“Sounds precisely like the type of boardinghouse a fine lady would run, sir.”
“It does, at that.”
“What is your room like?”
“The counterpane is quilted and blue. The bed could fit two people the size of me. There is an adequate wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a writing table.”
“Are the pillows soft?” Massey said wistfully.
Tristan had indeed punched the pillows. They’d billowed like clouds. One of the advantages of being a soldier was that one never took for granted creature comforts.
He’d in fact stood in that room arrested in a moment of unguarded, absolute wonder. That little flower in a vase on the writing desk, the braided rug next to the bed, the clean, smooth counterpane of a vivid, lovely blue—these were the sort of touches women thought to do to a house—and it was a bit of a trap. One could get to like and need softness and comfort and clean things. One struggled to fight one’s way out of them as though they’d indeed fallen into a deep pillow.
But because Massey knew him and would half expect it, he rolled his eyes. “By definition, pillows are soft, Massey. And before you ask, the chamber pot has blue periwinkles on it.”
Massey’s eyes crinkled. “Me brother has a chamber pot that makes it look as though you’re pissing in the king’s mou—”
“We serve at the pleasure of the crown.”
It was a sharp, coldly worded warning.
The king was wildly unpopular, but he was the representative of the country Tristan would fight and die for, and of all English citizens, and as such, Tristan was loyal to the bone.
He had his own opinions about the king and Massey likely knew them. The king was more complicated, and less happy, than anyone understood. He hadn’t been born to rule. Not everyone had the luxury of a destiny that fit them like a suit of clothes. But he would die for that king.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Tristan allowed a little moment of silence for the admonishment to sink in.
And another moment to scoop into his mouth a few peas.
“Keep in mind that many a man has been murdered in a comfortable room.”
“Have they, sir?”
Tristan sighed. “Oh, probably.”
Massey grinned at this.
“I won’t be that man, Massey. I will talk to the guests and have a look around once I’m inside the building. I should like you, Morgan, Halligan, Roberts, and Besson to make a note of who exits and enters the building at all hours, so take it in shifts and assign extra men as you see fit. I’m to meet the three other guests tonight because apparently there’s a mandatory gathering in the drawing room four nights per week.”
Massey’s eyes had gone misty. “A gathering in a drawing room sounds rather nice. I can’t wait until Emily and I have our own drawing room.”
Tristan rolled his eyes.
Tristan was unaccustomed to aimlessness or leisure for the sake of leisure. His life had been composed of taking action, planning action, or waiting for action. Attacking, defending, fleeing. Shouting orders or taking them. Aiming a gun, wielding a mop. That sort of thing.
Nothing in his experience to date had involved sitting—just sitting!—quietly at a little table in a firelit room while two maiden aunts stared at him in apparent horror from a dark corner.
“He’s not quite as fearsome as he looks,” he heard Lady Derring whisper to them.
Although in truth it was more of a stage whisper.
He quirked the corner of his mouth dryly and lowered his head to his book. He’d brought to the boardinghouse a satchel of belongings, including a change of clothes, tooth powder, shaving soap and brushes, and a book. He’d been attempting to readRobinson Crusoefor some time now. He’d gotten to page five over the past three months or so. Somethingalwaysinterrupted.
“How do you do,” he’d said gravely, earlier, when he’d been introduced to the Gardner sisters.
The one called Miss Margaret had uttered a sort of squeak and ducked her head. Which was massive, he noted. He’d seen the whites of her eyes before she did that.