Lady Derring Takes a Lover

by Julie Anne Long

  But if a woman were to take a lover solely for the sake of taking a lover, none of these things ought to matter. She ought not to consider them at all. His magnificent thighs, on the other hand . . .

  A wave of weakness passed through her at the thought.

  Angelique said, somewhat haltingly, “I have found that desire . . . doesn’t care whether a man is good or not. It doesn’t distinguish. It sometimes fixes itself to an inexplicable object. It seems grotesquely unfair that women should be burdened with such a thing when it’s infinitely more dangerous for us, in many ways, than for men. And yet, there we have it. And the first time your heart is broken is by far the worst. The second time is not much fun, either. And finally you consign the thing to a scrap heap because it rattles about in your chest like dropped china.”

  Delilah’s own heart hurt terribly, hearing this. How she wished Angelique hadn’t learned these things the hard way.

  “Or so I’ve heard,” Angelique added. “I never had one to begin with, you know.”

  Delilah snorted.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Mr. Brinker? I’m Lady Derring, one of the proprietresses of The Grand Palace on the Thames.”

  Dot had gone and let a strange man into the house after curfew. “I’m so sorry, but I did it without thinking, Lady Derring.” She’d wrung her hands. “It’s so very wet and cold out, you know how the wind gets, and it’s so warm in here, and he looks like a gentleman, and I thought, what would Lady Derring want me to do? She would want me to be kind.”

  Lovely. Delilah had apparently been imparting lessons to Dot and perhaps hadn’t let on that those lessons contained nuances.

  Angelique had already gone to bed. Their other guests, Captain Hardy included, were safely in, Dot had told her. She’d in fact left him with a pot of tea an hour ago.

  The man in question turned at the sound of her voice. He was tall and thickset, almost perfectly rectangular. His elegant, many-caped coat swung in flawlessly cut elegance from his shoulders to his ankles. He appeared to be holding their list of rules.

  Dot was right. She could almost trace the provenances of his clothes to Hoby, to Weston, or to Guthrie.

  He looked at her rather . . . longer . . . than she preferred before he finally bowed.

  And when he was upright, his gaze remained a trifle too familiar. His dark eyes were sheltered by straight, bushy brows and his face was heavy, pale, and very English. She fought the impulse to smooth her hair or her apron, to fidget.

  Familiar. A word that belonged to her past, she realized, because she might have a title, but her station couldn’t really shield her from a gaze like that.

  A man would, however, she thought rather bitterly. Damn it.

  She thought of Captain Hardy snug in his bed, hopefully sleeplessly watching his ceiling and revisiting, again and again, that kiss. In other words, precisely what she’d been doing for the past two nights. But she’d also avoided being alone with him. She rather hoped, given distance, sense would settle in, because the decision seemed too momentous and too fraught, the outcome too uncertain, and part of her thought that everything would be easier if she didn’t have to make it.

  She resented that she wished he was standing here right now. Lucifer and Atlas, indeed.

  “My horse threw a shoe and I cannot get it seen to until tomorrow morning, I fear, Lady Derring,” Mr. Brinker told her. “I’ve stabled him at Cox’s Livery and I wondered if I could prevail upon you for a room for the night.”

  His delivery was gracious and his voice was low and pleasant.

  And yet something prevented her from inviting him to sit.

  “Ah, that is misfortunate, Mr. Brinker.”

  “I thought the women who ran boardinghouses were built like houses themselves, and brandished rolling pins and sported chin hairs. You sound like . . . an actual lady.”

  She gave a short, polite laugh, the kind that reminded her uncomfortably of how she used to laugh for Derring to salve his ego and keep the peace. “I am a lady, Mr. Brinker. A widow.”

  Though she thought, at that moment, it might be more useful to be the built-like-a-house, chin-hair sort of proprietress.

  “Ah,” he said. After a moment, “I see.”

  Why did everything he said sound so puzzled?

