of judgments and drawing the kinds of conclusions that people all over England did.
“Oh, Captain Hardy, you are a card.” Delilah managed to make the entire sentence sound sweet, but the word card emerged through slightly gritted teeth. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Andrew Farraday, of Sussex, in London for a visit.”
Mr. Farraday sprang to his feet, radiating the sort of self-satisfaction and bonhomie that made Tristan feel about a thousand years old. He had a Grecian nose and a chin with corners like a box, and doubtless, whatever part of the country he was from, young ladies suffered scorching blushes whenever he was near.
He wondered if he’d been lured in right off the street by Mrs. Breedlove and Lady Derring by their pretty smiles.
Tristan accepted the large outstretched paw and shook it.
“Captain, is it? Don’t your sort, military blokes, usually stay at the Stevens Hotel? I’ve heard as such from a friend at White’s.”
It was a friendly, completely reasonable question.
Delilah swung her head toward Captain Hardy, her entire face a question. He wondered if it was hopeful: yes, do, Captain Hardy, go and join your own kind.
Mrs. Breedlove looked immensely curious, too.
“I like to be near the ship I’m intending to buy as I make preparations for travel, and I find the accommodations here to be tolerable.”
“Oh, tolerable,” Delilah repeated. “You’ll come to know, Mr. Farraday, that this is Captain Hardy’s way of gushing.”
“And the evenings in the drawing room are not to be missed,” Captain Hardy added. And after a beat added. “Literally.”
Having thoroughly confused young Mr. Farraday for no good reason, he settled in with his book.
A glass of brandy had already been poured for him. He had to admit, there was little to complain about so far about the accommodations at The Grand Palace on the Thames.
“I found my room quite comfortable and the view of the Thames stirring, Captain Hardy,” Farraday said, clearly gamely attempting to follow the rules regarding socializing. “The pillow was fluffy and the fire most warm.”
“I’ve little use for fires that aren’t warm, myself,” Tristan said.
“Ha,” Mr. Farraday replied uncertainly.
“We’re so pleased you were comfortable, Mr. Farraday,” Angelique soothed.
Tristan opened his book.
“A captain, eh! That sounds very interesting. Have you seen battle?” Mr. Farraday tried.
Tristan looked up. He waited a beat, then gave a faint, patient smile. “Yes.”
He returned to his book.
“Have you ever been wounded?” Farraday tried, a moment later.
Tristan looked up. “Yes.”
He returned to his book.
Another moment of silence.
“Shot?”
Captain Hardy slowly, slowly lifted his head.
“Yes.” He leveled upon young Farraday a lengthy, quelling look. “You?”
Delilah raised her knuckles to her lips to stifle shocked, completely inappropriate laughter.
“No,” Farraday said faintly after a moment. Crestfallen.
It was a little like watching an affectionate, panting spaniel given a rude nudge by a booted foot.
“Perhaps something about hunting,” she suggested, just shy of desperately. “Or . . . dogs. Or horses? Perhaps Captain Hardy would prefer not to relive the glories of battle in our sitting room.”
There was a little silence.
“Glories,” Captain Hardy muttered, sounding mordantly amused.
He ducked his head to his book, looking like a turtle stubbornly ducking its head into its shell.
The man was insufferable.
And yet whenever she looked at him something happened to her breathing. As if she’d been snatched up and transported to the top of a mountain.
“Who wants to play chess?” Mr. Delacorte boomed, and everyone jumped a bit. He swept into the room like a refreshing storm system.
“Mr. Farraday does,” Angelique said instantly.
“Who is . . . where is . . . ah! I’m Mr. Stanton Delacorte.” He planted himself before Mr. Farraday. “And you must be Mr. Farraday. Deuced good to meet you. Captain Hardy won’t play me because he’s afraid to lose, something he’s not accustomed to doing.”
He winked broadly.
“The very notion makes me quake in my boots, Delacorte,” Captain Hardy intoned, without looking up.
Delacorte laughed delightedly.
“He’s never quaked a day,” Delacorte told the room at large. “Damned hero!”
Captain Hardy glanced up balefully and returned his gaze to the page.
Mr. Farraday, proving he was indeed like a spaniel, immediately glowed at the sound of a friendly voice and proffered his hand to be vigorously pumped by Delacorte.
“I sell exotic treatments to apothecaries,” Delacorte said. Who, resigned, moved over and put a pence in the jar for his “damned.”
“Oh!” Mr. Farraday said, in complete confusion, but cheerfully enough, because what else could one say. “I’m a fair hand at chess.”
“Well then, shall we?”
Angelique had poured a sherry for the two of them and a cordial for