Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,58

a boxing match tomorrow with Delacorte,” he said, brightening.

“Delacorte is a good influence,” he’d said quite dryly.

Delacorte and Faraday both beamed at him, pleased with the compliment.

He asked the room at large a question that had been troubling him. He could not quite say why yet.

“What do you think of the Gardner sisters?”

Both Delacorte and Farraday were silent. They were decent sorts at heart, clearly, because the first things that came to mind were ungentlemanly and obviously could not be said.

“I’ve an herbal concoction in my case of medicines” Delacorte began thoughtfully. “From the deepest heart of China. One makes an infusion of it to cure a variety of ailments. And if you take too much of it, inadvertently, you’ll have fascinating hallucinations. I once took too much of it. The Gardner sisters could have stepped out of one of those hallucinations.”

It was so eloquent both he and Farraday gave him their tribute of awed silence.

“Quite like it here,” Farraday had said finally, with great cheerful satisfaction, downing the rest of his brandy. “Good company.”

Oddly, Tristan found that he did not precisely disagree.

“Learn anything else while you were milling about the pub?” he asked Massey, who was silently watching him brood.

“Nay. Either they know nothing at all about the place, or they know to stay away, but no one can say why.”

“It occurs to me, Massey, that someone might have a reason for attempting to ward people away from The Grand Palace on the Thames.”

“I had the same thought, sir.”

Tristan took another bite of sausage. “I got a tour of the rooms from one of the staff—an incurious innocent named Dot. I looked thoroughly in wardrobes and under beds and behind curtains and saw nothing untoward or even curiosity piquing. None of them smelled like cigars. All the rooms are a bit different and looked quite pleasant and comfortable.”

They did, in fact. Evidence of that womanly care that Delacorte had so cherished was in every one of them. One featured a colorful quilt; another was hung with a sampler that said Bless Our Home. There were braided rugs and little vases and those cloud-like pillows.

“Although . . . Lady Derring said she sometimes thought she smelled Derring’s cigar in the kitchen, of all places. But I looked through the kitchen and saw nothing.”

“Perhaps a fancy. Or a ghost,” Massey said, brightening at the macabre notion.

Tristan snorted. “I haven’t been able to pick the lock of the ground floor suite and I haven’t been able to talk my way into it yet. It’s surprisingly easy to be interrupted in the midst of things at The Grand Palace . . .”

He was remembering the last time he’d been interrupted at The Grand Palace.

“Sir?” Massey looked concerned.

Tristan cleared his throat. “However . . . I think it’s possible another of the guests has taken an interest in it. One who hasn’t a room on that floor.”

“Which one?”

“Miss Margaret Gardner. Woman the size of a bear, who eats dinner like one.”

Massey tapped his fork against his chin. “That one. I’ve meant to tell you that Morgan followed her out of the boardinghouse yesterday. She went into the livery stables.”

“The livery stables?”

“Yes, sir. Pity the horse what has to carry that—”

“Yes, Massey, that’s enough,” he interrupted sharply. He suddenly recalled Delilah’s face, stricken and soft, when she talked about the Gardner sisters.

“Sorry, sir. He didn’t see her leave the stable on a horse. She walked out again after a few minutes.”

“She was alone?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Interesting that she would go to such a place alone. Miss Gardner seems terrified of men. She won’t talk to me. She sits with her sister in the darkest corner of the drawing room at nights, away from the fire, and when she glances up it’s as though she’s certain I will bite.”

“Then she must be a good judge of character, sir.”

“Very amusing, Massey. The other sister scarcely talks at all, but she forms complete sentences.”

They sat back, puzzling over this. Tristan drummed his fingers against the side of his ale and looked out the window at the boarding stables. He missed a good ride. He missed action. One didn’t wind up passionately kissing widows when one was galloping down Sussex roads in pursuit of smugglers. Perhaps it was all the enforced proximity.

“What is the drawing room like, sir?”

Massey sounded equal parts inquisitor and child who wishes to hear a bedtime story.

“It is filled with comfortable, slightly mismatched furniture. It is warm and well lit from well-placed lamps and candles. Somewhat ominously,