Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,41
were neatly mended—were the ones that made it possible for him to bring criminals to justice in the name of the English empire.
It was the first time he’d considered that strength was only allowed to exist by virtue of something like gentleness.
Vividly now, he suddenly recalled Lady Derring’s face as he’d left the room with Delacorte: a sense of mischief—which he now understood more thoroughly—and a sort of hope. He suspected she was trying to create something in particular here at The Grand Palace on the Thames.
But why?
And at what cost, if she were abetting a smuggler?
If she was a smuggler? It was very difficult to imagine a woman who had those soft eyes, and whose emotions moved across her face so easily, engaging in something so nefarious and sordid.
She had an epithet jar, for God’s sake.
But desperate people do desperate things.
He recalled, with a pang, that flare of hunger in her eyes when she’d seen those twelve pounds.
“Hasn’t been easy for me to find a wife or a sweetheart,” Delacorte said. “I’m an old-fashioned sort. I know I’m a bit much to take. Got loud from having only meself to talk to when I’m on the road, I suppose. Drown out the silence. I expect you got a bit quiet from the noise of sailors, eh?”
It wasn’t an insight he expected from a loud, gassy salesman of dubious medicines. No one accused him of being quiet, which he doubtless was; no one troubled to wonder why he’d gotten that way, not even himself, not really.
It was a little irritating to be inspected thusly.
But he liked it, too, perversely. It was a bit like looking out of a heretofore undiscovered window in a room. A different angle on a familiar view.
“I suspect I’ve gotten more economical in speech as the years have gone by. You learn what’s worth commenting on.”
“I might have gotten a bit more loquacious from years of being alone, but if I’d a wife to sit by the fire with, perhaps we’d be cozy and quiet together.”
“Bit hard to picture you quiet, Delacorte.” He said it lightly.
“Ha ha ha!” Delacorte was delighted to be teased.
Tristan, in spite of himself, smiled.
And made a note to have Lieutenant Massey speak to the apothecary to check out Delacorte’s story.
When he emerged from the smoking den for air, he’d found that the ladies had all exited the drawing room for the evening. The fire had burned low, the lamps were doused. In this soft light, the furniture didn’t look worn or tawdry; it was easy to imagine that the sag and fray of the settee had been put there by generations of shifting bums of a reading, sewing, laughing, cuddling family.
And it reflected the current occupants of The Grand Palace on the Thames: nothing quite matched. And yet, because of that, it did match.
A paradox of sorts.
An errant, unwelcome thought flitted through his mind: if he ever had a home of his own . . . he wouldn’t mind if it looked like this.
He would never say this out loud to sentimental Massey.
But why had Derring owned this building?
And if his widow was wallowing in contraband cigar money, shouldn’t there be a little gilt or ormolu about?
Maybe it was all upstairs, where the proprietresses kept their rooms.
He could hear the maids at work down below in the kitchen still, laughing and calling to each other.
Unhappy employees, especially scullery maids, don’t laugh while they work.
But it meant he couldn’t “accidentally” meander down there and wander about freely exploring. Not just yet.
And as he climbed the stairs to his room, he thought he could hear feminine laughter above, like distant birdsong. Something about it tugged at him nostalgically, though it wasn’t a part of any memories he’d had of his life.
As he scaled the stairs he tested each one for squeaks and groans, and made a note of it. Because he’d be coming back down this way in a few hours, after everyone was asleep.
In his room, he got his boots off, hung up his coat in the little wardrobe, stuffed a tiny wad of cotton batting in his keyhole, stretched out on his blue counterpane, and listened to the house.
There were light, swift footsteps overhead; the floor creaking and sighing as women moved across it, rocked in chairs, perhaps.
Something landed on the floor with a small thump. A book perhaps.