  “I should tell you, Mr. Brinker,” she said pleasantly enough, “that our guests typically stay a little longer than one night, for the security and comfort of our other guests, so that we can all come to know and trust one another.”

  This was his opportunity to apologize and leave.

  He took this in with a little frown. “Here at the . . . docks?”

  “It’s a convenient location for people from all walks of life. Why, even you yourself are here.” An acerbic quality was creeping into her tone.

  “Of course. Who knows? It might be the next St. James Square.”

  She disliked his tone, for reasons she couldn’t quite put a finger on. “Perhaps.”

  Perhaps he was merely weary and wet and inconvenienced and uneasy being away from his usual haunts. Perhaps if she made him feel at home, if he was treated well, he might tell other people with money about The Grand Palace on the Thames.

  “What sort of business brings you to Lovell Street, Mr. Brinker?”

  “I’m a merchant—I deal in silks, typically. My father owns a textile mill in Kent and I am involved in the investment end of it.”

  “How interesting.” It sounded respectable enough.

  “In some ways, yes, I suppose it is.” His little smile was odd. Nearly insinuating.

  And then he very swiftly, almost imperceptibly, swept the length of her with a look.

  And perhaps he wondered if she was the sort to rob him in the night, and was trying to ascertain whether she was hiding a little pistol or a sharp little knife.

  But it didn’t feel like that sort of look, because it made her want to shudder as if an insect had crawled across her arm. Her heart picked up a beat or two.

  “As I said, Mr. Brinker, it isn’t our usual policy to let rooms for one night only. I’m certain you can imagine why.” She said it more firmly.

  “I’m willing to pay handsomely for it.” Suddenly, in his hand, were several sovereigns.

  She went still. Her breath snagged.

  And for a moment she merely stared at them.

  Damn men and their money.

  Damn life and the choices it presented daily.

  He didn’t, on the surface of things, seem dangerous. One never knew. Appearances never told the whole story. She ought to know. And the things they could do with three sovereigns . . .

  She crossed her fingers beneath her apron. Said a silent prayer.

  “Follow me, Mr. Brinker. Ring the bell if you’d like tea brought up to you. We’ll leave it outside of your door.”

  He’d been in for the evening for a half hour when Dot appeared, clinked and clanked her way about his room, fluffing a pillow, building the fire, leaving him with a cup of tea he’d requested earlier in the day—whimsically ringing for tea in the middle of the night struck him as the worst sort of laziness and selfishness, even though the rules allowed it—and a quiet little good-night.

  These were all things he could in all likelihood do more competently for himself.

  But it did, in fact, make him feel cared for.

  He let the tea sit for a bit and poured himself a brandy instead, and sipped.

  He wondered if he’d overplayed his hand with that bit in the window.

  He’d spent the past two days out with Massey and the rest of his men, questioning merchants. A pattern was beginning to emerge, of sorts.

  And yet whoever had allegedly let the mysterious suite had yet to appear in the boardinghouse. In all likelihood there was a benign reason for it. Perhaps it was the only messy room in the entire house; they wanted to keep it hidden.

  He didn’t think so, however.

  At half past twelve, he thrust his arms back into his coat.
His pockets stuffed with lock picks and candles and flint, he quietly closed his door behind him.

  “Three sovereigns, three sovereigns, three sovereigns, three whole sovereigns,” Delilah muttered all the way down the stairs to the kitchen, and all the way through the heating of the water and the dispensing of the tea. Most guests were considerate enough not to ring for tea late in the evening, even though their rules generously allowed for one nightly libation.

  But not Mr. Brinker. Which didn’t surprise her in the least.

  Before she drifted off to sleep tonight perhaps she ought to count the kinds of things they could buy with those three sovereigns. Enough staff so that neither she nor Angelique would need to rise in the middle of the night to see to a guest—so she would never need to do it again, for instance. Or perhaps a pair of footmen. Though the cost of feeding a footman was almost equivalent to the cost of feeding a horse.

