Tristan’s pride and his legacy were at stake. Not to mention the future in which he hoped to be... ordinary? Was that what he wanted? What would life be like without fighting, strategy, and maneuvering? Who would he be?
Alive,that’swhat he’d be.
And a life like Massey’s, a house in the country, a doting wife, a brat or two who looked like him—not even using the reliable Thames for scrying could Tristan conjure a home or life like that. He’d never known one; likely he wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing, anyway, a man of action like him.
Then again, he’d probably never had a prayer of being ordinary, anyway.
And that, at least, was bad news for the Blue Rock gang.
It took all three of them to shoulder open the studded oak door of Number 11 Lovell Street once she got the key to turn, and its hinges screeched like a murder victim.
Which probably wouldn’t attract much attention in this area.
It thunked shut behind them in a permanent-sounding way. Delilah felt for an instant as if they’d pulled up a drawbridge against marauders. Or were perhaps trapped inside a castle keep.
They all stood in silence for a moment, borrowed (from Frances the barmaid) lanterns held aloft. The hush was so thorough one could nearly grab handfuls of it. The building was solidly built, which was a fine thing.
Distantly they heard a thunk, as though a dragon was kept in the basement.
Doubtless it was one of the mysterious noises from outside.
“The floor is unnervingly rather soft,” Delilah finally said, carefully.
“Probably mouse pelts,” Angelique said.
Dot gave a guttural shriek and performed a sort of revolted high kick, which sent the beam from her lantern swinging in long, woozy arcs.
Delilah seized her elbow, her heart in her throat. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dot, it’s just dust. You need to be brave if...”
Dot’s swaying lamp beam had skipped across something dazzling.
Delilah looked up and her breath snagged.
The dust Dot had kicked skyward was sifting down, down, down in lazy, amber, lamplit spirals through the tiers of an improbably fine chandelier twinkling in the middle of the high foyer ceiling like a little constellation. The lamplight made the faceted crystals wink in rainbow colors—red, blue, green.
Dot might as well have flung fairy dust.
Their silence, for a moment, was wholly mesmerized.
It felt, somehow, like a sign, this hidden, shambly, fine beauty.And it’smine,Delilah thought, with wondering exultation.That beautiful thing is mine. The filthy floor we stand upon, that staircase in front of us, all the rooms we have yet to see—mine.
Dot sneezed like a wolf trying to blow down a pig’s house of straw.
Angelique tugged her gently out from beneath the chandelier. “One sneeze too mighty and that thing might crash down.”
The spell was broken. “You’re quite right,” Delilah concurred. “And no more shrieking unless we see a murderer, Dot. No, do not faint,” she said, as Dot’s eyes seemed about to roll back in her head. “You’re sturdier than that and we both know it and seeing a murderer is unlikely.” She wished she was more confident of this. “Have you your hatpin?”
“Sorry, Lady Derring. Yes, Lady Derring.”
“She probably frightened the vermin good and proper with the shrieking,” Angelique said. “Well done, Dot.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Breedlove.” Dot beamed.
“But the vermin are very determined here by the East India docks,” Angelique added, wickedly.
“Brave,” Delilah growled, cutting Dot off mid-whimper. “Angelique, you’re not helping.”
“Ifeel braver when I can make light of something.”
