“Necessary,” he corrected evenly, sounding as insufferable as that supercilious little man who’d appeared one night weeks ago with half of a token and paid them three guineas to hold a room for a mysterious stranger. “Necessary to communicate through tokens. My name is Lucien Durand. Viscount Bolt.”
The tea tray crashed noisily into place.
The perfidious Dot’s shoes were already clicking across the foyer at a run.
Leaving Angelique alone with a madman.
“I agree that humans are capable of nearly anything, given the right set of circumstances,” he said conversationally, as though he hadn’t just claimed to be someone the entiretonknew had been dead for a decade, and who, before that, had taxed the broadsheets’ ability to come up with hysterical adjectives. “Although murder certainly seems a good deal of effort to go through for an opportunity to stay here at the...”
A faint puzzled frown settled between his eyes as he took in the pretty but well-worn settees facing each other before the fire, arrayed atop the thick but faded rug (frays artfully hidden beneath furniture legs); all of those in shades of rose, the hearth facade fashionable decades ago, the table with its nick out of one leg, also skillfully disguised.
Since they’d combined talents a few months prior, Angelique and Delilah had seen any number of people glance around just that way: bemused, but not necessarily censorious. As if wondering at the source of the room’s charm. One could not place a finger on its source any more than one could bottle sunshine or air. Its charm was that it was well-loved and it knew it.
Madman or not, it seemed her pride was at least as powerful as her sense of self-preservation. She would not sit idly while someone criticized their beloved room.
She cleared her throat. “Lord...”
On the off chance she’d heard him wrong the first time.
“Bolt,” he confirmed, pleasantly.
Hell’s teeth. She drew a sustaining breath.
At best he was a charlatan.
A gorgeous, gorgeous charlatan.
“The comfort and security of our guests is paramount at The Grand Palace on the Thames, so Mrs. Hardy and I—we are the proprietresses—typically like to have a conversation with a potential guest to ascertain whether someone is mad or otherwise unsuitable before we invite them to stay.”
He studied her.
“Invite them, do you?” His tone was skeptical. But his voice was suddenly startlingly soft.
Instantly, alarmingly, it was easy to imagine that voice in her ear, from the next pillow, whispering the things he’d like to do to her.
“Yes.” The word emerged absurdly huskily. It sounded rather like she was giving permission to something. “Yes,” she repeated firmly. “Ultimately we give careful consideration to who we invite to stay, as we’d like all of our guests to feel comfortable and safe. And our business is thriving, much to our gratitude. We’re even contemplating a little expansion. And in case you’ve any doubts, the king himself sat just there not long ago.”
His eyes followed her gesturing hand to the pink settee.
He examined it a moment.
He turned back to her.
“Now who’s mad?” he said gently.
“Excuse me, Lady Der—Mrs. Hardy.”
Delilah—the former Lady Derring and new Mrs. Hardy—gave a start when Dot stage-whispered hotly next to her ear. She was panting as though she’d come at a run.
“What is it, Dot?”
“A man has arrived to inquire about a room and Mrs. Breedlove is speaking with him, but...”
She sank her teeth worriedly into her bottom lip and said nothing more.
Delilah’s eyebrows arched aggressively, prompting Dot to continue.
“Well, I think perhaps you ought to join her.”