Lucien’s eyebrows went up. The words, “I hope you’re enjoying the Whig you allowed to stay, Angelique and Delilah,” practically pulsed in the air above his head.
“Are we really smarter?” Dot whispered finally to Angelique, who was closest.
“Yes,” Angelique replied.
Her husband whipped his head toward her.
Angelique bit her lip against a laugh. “Sometimes,” she amended on a whisper, with a wink at Lucien.
Captain Hardy’s lips were pressed together. He was eyeing Kirke patiently and steadily, with a certain dry amusement and a bit of a warning, as if he was braced for all manner of anarchy.
Kirke continued easily. “To clarify, I do believe that’s one of the fundamental themes running through a story about a king who murders all of his wives until he finds one who doesn’t bore him. This version, by the way, is a translation of the French version called1001 Nights.”
Dot gasped and her hand flew to cover her heart. “Goodheavens, Mrs. Pariseau!” she remonstrated. “Is that really what it’s about?”
This was mostly dramatics, on her part; there wasn’t a soul in the room who wasn’t intrigued by that description.
Dot in fact adored being terrified in the safety of the sitting room.
“Who among us has never been tempted to murder a boring person?” Kirke pressed brightly.
Keating stifled a laugh.
“Or decapitate a spouse?” Mrs. Pariseau added supportively.
Everyone turned to her, startled.
She shrugged with one shoulder.
“Her name is Scheherazade,” Kirke added helpfully. “The wife who doesn’t bore him.”
“Her name alone would take a thousand and one nights to spell,” Delacorte marveled. “Nowonderhe was interested.”
“How does he murder them?” Dot ventured after a moment, on a whisper. She couldn’t resist.
“Chops their heads right off, I’m afraid,” Lord Kirke said matter-of-factly. “Just as Mrs. Pariseau implied.”
English history was unfortunately filled with all manner of bloody mayhem and, while appalled, Dot was less shocked than she could have been.
“Do they become ghosts?” was her next, perhaps inevitable, question.
“You would think,” he said. “Though I don’t know if the sultan has an attic. Or why a ghost would consider an attic their only option for eternity.”
“Perhaps they don’t want to stay in the attic, but they can’t help it. Maybe they’ve no choice. They’re compelled to drift right up there, like steam from tea,” Keating suggested.
He turned to stare at her in surprise. For some reason he was almosttranscendentlyamused by this. For such a soft-looking person Keating’s wit had surprising angles and edges. There was almostnothing he loved more than angles and edges. They were the means by which puzzles were put together.
She smiled back at him, like a coconspirator.
He decided he liked her expressive brows.
“I find I cannot object to your hypothesis, Lord Kirke,” Mrs. Pariseau, never one to shy away from the “spirited” part of spirited discourse, made all the men in the room apart from Kirke shift a little in their seats when she said this. “I wonder if you would explain your assertion about the superior intelligence of women?”
He was fully aware that his proprietresses—and their husbands—were poised for possible philosophical mayhem. Kirke knew how to foment mayhem; he also knew how to soothe it. He thought he might enjoy doing a little of both tonight. That would teach them to make him obediently sit in their diabolically comfortable sitting room.
He was also aware that Keating was now watching him as though he was a mad genius. He felt a ridiculous rare urge to impress for the sake of impressing.
“Well, Scheherazade was an extraordinarily brave and resourceful woman. The story begins when thefirstwoman the sultan married was allegedly unfaithful—I know this is difficult to believe, given how charming the man clearly is.” He paused for chuckles. “So he had her put to death. In fact, he wassoincensed by her infidelity that he married a new woman every day, and on every wedding night he’d bid an executioner wait outside the door of his chamber. Each morning he’d send his new wife out to the chopping block. Literally cut a swath right through the young women in his kingdom. The whole thing was almost as bloodthirsty as the London season.”
