to find all of these things in Delilah’s conversational repertoire, and moreover, that she found them rather invigorating.
“I’m certain I can pass your interview. I think I’d like to stay at least a fortnight.”
“Have you ten pounds upon your person? You’ll need to pay in advance of your stay, you see.”
“Ten pounds!”
“Mr. Farraday,” Angelique interjected, her voice all velvety sympathy. “It’s a filthy night, and there’s no guarantee of getting a hack or, if you manage to get to Mayfair, room at the inn. Or at any other inn. And it will cost you considerably more. I assure you, ten pounds is a bargain for what we have to offer.”
“Your morning and evening meals are included, and we have a fine cook. Our staff will launder, press and mend your clothing during your stay. We will bring up to two libations to your room on a given day before nine in the evening, and our cook has a collection of simples and tisanes should you feel your health is in need of bolstering. We’ve mandatory nightly gatherings in our drawing room and we’re certain you’ll find it comfortable and amusing. Our aim is to make it feel like home.”
“But at the moment home is what I’m trying to leave!” he said wildly.
“A different kind of home. With more liberty. With delightful new friends.”
“But no freedom to curse or stagger about drunkenly or entertain dubious lady friends in your room,” Delilah added.
His lower lip began to extend a trifle glumly.
“There is an ale room and coffeehouse adjacent. And you may take cigars and brandy in a separate room after dinner with our male guests.”
His face reflected some cautious cheer.
“And we’ve planned to have musi—”
Angelique shook her head so vigorously a bit of a breeze was created.
“And we’ve a list of rules,” Delilah amended smoothly.
There would be time to broach the subject of musicales later.
“Rules?” It was a cry of melodramatic anguish.
“All the finest, most sophisticated establishments have them,” Delilah improvised. “Why don’t you review them, Mr. Farraday? We’ll have a fire built in your room and your pillows fluffed. Would you like us to prepare chocolate or perhaps a coffee, and send someone to help you off with your boots so you can warm your feet at the fire?”
These words fire and fluffed and chocolate and boots and feet were chosen just for Mr. Farraday, who, they were both convinced, was indeed not ready to be leg shackled and would make a woman miserable, but could be lulled into complacency with the comforts of home.
His gaze swung between Delilah and Angelique and he was partially melted, partially worn down, in the face of their feminine determination and pretty solicitousness.
“Chocolate would be lovely,” he admitted.
“Read the rules first, Mr. Farraday. And if you would be so kind as to show us your ten pounds?” she said gently.
Chapter Twelve
“Sorry, guv. Sold two, and at ten pounds each. I’ve none left.” Mr. Wilkie, the apothecary, peered up at them through wire spectacles. His blue eyes were both shrewd and sympathetic.
Massey feigned crushing disappointment as Tristan sighed and tucked the cigar back into his pocket as if it were a gold doubloon. He gave it a pat, which seemed to release the scent of smoke from his coat. It was pungent from the evening he and Massey had spent jostled in filthy, crowded local pubs striking up casual conversations and slipping into them questions about The Grand Palace on the Thames.
“Oh, you don’t want to go there, guv,” he’d been told more than once. “Not the kind of place a body wants to be.” Which was funny, given that Tristan and Massey had just been compelled to break up a knife fight and counsel the two involved into shaking hands.
No one could tell them why they shouldn’t go there, instead of to a pub that had bloodstains on the floor, for example. It was a mystery. Especially since the entire time he was there he couldn’t help imagining the fluffy pillows, the blue counterpane, the warm drawing room filled with people who weren’t trying to get drunk or murder each other.
How was relieved to return—before curfew, of course—even if it felt as though he’d accomplished nearly nothing.
Last night he’d dreamed of Lady Derring, sitting across from him, her big brown eyes enigmatic, smoking one of those foul cigars, and was appalled to have awakened still in his smoky clothes when he’d meant to try to peer into the keyhole of suite three. The damn bed