“That seems the best route to take when a pirate is trying to kill you.”
Like a child with a new toy, Delacorte always looked delightedly about the room with a “did youhear that?” expression every time the duke said something dry.
“Have you killed any pirates?” Delacorte asked.
“Eleven only yesterday,” the duke replied, to Delacorte’s beaming approval.
“I wouldloveto play charades,” Dot exclaimed. “Is that where we all pretend to be other things?”
“Only while we’re not working, Dot,” Angelique hastened to remind her, imagining Dot pretending to be a bunny, for instance, and hopping with a tea tray.
“And perhaps another evening!” said Delilah hurriedly, noticing a certain grim set to the duke’s expression. “A... month from now. We’ve so much preparation to do for the Night of the Nightingale. Perhaps we’ll celebrate with charades or a pantomime when it’s over!”
“Perhaps we ought to have a charade of all the vices,” Mariana suggested.
“I’m certain you’ll be able to more than creditably perform any vice, Miss Wylde,” the duke said charitably.
He returned to his newspaper and therefore missed her cold stare.
“I’m certain Icould,” she muttered after a moment, which was about as clever a rejoinder as she could muster.
Frankly, she thought it might be fun.
“I call gluttony!” Mr. Delacorte said after a moment.
“Wedohave the most delightfully spirited discourse in this room,” Mrs. Pariseau said with ahappy sigh. “All credit to Mrs. Durand and Mrs. Hardy, who seem to know precisely who ought to stay here.”
“It’s a conundrum,” Mr. Delacorte mused two days later, aiming a stream of smoke upward in the smoking room one night, when Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt were present and the duke was out at an engagement. “Miss Wylde in the sitting room feels like... when you open up a window on a spring day, and in comes a breeze and birds tra-la-la’ing their heads off. And the duke... I suppose he’s like the first frost, ain’t he? And the first frost ain’t a bad thing. It’s just a verydifferentthing. So I don’t knowwhatkind of weather we have in the sitting room at night.”
It was always warm in the room, though. Even though Miss Wylde unfailingly gave a little shiver, drew her shawl more tightly around her and said something to the effect of, “Goodness, a little chill just ran through me. It was like winter in my very soul,” when the duke passed her table to settle in.
And each night his jaw clamped just a little more tightly.
On the fourth evening after the duke’s arrival, Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand thought music would be a welcome change of pace from philosophical discussions, idiosyncratic chess, spillikins, and subtle but palpable tension. On the theory that music soothes the savage breast, they thought they’d give that a go.
“Why don’t we have singing? Oh, Miss Wylde . . . we hesitate to call upon you, as we know you’ve sung for audiences at Drury Lane and the King’s Theater . . . but we did wonder if you’d favor us with a song,” Mrs. Hardy said.
“Oh, my goodness, Miss Wylde, we would all be so grateful!” Mrs. Pariseau breathed.
“But please do not feel obliged,” Mrs. Durand added hastily.
They were so very kind. They were offering her free room and board! She couldn’t and wouldn’t disoblige them, and she’d love to take center of attention over the man behind the newspaper.
She’d availed herself of the ballroom for about fifteen minutes again today, running through scales and exercises, enjoying the surprisingly fine acoustics of the place and the luxurious velvet curtains. It would be pure recreation to sing a light ditty or two.
“I’d be delighted to! I wouldn’t want to sing an aria—I’m very loud, you see, when I sing in full voice. It’s more pleasant to be at a bit of a distance from me.”
“You’ll get no argument here,” the duke murmured, from behind his newspaper.
She ignored him and sat down at the pianoforte. “But...” Inspiration struck. “One can turn anything into a song. For instance, I could sing a song about...” She glanced about the room. “Oh, I’ve a jolly idea! Would you play a C and G and E for me, Mrs. Durand? Make it a bit jaunty? Like this, perhaps.”
She demonstrated at the pianoforte, tapping out the keys. Angelique skillfully obliged her.
And as Angelique played a few bars, everyone save one person leaned forward in breathless anticipation. Her impulse wasalwaysto win over audiences no matter how large or small, and she knew just how to do it.
She clasped her hands, tapped her foot, then launched into her song:
In Mr. Delacorte’s case is quite an array
