“And what would that be?”
“Stand up.”
Tristan sighed. Well, he’d asked. “Have you seen the Earl of Derring or the Countess of Derring enter this building?”
The man gave a shocked guffaw. “Do I look like I consort with the likes of them, guv?”
Tristan laid his ear against the door. It smelled of new paint and was so thick it would probably muffle cannon fire.
“One never knows. I’ve learned to never leap to conclusions, sir.” Tristan took the brass knocker between his fingers. Above it was a tiny shuttered window that could be opened so that the people inside could inspect the people outside.
Something made him stealthily try the doorknob instead.
To his surprise, it turned easily in his hand. Ah, instincts.
The door hinges didn’t creak and the door glided nicely open. He found himself approving. Combatting rust near the ocean was a Herculean task requiring vigilance, and it had been one of his jobs as he rose steadily through the ranks.
He took one step gingerly inside.
He closed the door very, very gently behind him.
It might be a den of iniquity, but it smelled a bit like a church: of dust aggressively vanquished by lemon and linseed oil rubbed into good old wood. Under it all was the faint—surprisingly faint, given that this was a building near the docks after all—hint of mildew. It did tend to creep into all old buildings. He didn’t mind it; it was a bit like seasoning, and reminded him of the sea.
He dragged his toe experimentally across one of the checkerboard marble tiles beneath his feet; every square had been cleaned to a gloss. In the black ones he could see his reflection, dark and distorted. He imagined, mordantly, he might just appear to his enemies like that.
The banister of the rather handsome staircase before him was carved in mysterious bulbous fruit and leaves, through which peered the occasional cherub or nymph. A window on the first landing aimed a rectangle of light down at his feet. Something overhead flicked little bits of light off the toes of his boots; he tipped his head back to study a surprisingly fine chandelier. One would have to look very closely to notice the two or three gaps where crystals were missing from its tiers, rather like some of the denizens of the docks who had more gaps than teeth. Tristan always looked very closely at everything and everyone.
Nary a cobweb trailed from its branches, and the candles in its sconces appeared to be wax, rather than tallow. Not an insignificant expense, and a building of this size would require a ceaseless supply.
How would a boardinghouse that allegedly had no customers afford such an extravagance? Not to mention the sort of staff that apparently cleaned to his own standards, rigorously honed from years of swabbing decks and the like.
A loud pop alerted him to the fire leaping cheerfully in the room to the right of him. Two rose brocade settees sat opposite each other before it, and a bouquet of flowers was stuffed into an urn on the mantel. He didn’t see any stacked boxes of contraband cigars. Nor did he smell cigar smoke.
He was about to venture deeper in when he heard, of all things, someone merrily singing.
He halted and craned his head to peer up the stairs.
A maid was standing on a ladder on the second landing in front of a window, her body stretched as high as she could reach. One half of the window glittered; pallid London light peeked through. The top half was dusty.
She was singing a song in waltz time.
The windows are dusty la la la la la
The door hinge is rusty! Ta ra ta ra ra!
The hallway is musty la la la la
But my rag is trusty
Let’s give them a polish let’s give them a shine
We’ll make the old place look just divine
It was perversely the most entertained he’d been in some time. It would simply never occur to him to narrate his own duties in song.
Later Delilah could not have said what made her turn so suddenly. It was as though the air in the room had shifted to accommodate something significant. She could feel it as surely as if a finger had touched the back of her neck.
She pivoted on the ladder swiftly and looked down.
