bursting with nervous, suppressed excitement. “Certainly, if that’s what you call it. Do you suppose you can, er . . . accommodate me?” He flicked his eyes between Delilah and Angelique and they lit with delight and surprise.
They hesitated.
“Perhaps,” Angelique allowed, cautiously.
“Oh, wait! I’ve got it now. I am here to request a room in the . . .” He bent toward them and whispered conspiratorially, “Rogues’ . . . Palace.”
Then he stood back and waited as if he’d uttered the password that would swing wide a magic second door and allow him admittance.
They gazed back at him. Puzzled.
“Sir, this establishment is called The Grand Palace on the Thames. Perhaps you saw the enormous sign indicating as much hanging from the building?” Delilah said this gently.
He looked puzzled but undaunted. “Well, it’s very dismal weather, you see, but I gave the hack driver the address and he brought me right to your door. Is this not Number 11 Lovell Street?”
“It is,” Delilah allowed, darting a glance at Angelique.
He seemed increasingly puzzled. But he still radiated suppressed delight, even an air of mischief. He was young enough, and perhaps innocent enough, that he’d never seen a need to hold his features still. “Oh, I think I see. Is this a test?”
“Of . . . sorts?” Angelique tried.
He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Hmm . . . oh, wait . . . wait.”
He reached into his coat and fished out a sheet of foolscap, folded into squares. He carefully unfolded it and consulted whatever was written upon it.
“I’ve come to sample the”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“the Vicar’s . . . Hobby.”
He waited.
His breath seemed held.
He was destined to hold it for a good long while, until Delilah said, “I’m afraid, sir, that we’re aren’t quite certain what you mean by that.”
He became brisk again. “Well, blast and damn, don’t you offer that anymore? Well, that’s a shame. Very well then. Let’s see . . .”
He consulted the paper for a tick.
Delilah and Angelique exchanged another baffled, increasingly concerned, glance.
“If not the Vicar’s Hobby, I think I might enjoy the . . . Scoundrel’s . . . Wheelbarrow. A bit pricier, but still. You see. Sounds delightful.”
He said it on a hush. His cheeks pinkened, as if in a bit of embarrassment. Then he peered up at them, hopeful as a child on its birthday.
Angelique and Delilah were motionless as realization began to seep in.
“Sir, if we may have a look at your . . .”
“Certainly.” He surrendered the foolscap to Delilah’s extended hand.
Angelique peered over her shoulder as they reviewed what appeared to be a detailed menu.
“Oh!” Angelique said in amused recognition just as Delilah said “Oh!” in horror.
Angelique caught hold of Delilah’s arm just in time to prevent her from hurling the thing upon the fire.
The young man understood their horror. At least he had the grace to scorch red.
He’d been had, and was just beginning to realize this.
“Where did you get this, er, menu, Mr. . . .”
“Farraday. Andrew Farraday. My friend Roddie gave it to me. Bloody Roderick! He’s the one who told me to come here.”
“I’m afraid if you’re going to use that language you’ll need to put a pence in the jar, and another for the previous expostulation beginning with the word blast. We shall not charge you this one time, but this is a warning,” Delilah said gently.
He blinked at her, astonished. Mouth dropped open. As if he’d been having a lovely dream about angels, who turned out to have fangs.
“Mr. Farraday, would you like to sit down by the fire? You’ll take a chill. We’ll bring you something hot to drink.”
Like every young man, he was helpless against warm motherliness.
He sank down next to the fire on one settee and seemed prepared to be doted upon and waited upon. Clearly he was accustomed to it.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Farraday, that your friend Roderick has pulled a prank. We are a respectable boarding establishment. We are not what your friend Roderick has suggested to you we are.”
It seemed no one quite had the nerve to say bordello or whorehouse.
“You’re not a . . .” he said to Angelique.
She shook her head.
He turned to Delilah. “And you’re not a . . .”
Delilah shook her head, too.
He looked shattered.
“So neither of you are . . . and this isn’t a . . .”
It was rather sweet that this clearly well-bred young man couldn’t bring himself to use the word whore in front of two women who, only