Women who go through life wearing masks learn to recognize the ones other women wear to get through their days. It was in how her voice was vivacious but pitched a bit too high, the tightness of her jaw and around her eyes, how her fingers gripped the edge of her pelisse.
Despite her own predicament, Delilah’s heart squeezed in sympathy.
“Mrs. Breed—” Tavistock began. Sounding a little desperate.
She ignored him. “I know dear Derring, rest his soul, would not have cocked up his toes without making arrangements for my pension. He vowed that he would on several memorable occasions. The matter is now of some urgency. Perhaps you can be a dear and facilitate this for me?”
Tavistock’s eyes darted toward Delilah.
Then he looked down at his desk and heaved a defeated sigh.
The ensuing brief silence rang like the moment after a gunshot.
Realization seeped in, the way blood seeped out of a wound.
Delilah gave a soft laugh.
It marked the first bitter sound she’d ever made.
Well, then. And so it seemed the awfulness of the past few days contained infinite strata and variety.
And to think she’d once or twice indulged in the luxury of feelingbored.
Mrs. Breedlove—if that was indeed her name—gave a start, a hand over her heart, and pivoted toward Delilah’s chair. “I beg your pardon... I didn’t see... I’m terribly sorry to intrude.”
Delilah slowly, slowly pushed the veil up off her face. And stood.
All was so silent, and she felt so raw, the very air seemed to hurt as it pressed against her skin.
She wanted to see that woman clearly.
She wanted that woman to see her clearly, too.
Mr. Tavistock’s face had gone gray. He’d frozen like a statue. He was probably three seconds away from wringing his hands.
And all of this confirmed the suspicion, which had gathered, like a bath of icy acid, in her gut.
“If I were you, I would never take up gambling,Tavviedarling,” Delilah said. Apparently she had great, great stores of suppressed irony to call upon. She didn’t take her eyes away from the woman’s face. “You haven’t a game face. Perhaps you ought to introduce us.”
Mr. Tavistock sighed again. And then resolutely, like a man charged with issuing a verdict in court, cleared his throat.
“Angelique,” he said evenly, calmly to the woman. The woman glanced toward him, then back at Delilah. She’d sensed something was amiss, and her expression hovered somewhere between concern and wicked curiosity. She seemed perfectly willing to commit to either one. “I will speak to you after I conclude my business with the Countess of Derring.”
He laid those last three words down slowly, evenly, like bricks.
Tavvie didn’t have a game face.
But Angelique, it seemed, did.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. But nevertheless Delilah thought she could see the moment her heart stopped, for just one second. She’d gone motionless, frozen like one of Derring’s statues, half turned toward Tavistock, half turned toward Delilah.
She met Delilah’s stare.
Some emotion, very like pity but also like shame, scudded across Mrs. Breedlove’s features.
Her chin went up ever so slightly.
“My apologies for the interruption, Lady Derring, and my condolences on your loss,” she said quietly. “I shall speak with you another day, Mr. Tavistock.”