  She settled the tea on the tray and balanced it carefully up the stairs. She’d reached the foyer when a voice called softly from the larger drawing room.

  “I’m in here, Lady Derring. Would you please bring the tea in?”

  She froze. Hell’s teeth.

  She was trapped there, in her night rail and slippers, braided hair spilling out of her cap.

  “Oh . . . Mr. Brinker. I thought I told you I’d leave the tea outside your door.”

  “I would rather take my tea in this comfortable drawing room. Would you please bring it in and leave it before it gets cold?”

  It sounded much less like an invitation than an order.

  Her heart instantly stuttered. Damn damn damn. Then set up a pounding that sickened her.

  Her arms were now trembling, and not just from the weight of the tea. Which would crash to the floor in seconds if she didn’t set it down.

  Quickly, she stepped into the drawing room, lowered the tray to the nearest table, and pivoted to bolt.

  She choked on a gasp.

  Mr. Brinker was standing right behind her. Between her and the door of the room.

  He said nothing. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark. His breathing, however, was heavy.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Brinker, because you’re only staying the evening you weren’t aware of our rules. Our guests are usually in their rooms at this hour.” She’d raised her voice in the futile hope that someone might hear.

  “Rules,” he snorted, softly. Genuinely amused. “Come, now, Lady Derring. I gave you three sovereigns. Surely you didn’t think it was just for lodging and tea?”

  “I did indeed think that you were simply generous.”

  He snorted.

  And she understood why he’d done what he’d done: down here, in the parlor, if he wished to assault her, it was possible that no one could hear her scream.

  That was when terror set in in earnest.

  “Come with me over here to the settee, please,” he said offhandedly.

  “I think not.”

  “If you’d like to put up a bit of a struggle I won’t complain, as sometimes it can be a bit exciting, am I right?”

  “Not in the least,” Delilah said brightly.

  She took two steps sideways to the next little table, where a pewter candlestick stood next to a book.

  She reached behind her. She succeeded only in tipping the candlestick over just out of reach.

  The lowering fire threw shuddering shadows of her and Mr. Brinker against the wall. She was uncomfortably aware that in all likelihood he could see more or less clearly through her night rail.

  She tried bravado and reason. “Well, Mr. Brinker, I’ve explained how things are. I should be happy to return a sovereign to you if you object to the amount you paid, because you will be enjoying no other services apart from the ones listed in our rules. Now, if you would be so kind as to step aside to let me pass?”

  She’d just given him an opening to claim this was all in jest. An opportunity to change his mind.

  “But I also won’t pay more for it, if you’d like to put up a struggle,” Mr. Brinker added, as if continuing a conversation. As if she hadn’t said a thing. “I do expect to get my money’s worth, however. Just come with me, lie back here on the settee, and we’ll get it done swiftly.”

  And he reached for his trouser buttons. She feinted quickly to the left. She managed to get around him.

  She was wrenched back. He’d seized her forearm. His hand was a heavy clamp of a thing.

  Her scream was soundless, a raw rasp, shredded and frayed by terror. Useless.

  He yanked her up hard next to his body and walked the two of them toward the settee.

  “Please unhand me.” How fiercely she hated that it was nearly a whimper. A desperate plea.

  “This will be over before you know it. So quickly, in fact, we can do it twice.”

  Horribly, he laid one hand over her breast, and just as his muscles tensed to push her backward, the sound of a pistol cocking echoed behind them.

  More primal, more frightening, in some ways than an actual gunshot.

  Because it contained within it anticipation of death for the victim.

  Brinker froze.

  Delilah’s eyes closed, and her heart lurched, and she thought perhaps her very consciousness winked on and then off, like the guttering flame of a candle.

  “The pistol now pointed at the base of your skull is for show. Still, I shouldn’t move if I were you.”

  Oh, dear God, it was Tristan. Delilah imagined the guardians of the Gates of Hell probably spoke just that laconically.

