She made Delacorte so nervous he’d accidentally uttered a curse word out loud for the first time in two weeks, breaking a record of which he was proud and necessitating a trip to the epithet jar.
Her parents and her brother and sister had gamely settled into the routine of The Grand Palace on the Thames and for the most part seemed happy. Though St. John spent his evenings in the sitting room primarily leaning against the mantel, clearly hoping to be admired.
“The rest of the Earl of Vaughn’s family are clearlymorethan satisfied with your cooking. As well they should be,” Delilah said stoutly.
Angelique and Delilah knew how to dispense comfort. Every gifted artist remained at heart insecure about their art, and Helga was no exception.
Delilah drew Angelique aside. “I’ve been to have a look at the ballroom.”
“Ah. And have the workmen returned?” Angelique said this almost mordantly, because Delilah’s expression told another story.
“Oh, yes. Long enough to steal the rest of the lumber, it seems.”
“Something tells me they won’t be returning,” Angelique mused.
Neither one of them wasted a moment on indignation; or rather, they’d long been accustomed to turning adversity and indignation into fuel. It was a problem needing solving.
“Should we have apple tarts or scones for tomorrow?” Helga called over her shoulder.
That’s when inspiration struck.
“Delilah... I think I know how to get our stage built. And it involves guilt, scones, and a certain strapping guest.”
Chapter Two
Hugh Cassidy had arrived two minutes before curfew the previous night, when everyone was already tucked into bed—he knew and respected, nay,cherishedthe rules at The Grand Palace on the Thames—and up well before dawn, shaved, dressed, and seated at the little writing desk thoughtfully provided to every guest, because he was no damned coward and he was determined to get what was bound to be the worst part of his day over with first and fast.
He pulled the foolscap toward him. Dipped the quill.
Paused.
Hell’s teeth. What to say?
He’d never had a formal education, but he’d happily go toe to toe with any of those bloods whose intellects had been incubated at Eton or Oxford. More than they ever could, he appreciated the power and magic inherent in words—to charm, to open doors, to strategize, to seduce. History, economics, politics, natural sciences, newspapers, pamphlets—in exchange for labor, he’d been set free in Mr. Woodley’s vast library and he’d methodically absorbed the precise things he needed to know. For Hugh had a plan. Hugh’s father hadbeen the best man he’d ever known, but his struggles to rise in life had essentially shown Hugh the way. It was all in the tools. Words were the tools.
But as far as he was concerned, the point of the written word was delivery and consumption of information (with the possible exception of the thrill that wasRobinson Crusoe). He recognized the difference between his own courtly manners—instilled by his parents and rooted in respect for the dignity of all men and women—and the filigreed, rapier elegance of Lord Bolt’s, for instance, or of the more typical English aristocrats, the ones marinated in privilege. They used words as playthings. Hugh knew too well the value of everything—and that included ink, paper, and quill—so he was disinclined to waste them on an attempt at eloquence.
But that wasn’t the only reason he kept his missives short.
Dear Mr. Woodley,
I hope this letter finds you well. I have returned from a fortnight’s worth of making the discreet inquiries in Dover as I described to you in my last letter. I made the acquaintance of a Clay family, who, alas, have never visited New York. I have been directed to another family by the name of Clay in Surrey, just outside of London. I will visit and report apace.
I thank you again for the introduction to Sir Bentley Tigmont. He was kind enough to invite me to tea and he is as genial and interesting as you described.We enjoyed our conversation and I like to think I now count him as a friend.
I will not return without your daughter.
I remain as ever,
Hugh Cassidy
He released the breath he hadn’t fully realized he’d been holding. He’d felt nearly every scratch of that sharpened quill right across his heart.
Your daughter.With each letter he sent to Mr. Woodley, he found himself more and more reluctant to write her name.
A few months ago, the comely, demure young Miss Woodley had shocked everyone by slipping away from her New York home and boarding a ship bound for London. Hugh had offered to pursue her across the Atlantic as a favor to her frantic father; he’d gone as soon as he could get passage. Still, she had six weeks’ lead on him and he only had one clue: she had allegedly run off with the visiting Clay family—their daughter Kathryn had become her friend. No one knew from which part of England the Clays hailed.
He’d meant it when he’d written “discreet”; honor was the pivot around which all of his actions and decisions turned. He’d followed leads and written letters; he knew how to ease into inquiries without making them sound like inquisitions. In pubs and churches and shops, people were usually happy to talk to him. “Back in New York, I’ve friends by the name of Woodley, who hoped to visit Dover. They’re friendly with a family called Clay. Perhaps your paths have crossed.” That sort of thing.
