The actual man proved almost alarmingly vital in person.
Yet there was a sort of impenetrable certainty to him, and a grandeur that had nothing to do with pomp. Delilah and Angelique thought this certainty seemed actually to be a sort of completeness, as though, having done what no other human could do, and seen things no other human had seen, he’d nothing left to accomplish, and nothing could possibly impress him.
Roughly the same, of course, might almost be said of a cliff.
He took up a good deal of room on the settee and, it seemed, most of the available oxygen in the room. It was as though his history crowded in with him like an invisible entourage.
“I’m writing another book, you see,” he told them. “My autobiography. And I need a place to stay while I finish it, as my London townhouse is undergoing renovations.”
Ah. This, apparently, was what there was left for a man like Valkirk to do: record the story of his life so that young men all over England could pore over it to learn the secret of greatness.
They could sense in him a tendency to briskness straining against his faultless manners; he took care to speak gently. No doubt he assumed, rightly, that Delilah and Angelique were awed into speechlessness upon meeting him. Everybody was.
When he’d admired and approved their list of rules (not even a duke was exempt from theirrules), he’d endeared himself to them forever. Because who knew more about rules and the right thing to do than the Duke of Valkirk?
He was a man. They hadn’t yet met one who couldn’t be domesticated with a warm fire, some drinking chocolate, Helga’s scones, and kindness, which was a bit how wolves had become dogs. They were confident they could make him comfortable.
But they’d needed to break the news to Mr. Delacorte, whose sentimental heart had taken a buffeting when Mr. Hugh Cassidy had improbably married the daughter of an earl staying at The Grand Palace on the Thames and ferried her off to his home in the wilds of New York. While he was happy for Mr. Cassidy, Mr. Delacorte missed having a friend who was game to go to a donkey race or to a festival featuring men attempting to grasp fleeing greased pigs, or any of the other entertainments available to thrifty men who eschewed gaming hells.
He didn’t miss having an earl and countess about the place. The strain of reining in his natural exuberance sawed at him.
“We all miss Mr. Cassidy,” Delilah began.
“He is a prince among men,” Delacorte said, forgetting that he’d have enjoyed Cassidy a good deal less if he’d been an actual prince.
“Well, we think you’ll be pleased to know that we’re getting a new gentleman guest!”
Mr. Delacorte smiled expectantly, his blue eyes shining as they shifted between Angelique and Delilah.
They realized they might have overplayed their bright, encouraging expressions when he narrowed his eyes. “How might a bloke address this new guest in conversation?”
Their silence was a beat too long.
“Your Grace,” Angelique finally admitted.
“He’s aduke?” Delacorte croaked incredulously.
“He was a general, first, mind.”
“How is thatbetter? Hold on. You can’t mean Valkirk? ValorousValkirk? Holy sh...”
When he’d first arrived at The Grand Palace on the Thames, he would have lost a pence then and there to the epithet jar in the sitting room. One of the reasons he was happy at The Grand Palace on the Thames was that he felt the ladies would “knock the rough corners from him.” Hewanteda bit of civilizing. He liked to think he was getting more civilized by the day.
“We won’t be calling him ‘Valorous Valkirk’ in the sitting room, of course,” Angelique said.
“He wasmadea duke because he was brave in the war,” Delilah tried. “He wasn’t born one, like Lucien’s father. Perhaps think of him as a bit like Captain Hardy! His beginnings were likewise rather modest. Only... he’s now a bit grander than Captain Hardy. And perhaps... ah, quieter.”
Mr. Delacorte often congratulated himself on bringing the taciturn Captain Hardy out of his shell (a notion that would have greatly surprised Captain Hardy), but he’d found it no mean feat. They were now business partners and friends, but Hardy was never going to be as voluble as Delacorte preferred. Notably: Hardy hadn’t seen fit to tell him that he’d talked a duke into staying here.
Because Captain Hardy had indeed been the one who’d enticed the Duke of Valkirk to take a suite of rooms at The Grand Palace on the Thames. He’d presented this coup to Delilah and Angelique with much the same pride and fanfare as Gordon, their striped cat, presented them with dead mice. After all, the suites ought not to sit empty. And it was the duke who had loaned them his opera box; he owned one, perhaps because it seemed like something a duke ought to own, and while his son made good use of it, the duke never attended.
“So... a bit like Captain Hardy,” Delacorte guessed. “With a dash of Bolt thrown in, perhaps?”
“Ah—a bit like Captain Hardy. Not atalllike Bolt.” While it was generally acknowledged that Lucien was quite reformed, predictably good company, responsible, successful, and besotted with his new wife, he’d begun life as the bastard son of a duke and had sown every oat conceivable when he was a young man. His youthful exploits had been gleefully documented by the broadsheets and would likely be recalled for decades.
Whereas Valkirk’s entire allegedly blameless life ensured he was spoken of only in hushed, reverent tones, and the details of his life had been reported as national news, safely on the front page of the newspaper. Never on the gossip pages.
“Why does he need to stay here?”
