She hadn’t lifted her head since, that he’d noticed.
She was a strapping woman. Perhaps a retired laundress.
The other, Miss Jane, had said, “How do you do,” so quietly he could easily have imagined it. She had the sort of voice a bird would use if a bird could speak.
Where on earth had Lady Derring and Mrs. Breedlove found these two?
“Miss Margaret is shy,” Mrs. Breedlove had explained on a whisper a moment later, though this was a secret to no one, least of all Margaret.
Despite the fact that he felt as though he was quite literally in Purgatory—the place beyond which he was not allowed to move—doubtless the sentimental Massey would find it pleasant.
An old brown-and-cream brocade settee nearly the size of a barouche was arrayed at an angle across the room. An assortment of mismatched little tables—he’d chosen one for himself at a gentlemanly distance from the fire, along with a wooden-backed chair—were studded with little lamps. The leaping fire threw a flattering light upon all the ladies present except for the Gardner sisters, because they had chosen the corner farthest from the fire, apparently seeking the quiet and the dark. Lady Derring and Mrs. Breedlove were glowing like lovely candles in their chairs. Lady Derring’s head was bent over an embroidery hoop.
Perhaps the embroidery was destined for a pillow. Perhaps it was an image of a man putting a gun to his head because he was forced to sit quietly in a drawing room.
He supposed it was “cozy.”
Dot, the maid, was mending something. “Ouch,” she said softly.
A second later: “Ouch,” she muttered again.
He’d noted the pianoforte against the wall and amused himself by imagining what it would be like to glue it shut, and to watch them struggle to get it up to no avail.
He had no objections to music. It was just that he had a weakness for music played well, and it so seldom was in drawing rooms such as these.
“I count only two guests, Lady Derring. Where is your third? Did this person pay an additional fee to escape the drawing room? If so, I must shake his hand to congratulate him on his bargaining skills.”
She regarded him coolly a moment. Then her head swiveled.
“Ah, here’s Mr. Delacorte! Why don’t you go and have a smoke and a chat with him in the gentlemen’s room, Captain Hardy?”
It sounded like an order. So he went.
Chapter Ten
The room set aside for gentlemen to smoke and curse in was set off the drawing room. Some pains had been taken to make it pleasant. Three large brown upholstered chairs with winged backs were arranged about a low table upon which a man could heave his booted feet, if he so chose. The carpet featured a black-and-brown scrolled pattern. Presumably the sorts of colors that could disguise smoke and any other unspeakable thing a man might take it into his head to do.
He and Delacorte stood about for a wordless moment, like two dogs tied up outside while their owners have tea in a shop.
“You missed a truly splendid dinner,” Delacorte began. “It was remarkable, in fact. The things the cook can do with asauce. Was all I could do not to lick my plate. EvenIknow enough not to do that! Ha ha ha!”
Tristan smiled tensely.
Mr. Delacorte was hearty. He didn’t speak so much as boom, like a man shouting over a crowd at a race track, cheering on a horse.
“But I’venothingon Miss Margaret Gardner’s enthusiasm. Shoveled it in with both hands as though she thought it might be snatched away any moment! Never saw a woman with an appetite like that.”
Tristan stifled a sigh. Now he had something to look forward to at dinner the next day.
“So you’re a captain, eh? Career naval officer?”
“Aye.”
“Did you know Admiral Nelson?”
“Served under him.”
Nelson, like God, needed no further exposition.
