“We’ll have a program printed. We’ll call it...” Delilah swept a hand out dramatically “...the Night of the Nightingale.”
“Sublime! But the cost of printing tickets and programs and ads in the newspaper...”
“Well. We’ll do the usual.”
The usual was to beg, borrow, trade, barter, charm, and occasionally gracefully coerce to get the things they needed for The Grand Palace on the Thames. Partially out of thrift, as their fortunes did tend to fluctuate, and partially out of the pure joy of the sport. They could make quite a bit of what they needed by hand. Actually purchasingsomething besides food was usually for when all else failed.
“But a mob wanted to kill her tonight, she says. Will we make a target of her if she’s onstage?”
“Well, they’ll have to buy expensive tickets to kill her,” Angelique said.
“Angelique!” Delilah pretended to be scandalized.
“In all seriousness, my sense is that many aristocrats like to get a good look at those they’re judging so they can feel superior,” Angelique added.
Delilah had once been married to an earl, which made her a countess, and she knew this was true. “Will theypayto experience that particular delicious sensation?”
“They should be so lucky! She’s extraordinarily talented. But we shall sell some tickets at a lower price, too, and perhaps give a few away, becauseeveryonedeserves to hear her, not just the rich.”
“Oh, yes. That is, if she agrees to do it.”
“If she agrees.”
“And besides, no one will be able to lay a finger on her, especially with Captain Hardy and his former regiment in attendance.”
“Oh, are they coming, too?” Angelique asked.
Delilah laughed softly.
“It’s a gamble,” Angelique said.
“Literally every moment of our lives, from the moment I hired Dot to this place, to Tristan, to Lucien, has been a gamble. And yet here we are.”
They looked across the foyer, where poor Miss Wylde’s head was drooping into her chest.
“Let’s get her tucked into a room for the evening and tell her our idea in the morning before we get carried away,” Delilah said.
“Oh, Delilah, you may be forgetting about something. Or rather... someone.”
Delilah went still. “Oh. The duke.”
“The duke.”
They fell silent.
“Well, perhaps she won’t even notice he’s here.”
They stifled laughs at that.
And with fingers crossed, they went to tell Miss Wylde the good news.
Chapter Two
“It’s possible you’ll hardly notice I’m here,” was, in fact, what General James Duncan Blackmore, the Duke of Valkirk, had said to Delilah and Angelique a fortnight ago, at the conclusion of his interview.
Later, this had struck them as funny. After all, even when the moon isn’t visible in the sky, everyone knows it’s still up there. Valkirk’s influence was immense, and shone on every part of England.
Five years had passed since the war that had made him a general, a legend, and subsequently a duke. A huge handsome statue of him was erected in Hyde Park and was now perpetually topped with a modest crown of bird shite; in the British Museum hung a painting depicting him wearing a scarlet dress uniform and a triumphant sneer. Some years earlier he’d written a slim book calledHonorthat had become a sacred text for earnest young men hoping to live noble lives of bravery and distinction. No doubt he would be interred in Westminster Abbey when the day arrived, provided they could cram another dignitary into the place.
