“As any man understandably would,” Hawkes said amiably.
“Gave me pause, I tell you. And so I took ’er to an inn by the East India docks, because I knew ’twas outof the way, like. Used to be a brothel. Called summat to do wi’ rogues? Must be a decade on since ’twas called that.”
He bellowed over his shoulder. “What was that place called where a bloke could get a girl to do the Vicar’s Wheelbarrow wiv ’im for harf a crown once upon a time?” He called over his shoulder to a general drunken approbation and hoots.
Hawkes didn’t ask for a description of the Vicar’s Wheelbarrow, but he could very well imagine what it entailed and who played the part of the wheelbarrow.
“The Palace of Rogues, Davie,” a grizzled fellow by the fire bellowed. This was followed by a low rumbly chorus of prurient reminiscence.
“That’s the one! Ye take the Barking Road. Then just before them livery stables, ye can cut right through ’em—there’s a narrow street between, like—makes a bit of a”—he traced a Z shape in the air—“you’ll come out abut a wee street called Lovat or Lovely or summat like that. That’s where it is. Shiny and white and respectable on the outside now. They likes to call it agrandpalace, methinks.” He shook his head. “Anyhow, I thought an angel belonged at a Grand Palace.”
Triumph and relief burned through the layers of Hawkes’s weariness: if she had, in fact, made it to an inn, she was still safe.
Hawkes wasn’t about to fish out his gold timepiece in this particular pub, but the watch had cried ten o’clock before he set foot in the place.
He pushed the bottle of gin over to Berwick, stealthily produced two shillings for the two men, which they snapped up, and pushed away from the table with a “My thanks, gentlemen.”
But first thing tomorrow morning he’d go in search of an angel at the former Palace of Rogues.
Twelfth Night and Saint Nicholas Day were nothing compared to the breathless anticipation of the night before Mr. Tweedy Day.
Angelique and Delilah greeted each other at the top of the stairs, yawning but filled with the joy of the day. They’d both tiptoed about getting dressed to allow their husbands to sleep a little longer: Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt had come home (by curfew, of course) mildly foxed from having brandy after brandy pressed upon them at White’s, toppled straight into their beds, snuggled up to their wives, and commenced snoring.
The two women could faintly hear Mr. Delacorte, who had gone with them, still snoring, two floors down. (“Try to think of it as the house purring,” Delilah had once suggested to Captain Hardy, who had, upon his original arrival, been installed in the room below Delacorte.)
On the second floor landing they were delighted to encounter Mrs. Pariseau and Mrs. Gallagher, both dressed and reasonably bright-eyed and clearly ready for breakfast.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pariseau, Mrs. Gallagher. We hope you slept well,” Mrs. Durand said.
They were pleased to see that Mrs. Gallagher, pretty in a mauve dress, looked a little more rested each day.
“I did indeed, thank you,” Mrs. Gallagher told her. “I’m hoping the mail I’ve been expecting will arrive today,” she told them.
“Perhaps Mr. Tweedy will bring it up to you when it does,” Mrs. Hardy said with giddy relish.
“Ohhh,perhaps!” Mrs. Pariseau enthused. “All of the little tasks we can hand off to a footman!”
Together they clambered down the stairs.
“Well, look at this!” Angelique exclaimed when they arrived in the foyer.
New footman fever seemed to have infected the maids with fervor. Maggie and Rose were sweeping the black-and-white marble and dusting the buttocks of the cherubs that frolicked on the carved banister, respectively. Dot was in the reception room, installing and fluffing fresh flowers in the vase. All the fires were leaping healthily. The chandelier crystals sprinkled a few rainbows over this idyllic scene.
And Helga had even come up from the kitchen, where the work she loved never ended, to complete the greeting party. Her golden hair was neatly braided and pinned up on her head and her round cheeks scrubbed to rosiness.
“I thought we could take a little morning tea first, then lay out a nice breakfast to get thoroughly acquainted,” she told them. “And I wanted Mr. Bellingham to finally taste my scones as soon as possible.”
Mr. Bellingham had mentioned his enthusiasm for scones in one of his letters. The Farradays had exulted about Helga’s to him.
“Oh, splendid idea, Helga, thank you!” Delilah told her.
They all turned at the sound of Mr. Delacorte’s familiar footfall on the stairs. He paused, yawning broadly. He was still a bit bleary-eyed, but fully dressed. He gave his bottom a surreptitious little scratch.
“Did we wake you, Mr. Delacorte?” Angelique asked apologetically.
“Oh, I think perhaps, but no trouble at all. It’s a big day, ain’t it? I didn’t want to miss it, either.”
They smiled at him.
