Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,36

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,” Massey 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 mostly 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