Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,2

pulled out a drawer and slapped something that jingled on the desk between them. A great collection of keys on a ring.

“I’d nearly forgotten. Derring owned one building outright. Think he won it in a card game or some such. The one at 11 Lovell Street by the docks. It is now yours.”

She looked down at the keys.

“The one on Lovell Street by the docks,” she repeated slowly.

Derring had never mentioned it. She choked back a nearly hysterical laugh. But only scoundrels and rogues lingered by the docks. Countesses did not go by the docks.

“A right wreck of a building, I believe,” Tavistock continued blithely. He cast an eye on the wall clock. Busy men like him could only apportion a certain amount of time to explaining the destruction of her life.

Delilah swept the keys toward her. Clutched them in her hand. “What kind of building is it?”

“Don’t know, to be honest. All I know is you’ve a week to vacate the London townhouse, as Derring is in arrears.”

The voices on the other side of the door rose suddenly to argument volumes.

The doorknob rattled.

The door was wrenched open a few inches.

It seemed to be yanked shut again.

Then was wrenched open a few more inches. Delilah could see a woman and the young clerk who manned a small desk outside were doing battle over the doorknob.

It was wrenched open another few inches.

“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Mackintosh,” the woman cajoled, “he’ll see me, no need to fuss so. By the by, have you gone and had a new coat made? You look dashing. I think you’re finally growing into your looks.”

Paralyzed by the confusing compliment, the clerk turned pink and loosened his grip on the doorknob.

The woman’s perfume—sultry, celebratory—preceded her, but the rest of her arrived in a swirl of the most dashing black silk widow’s weeds Delilah had ever seen.

Mr. Tavistock shot to his feet so swiftly his chair staggered drunkenly.

“Angelique—er—Mrs. Breedlove—”

His head ricocheted between Delilah and the woman and back again like a pendulum on a clock.

“Tavvie, darling,” the woman interjected crisply. “I’ll be brief. I’ve creditors knocking at my actual door. Not the metaphorical sort of knocking.” She rapped her knuckles sharply on his desk. “This sort. You’ve not responded to the messages I’ve sent over, so I’ll do you the credit of assuming you’ve been busy, rather than neglectful.”

She’d tipped her head ever-so-slightly coquettishly, and the feather in her hat—no veil for this widow—bobbed. Delilah caught a glimpse of pert nose and large wide-set light eyes. It was hard to know how old she was; her brisk confidence made Delilah feel, for an instant, childlike.

Also, the woman was frightened.

Women who go through life wearing masks learn to recognize the ones other women wear to get through their days. It was in how her voice was vivacious but pitched a bit too high, the tightness of her jaw and around her eyes, how her fingers gripped the edge of her pelisse.

Despite her own predicament, Delilah’s heart squeezed in sympathy.

“Mrs. Breed—” Tavistock began. Sounding a little desperate.

She ignored him. “I know dear Derring, rest his soul, would not have cocked up his toes without making arrangements for my pension. He vowed that he would on several memorable occasions. The matter is now of some urgency. Perhaps you can be a dear and facilitate this for me?”

Tavistock’s eyes darted toward Delilah.

Then he looked down at his desk and heaved a defeated sigh.

The ensuing brief silence rang like the moment after a gunshot.

Realization seeped in, the way blood seeped out of a wound.

Delilah gave a soft laugh.

It marked the first bitter sound she’d ever made.

Well, then. And so it seemed the awfulness of the past few days contained infinite strata and variety.

And to think she’d once or twice indulged in the luxury of feeling bored.

Mrs. Breedlove—if that was indeed her name—gave a start, a hand over her heart, and pivoted toward her chair. “I beg your pardon . . . I didn’t see . . . I’m terribly sorry to intrude.”

Delilah slowly, slowly pushed the veil up off her face. And stood.

All was so silent, and she felt so raw, the very air seemed to hurt as it pressed against her skin.

She wanted to see that woman clearly.

She wanted that woman to see her clearly, too.

Mr. Tavistock’s face had gone gray. He’d frozen like a statue. He was probably three seconds away from wringing his hands.

And all of this confirmed the suspicion, which had gathered, like a bath of icy acid, in