“I’m nay a snitch, Delacorte.” He surmised Brownie and Goldie were Delilah and Angelique.
“Couldn’t sleep. Went down to the kitchen. Thought a wee piece of cheese might help.” He uncurled his fingers and Lorcan peered: the candle he held in the other illuminated a little wedge in Delacorte’s palm.
“Often does,” Lorcan said amiably.
“I usually keep a slice or two in my room, but with the roads flooded, I can’t get to my favorite cheese shop. Why don’t you come in and bunk with me? You can make it up to the missus in the morning.”
Lorcan mulled. He was not interested in the martyrdom of huddling on a settee in a cold room or endlessly drifting through the halls like a ghost seeking vengeance in an attempt to stay warm.
And he was damned if he was going to give Daphne the satisfaction of begging at the door. His temper and his pride—and guilt—were still simmering.
“Kind of you, Delacorte,” he said. “I believe I will.”
He’d piled into beds with men before out of necessity when he’d lived in shabby rooms shared by multiple families. Delacorte was at least clean and there was no question that, between the two of them crammed in the bed, they would be nice and warm.
“Mind the third step. It creaks,” Delacorte whispered.
Delacorte’s room smelled of the herbs and powders from his case of remedies, bay rum, linseed oil, tallow, sweat, feet, tobacco, and something a little musty that Lorcan suspected was the ghost of cheeses past. All in all, a friendly, male smell.
“Make yourself at home,” Delacorte said cheerfully. “Would you like a bite?” He gestured with his wedge of cheese.
“No, thank you,” Lorcan said.
Delacorte ate his cheese, yanked off his boots and snatched his nightshirt off a hook. Lorcan perused the room while Delacorte got dressed for bed.
Scattered about—on the desk and a little bookshelf and in corners—were a stuffed owl on a perch, a cigar cutter, a cricket bat, a telescope, an astrolabe, a compass, a scale, a mortar and pestle, and jars of various sizes and shapes apparently filled with unguents. He’d pinned a map of the world on the wall; beside it he’d hung a poem featuring thewords “jingle bang,” which he’d underlined. Next to them he’d written “ha ha!” A little cluster of miniatures were arranged on the desk. A swift glance revealed all of them bore a passing resemblance to Delacorte. He noted several pairs of big blue eyes and imposing eyebrows.
Lorcan pulled off his boots and hung his coat on a hook. He dropped his trousers, folded them up, and placed them on the chair. He’d sleep in his shirt.
Thusly the two of them piled into bed and pulled up the blankets.
It was a snug fit, of a certainty, with the two of them wedged in. Not too objectionable, however. Neither of them complained.
“Thanks for the hospitality, Delacorte.”
“Think nothing of it.” Delacorte had taken a book to bed with him. “I like to read a bit before I sleep. Will I disturb you?”
“Not at all. I’ll just be staring at the ceiling.” Lorcan folded his arms behind his head and did just that.
But maybe he ought to read. He could use a distraction.
From out of nowhere he wondered if Daphne would weep tonight. Would she take advantage of his absence and sob out her grief and frustration or whatever ailed her and rail to the heavens? Or would she still ration her tears, quietly? As if she hadn’t the right to do it at all?
His stomach went tight.
He felt like a damned scoundrel to add to the reasons she might be weeping.
Suddenly Delacorte went so abruptly still Lorcan turned to look worriedly at him.
A faraway look had come into Delacorte’s eye.
He slowly lowered his book.
“I think it only fair to warn you, my friend, that you’ll want to batten down the hatches at once,” he said matter-of-factly.
Lorcan turned to him, puzzled. “Beg pardon, Delacorte?”
“Now. It’s a matter of some urgency, St. Leger. Do not lift the blankets. Seal them tightly. Batten them down. I cannot put it any more plainly.”
