“I believe I do have a specific sort of wisdom to impart,” Angelique said coolly. “And no. I didn’t love him, Lady Derring. Nor did he love me. I’ve come to believe that romantic love is a fallacy. I think life is cobbled together by business arrangements and compromises, and it’s this fact—the pure business of it all—that I hoped you wouldn’t find hurtful. It suited him to have a mistress, I believe, because all of his friends had one, even that odious little Tavistock. The way it suited him to buy sculptures and urns and whatnot. I feel as though I was collected, and as my straits were dire when we met, I was grateful. I did spare a thought or two for you, but not many, I confess. Under certain circumstances moral cringing becomes a luxury.”
Delilah absorbed this silently. She didn’t know whether it was a relief to know or not. It certainly rather bleakly echoed her own conclusions about life and “love,” which interestingly wasn’t entirely pleasant to hear. It confirmed her own instincts about Derring. She supposed there was a bit of satisfaction in that.
And yet something about the unadorned directness of this answer was exhilarating. Refreshingly lacking in self-pity, illusions, delusions, or obfuscation, and sprinkled liberally with multisyllabic words. She did enjoy intelligence. Frankly, it was like breathing clean air, which was in short supply in London. When one literally has nothing left to lose, communication probably got more efficient.
But the cool, dry recitation had cost Mrs. Breedlove, somewhat: her chin had hiked, her face was taut and pale.
How had such a woman come to such a pass?
“Certain circumstances?” She tried to sound cool, but sympathy had crept into her voice.
Angelique’s hazel eyes were fixed searchingly on Delilah’s. Something she saw there made her suddenly pivot toward the bar.
“Frances, love, would you bring my friend a sherry? A large one?”
“No, thank you,” Delilah said firmly. “I seldom drink. I’m not even in the habit of taking sherry after dinner.”
“You will tonight,” Angelique said. “I think you need it, and besides, that way we can be certain you’ll ask all of the questions you wish to ask and you shall be honest with me and I shall be honest with you.”
Delilah considered this. “Very well. I’ve nothing to steal, so there’s very little risk in getting so drunk that you’re able to rob me. And if you attempt to sell me to a brothel, my ferocious lady’s maid, Dot, will stab you with a hatpin.”
It was rather dark, as jests went. And itwasa jest.
Mostly.
Dot, hearing her name if not the context, yawned, smiled shyly, and gave a little wave with the hand wielding the hatpin, then tucked her chin into her chest again and continued dozing.
Mrs. Breedlove glanced at Dot then back at Delilah, eyebrows raised.
Her eyes flashed genuine, nearly mischievous amusement.
Delilah was dangerously close to rather liking Mrs. Breedlove.
It seemed unlikely that this little pub would stock something so native to fine drawing rooms as sherry, but Frances rummaged beneath her bar, produced an appropriate little glass, glugged the sherry into it, and brought it over.
“Now we’ll drink to dear, dull, dead Derring,” Angelique said.
Frances thunked it down on the table in front of Delilah. “Oh, Derring!” Fran crowed. “Annie, wasn’t he the one what asked whether you’d be willing to get down on all fours and crow like a—”
“Finish that sentence, and it will be your last,” Angelique said with deadly calm.
Frances froze in shock. Then she raised her hands as if in surrender. “My apologies. No harm meant, Mrs. Breedlove.”
She backed away on her tiptoes, arms raised in the air.
Delilah’s jaw had swung open.
There transpired an exceedingly awkward moment, during which Delilah said aloud only one of the dozens of things she was thinking. As it so happened, it was the one thing guaranteed to appall her mother.
“I wish I could get away with saying that sort of thing. What you just said to Fran.”
Mrs. Breedlove looked a trifle ruffled, however. Perhaps embarrassed. “You are better off not knowing about that sort of thing, Lady Derring. And no. She was mistaken. Derring had no imagination at all.”
Delilah had no real idea what any of this meant, though she suspected it was appallingly sexual. No amount of sherry would persuade her to ask Angelique to expound on that. Perversely, she was both resentful of and grateful for her own naivete, and a trifle irritated by Mrs. Breedlove’s assumption of it.
“I will take your word for it, now, Mrs. Breedlove. I expect you are uncomfortable expounding. But I thinkIshall decide what I’m better off not knowing.”
Mrs. Breedlove tipped her head and studied Delilah as if she were a cunning little jewel box and she’d just noticed she had a hidden compartment.
