Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,21

kept a mistress; he’d owned one building outright, and Tavistock had given the Countess of Derring keys to it. Weeks ago.

Just when Tristan had begun to believe she’d vanished into thin air.

In the intervening weeks, he’d learned the St. James townhouse they’d lately occupied had been vacated and emptied of belongings. None of Derring’s acquaintances, nor his heir—they had traveled to the countryside to meet the supercilious new earl, who didn’t even pretend to be grieving—had an inkling about where she’d gotten to. Or they were unwilling to tell him. As for her character, words like sweet, and devoted, and pretty thing were employed.

Which rather contrasted with Tavistock’s description of her, which was “More sting than fuzz, if she were a bee. If you take my meaning.”

Doubtless, like Lord Kinbrook, Tavistock preferred his women frightened.

The Derring servants had apparently scattered to the four winds. They could not be found for the mildest of queries.

While it was possible that she’d been kidnapped or had hurled herself into the Thames out of an excess of grief and devotion, it was tempting to conclude that Lady Derring did not want to be found. Possibly for cigar-related reasons.

And a building by the docks was the ideal place from which to distribute contraband.

No informants had come forward in the maddening interval of Tavistock’s absence; clearly they were all terrified of seeing their own homes and families go up in flames, and not even the promise of reward and protection could sway them.

No smugglers had dared try to get anything out of Sussex; Tristan’s men would have stomped them.

Tristan stood back and peered up.

Small, irritable-looking gargoyles crouched above the dormer windows at the roofline. A row of corniced windows faced the street.

The sign swinging on shining chains across the facade read The Grand Palace on the Thames.

He wondered if the object was to startle a laugh from anyone looking up at it.

He peered at it closely. He could just about make out the letters RO and possibly a G etched faintly behind the newly painted letters. They had made use of what was already there. Something about Rogues?

He advanced to the door, which had recently been painted red and was flush with the street.

A sign hung from it, too. Welcome! it said. Complete with exclamation point.

He studied this bit of exuberance skeptically.

“They dinna mean it, guv,” said a voice from down around his feet.

He glanced down. A man was sitting on the ground, torso up against the wall. “They willna let ye in, if you’ve no the blunt or if ye dinna look like bloody prinny.”

“Is that so?” Tristan said sympathetically. “And how does bloody prinny look?”

“Fat rich bloke.”

“Ah.”

“Who is this ‘they’ you reference, if you wouldn’t mind telling me, sir?”

“Women. Women are cruel, guv. Cruel.”

“Aye, don’t I know it. Do you see many people going in or coming out of The Grand Palace on the Thames?”

“Nay, sir.”

This meant very little, given the man’s condition.

“Not since the last fat rich bloke, that is, nigh on some months ago. Gold tip on his walking stick. Gold watch. I’ve a view from down here, I see. I can see shiny things when I look up. Like stars in the sky, so they are.”

“I can imagine.” Tristan was alert now.

“Brought ’is friends, now and again so ’e did, in a cart. They was half-naked and couldna walk on their own, I s’pose, and he had to drag them in.”

This was colorful, indeed. Then again, rumor had it this place had been a brothel some decades earlier.

“Half-naked, you say? Did you ever speak with this man?”

“Nay. His lordship poked me with his walking stick and asked me to do the impossible.”

“And what would that be?”

“Stand up.”

Tristan sighed. Well, he’d asked. “Have you seen the Earl of Derring or the Countess of Derring enter this building?”

The man gave a shocked guffaw. “Do I look like I consort with the likes of them, guv?”

Tristan laid his ear against the door. It smelled of new paint and was so thick it would probably muffle cannon fire.

“One never knows. I’ve learned to never leap to conclusions, sir.” Tristan took the brass knocker between his fingers. Above it was a tiny shuttered window that could be opened so that the people inside could inspect the people outside.

Something made him stealthily try the doorknob instead.

To his surprise, it turned easily in his hand. Ah, instincts.

The door hinges didn’t creak and the door glided nicely open. He found himself approving. Combatting rust near the ocean was a