Well, apart from the “error of her ways” bit.
And so her family scattered out on errands and entertainments, and Lillias took her sketchbook and the books she’d had sent from her father’slibrary to Helene Durand Memorial Park and sat on the bench.
And this time she drew.
But first she contemplated.
She’d been altered in a fundamental way. She could now call forth a memory that made her weak and hot and desperate, that made some parts of her throb and other parts of her go erect, and she was certain Mr. Delacorte would make a fortune if he should ever import a pill or a tea that possessed similar powers. She’d liked it too much and had regretted its end. She was irrationally furious with Hugh Cassidy—for knowing more, for making his point, forwinning—and grateful to him, which she wasn’t quite prepared to admit, and likely never would.
Mainly because it was probable she would never see him again.
He’d gone to Sussex (Mr. Delacorte had mentioned this in the sitting room last night) and then to Surrey, and she and her family ought to be back in their own home any day.
He was walking away with a few of her secrets, and she was certain he both understood them and would keep them—after all, their worlds did not and would not intersect from this day forward. But she felt as though she knew some of his, too.
How he felt (hard as a wall, safe as a house, dangerous as a wild animal), how he smelled (sweat, sawdust, smoke, musk, sex), how he tasted (like sin, if sin was a liqueur)—taken together they should have all comprised an adventure. And a lesson. And then be rapidly consigned to history.
But now she felt strangely, ever so slightly diminished. Or depleted. As if something vital had been lost. Or as if something nearly gained had slipped from her grasp. Not dissimilar to when she’d ruined her Heatherfield sketchbook.
She had been telling the truth when she said she’d wanted to be alone. Her thoughts and body were not quite done with Hugh Cassidy and she wanted to sit and reverberate a bit, the way she would after listening to a favorite piece of music.
So she read her book—about Native American tribes, as it so happened. One her father had never opened in his own library. One she might never have chosen to read before.
And she drew.
The rules of The Grand Palace on the Thames allowed guests to entertain other guests in the parlor, a contingency meant to forestall orgies or other untoward nonsense one might attempt in rooms upstairs. Their rigorous but kind interview process had thus far ensured that no rogues or roguesses were admitted... for long, anyway.
It was this rule that compelled the Earl and Countess of Vaughn to entertain the Marquess and Marchioness of Landover that evening in the little sitting room of The Grand Palace on the Thames. For the Earl of Vaughn was a man of his word, and he had not only purchased a grand set of curtains—which Mr. Cassidy had returned with just hours ago, and was even now hastening to hang in the ballroom—it transpired that he hadextolled the delights of The Grand Palace on the Thames to the marquess in White’s and mentioned that they would soon be hosting first-class entertainments in their ballroom.
“Well. What a pleasant establishment.”
Mr. Delacorte, Captain Hardy and Delilah, Lord Bolt and Angelique, and Dot were arranged in chairs about the room. It was a typical evening, apart from the somewhat uneasy volume of aristocrats in the room.
“Year after year our ball is quite the crush, you see, as we’ve so many dear friends and they seem to grow in number year after year,” the Marquess of Landover explained.
None of the people in the room were invited to the ball apart from the earl and countess. None of them minded.
“As do mine,” Mr. Delacorte enthused. “Friends are wonderful. Why, just look about the room—everyone here is a friend now! And thanks to my friend McBride, an apothecary in St. Giles, we found a gentleman who was able to coax a poisonous snake from Lord Vaughn’s townhouse using only a few dead snakes for bait and a brazier. They like warmth, you see. Snakes. It’s on its way to a new home even now.”
Lady Landover’s eyes got wider and wider as this revelation wound toward its conclusion. She stared at Mr. Delacorte as if not one word of what he’d just said had been in English.
“They named the snake after me, as it so happens. Stanton,” Delacorte added.
She carefully lowered her teacup.
“Are you in . . . trade, Mr. Delacorte?” the marchioness tried delicately. She was making a valiant attempt to decipher him.
“We are all in trade,” Lucien said, smoothly. “The Triton Group. Imports and exports. Tea, silk, spices, and other fine things.”
“Oh, yes yes yes yes yes,” the marquess said politely. “Real goers, all of you. I’ve heard talk of you at the clubs.”
“I do like silk. And spices,” Lady Landover said kindly. “And tea.”
“Fortunately for us, nearly all of England shares your tastes.” Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt smiled at her, which meant she received a potent dose of smiling, indeed. All at once.
She dimpled.
Who knew such pleasant men could be found by the docks?