  Mr. Brinker’s complexion was now as white as her nightdress. She could feel the dampness of his terror sweat where his palm gripped her wrist.

  Mr. Brinker was mouthing what appeared to be prayers, of all things.

  Then again, they could also be curses upon Captain Hardy’s soul.

  “I can certainly put an end to you in a dozen other ways involving hands, feet, and strategy without firing so much as a shot,” Tristan said thoughtfully. “I’d sooner do that than subject the staff to cleaning your brains from the spotless furniture. But rest assured, if you so much as ruffle Lady Derring’s hair with an untoward breath . . .” And now Delilah heard the cold, black rage in the words, how they were emerging through ground teeth. “. . . I will do one or the other. And after that, no one will ever hear from you again, and they’ll never know what happened. So take your hands from her. Now.”

  Brinker’s hands went up immediately.

  Delilah stifled a whimper of relief.

  “Now take one step back away from her. One small step, lest your cranium meet the barrel of my pistol.”

  Brinker stepped back.

  Delilah half stumbled, half ran at a crouch across the room.

  Belatedly she snatched up the candlestick. Just so she could.

  “Captain Hardy, his name is Brinker,” she hissed. As if cursing him for all time.

  “Thank you, Lady Derring.” Tristan didn’t look at her. “Now raise your hands, Brinker. But do it very, very slowly, as I’ve been known to be a bit jumpy when I haven’t shot a man in a day or two.”

  All these terrifying theatrics from a man who was a miser with words.

  But Brinker, proving there was no end to the idiocy of men, twisted swiftly and swiped for Tristan’s pistol.

  After that he was a blur.

  Because Tristan had seized him by the shoulders, spun him around, and hurled his head down—BAM—on the edge of the table as though he were a sack of flour.

  Brinker crumpled to his knees then tipped over backward and lay flat like a ninepin on the floor.

  And didn’t move at all.

  “Oh God oh God oh God, oh God, oh God.” Delilah’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

  Was he dead?

  They both peered down at him.

  She half hoped he was. They could throw him in the Thames.

  She’d never had such a bloodthirsty thought in her life.

  A second later, blood oozed from his nose.

&
nbsp; Her first thought—God help her—was that it would be remarkably difficult to get blood out of the carpet.

  Brinker moaned, and his hand twitched.

  “Oh, you’re that Captain Hardy,” he murmured.

  Delilah stared at Tristan. What on earth did that mean?

  But Tristan was a blur again. He caught hold of the big rectangular Brinker by his arm and yanked all thousand stone of him to his feet. The man slumped like a marionette from Tristan’s grip before he somewhat found his footing.

  “Wait here for me, Delilah,” he commanded her.

  They disappeared from view.

  She heard the door open and close.

  She wouldn’t think of countermanding his order to wait. She sank down onto the settee. She wrapped her arms around her torso as if they were chains that could protect her, but she couldn’t seem to stop the sudden, violent shaking.

  The blindingly swift, preternaturally confident, skillful violence: she could hardly believe this man was the same one who read every night, an island of calm.

  What did Brinker mean . . . that Captain Hardy?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tristan stepped outside with his sagging, moaning, bleeding cargo and whistled softly.

  A moment later, Morgan and Halligan, who happened to be watching The Grand Palace on the Thames at the moment, emerged from the shadows. He gave them hurried instructions to get Brinker as far away from the building as quickly as possible without killing him.

  His heart in his throat, he returned moments later and sat down next to Delilah on the settee.

  She didn’t lift her face from her hands. She was visibly trembling.

  He laid his locked pistol carefully on the table. He shook out of his coat.

  Then very gently settled it over her shoulders.

  She didn’t look up then, either. But she took a long breath and sighed.

  The trembling eased.

  And something eased in him, too, to the point of being exulting.

  “Delilah . . .” he said softly. Neither of them noticed he’d used the name he called when he was alone in bed, watching the ceiling, but never aloud to her. “Are you unharmed?”