain the balance of air in the universe.

  Delacorte was silently contributing other things to the atmosphere, too. His enthusiasm for the food at dinner had begun expressing itself in other ways.

  Tristan was hardly delicate. He’d spent a few years crammed on ships with hundreds of men and was well aware of how cheerfully disgusting they could be. It was just that he hadn’t had to do it in recent years. One of the privileges of being a captain was having his own quarters, in which he didn’t have to listen to snoring, gastric eruptions, weeping, night terrors, or surreptitious masturbation.