The tone of her voice said a good deal, but by way of expounding Dot merely rolled her eyes and fanned her bodice.
Which prepared Delilah and Angelique for the golden-haired, long-legged, strapping young vision standing before the fireplace in the reception room. The beaver hat he clutched in his gloved hand poured rain out on the carpet.
“Good evening, sir. I am Lady Derring and this is Mrs. Breedlove. Have you come looking for accommodation?”
“Accommodation?” He had snapping dark eyes and ruddy cheeks, and he seemed fair bursting with nervous, suppressed excitement. “Certainly, if that’s what you call it. Do you suppose you can, er... accommodate me?” He flicked his eyes between Delilah and Angelique and they lit with delight and surprise.
They hesitated.
“Perhaps,” Angelique allowed, cautiously.
“Oh, wait! I’ve got it now. I am here to request a room in the...” He bent toward them and whispered conspiratorially, “Rogues’... Palace.”
Then he stood back and waited as if he’d uttered the password that would swing wide a magic second door and allow him admittance.
They gazed back at him. Puzzled.
“Sir, this establishment is called The Grand Palace on the Thames. Perhaps you saw the enormous sign indicating as much hanging from the building?” Delilah said this gently.
He looked puzzled but undaunted. “Well, it’s very dismal weather, you see, but I gave the hack driver the address and he brought me right to your door. Is this not Number 11 Lovell Street?”
“It is,” Delilah allowed, darting a glance at Angelique.
He seemed increasingly puzzled. But he still radiated suppressed delight, even an air of mischief. He was young enough, and perhaps innocent enough, that he’d never seen a need to hold his features still. “Oh, I think I see. Is this a test?”
“Of... sorts?” Angelique tried.
He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Hmm... oh, wait... wait.”
He reached into his coat and fished out a sheet of foolscap, folded into squares. He carefully unfolded it and consulted whatever was written upon it.
“I’ve come to sample the”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“the Vicar’s... Hobby.”
He waited.
His breath seemed held.
He was destined to hold it for a good long while, until Delilah said, “I’m afraid, sir, that we aren’t quite certain what you mean by that.”
He became brisk again. “Well, blast and damn, don’t you offer that anymore? Well, that’s a shame. Very well, then. Let’s see...”
He consulted the paper for a tick.
Delilah and Angelique exchanged another baffled, increasingly concerned, glance.
“If not the Vicar’s Hobby, I think I might enjoy the... Scoundrel’s... Wheelbarrow. A bit pricier, but still. You see. Sounds delightful.”
He said it on a hush. His cheeks pinkened, as if in a bit of embarrassment. Then he peered up at them, hopeful as a child on its birthday.
Angelique and Delilah were motionless as realization began to seep in.
“Sir, if we may have a look at your...”
“Certainly.” He surrendered the foolscap to Delilah’s extended hand.
Angelique peered over her shoulder as they reviewed what appeared to be a detailed menu.
“Oh!” Angelique said in amused recognition just as Delilah said, “Oh!” in horror.