for the night.”
His delivery was gracious and his voice was low and pleasant.
And yet something prevented her from inviting him to sit.
“Ah, that is misfortunate, Mr. Brinker.”
“I thought the women who ran boardinghouses were built like houses themselves, and brandished rolling pins and sported chin hairs. You sound like . . . an actual lady.”
She gave a short, polite laugh, the kind that reminded her uncomfortably of how she used to laugh for Derring to salve his ego and keep the peace. “I am a lady, Mr. Brinker. A widow.”
Though she thought, at that moment, it might be more useful to be the built-like-a-house, chin-hair sort of proprietress.
“Ah,” he said. After a moment, “I see.”
Why did everything he say sound so puzzled?
“I should tell you, Mr. Brinker,” she said pleasantly enough, “that our guests typically stay a little longer than one night, for the security and comfort of our other guests, so that we can all come to know and trust one another.”
This was his opportunity to apologize and leave.
He took this in with a little frown. “Here at the . . . docks?”
“It’s a convenient location for people from all walks of life. Why, even you yourself are here.” An acerbic quality was creeping into her tone.
“Of course. Who knows? It might be the next St. James Square.”
She disliked his tone, for reasons she couldn’t quite put a finger on. “Perhaps.”
Perhaps he was merely weary and wet and inconvenienced and uneasy being away from his usual haunts. Perhaps if she made him feel at home, if he was treated well, he might tell other people with money about The Grand Palace on the Thames.
“What sort of business brings you to Lovell Street, Mr. Brinker?”
“I’m a merchant—I deal in silks, typically. My father owns a textile mill in Kent and I am involved in the investment end of it.”
“How interesting.” It sounded respectable enough.
“In some ways, yes, I suppose it is.” His little smile was odd. Nearly insinuating.
And then he very swiftly, almost imperceptibly, swept the length of her with a look.
And perhaps he wondered if she was the sort to rob him in the night, and was trying to ascertain whether she was hiding a little pistol or a sharp little knife.
But it didn’t feel like that sort of look, because it made her want to shudder as if an insect had crawled across her arm. Her heart picked up a beat or two.
“As I said, Mr. Brinker, it isn’t our usual policy to let rooms for one night only. I’m certain you can imagine why.” She said it more firmly.
“I’m willing to pay handsomely for it.” Suddenly, in his hand, were several sovereigns.
She went still. Her breath snagged.
And for a moment she merely stared at them.
Damn men and their money.
Damn life and the choices it presented daily.
He didn’t, on the surface of things, seem dangerous. One never knew. Appearances never told the whole story. She ought to know. And the things they could do with two sovereigns . . .
She crossed her fingers beneath her apron. Said a silent prayer.
“Follow me, Mr. Brinker. Ring the bell if you’d like tea brought up to you. We’ll leave it outside of your door.”
He’d been in for the evening for a half hour when Dot appeared, clinked and clanked her way about his room, fluffing a pillow, building the fire, leaving him with a cup of tea he’d requested earlier in the day—whimsically ringing for tea in the middle of the night struck him as the worst sort of laziness and selfishness, even though the rules allowed it—and a quiet little good-night.
These were all things he could in all likelihood do more competently for himself.
But it did, in fact, make him feel cared for.
He let the tea sit for a bit and poured himself a brandy instead, and sipped.
He wondered if he’d overplayed his hand with that bit in the window.
He’d spent the past two days out with Massey and the rest of his men, questioning merchants. A pattern was beginning to emerge, of sorts.
And yet whoever had allegedly let the mysterious suite had yet to appear in the boardinghouse. In all likelihood there was a benign reason for it. Perhaps it was the only messy room in the entire house; they wanted to keep it hidden.
He didn’t think so, however.
At half past twelve, he thrust his arms back into his coat. His pockets stuffed with lock picks and candles and flint, he quietly closed his door behind him.
“Three sovereigns, three