“You don’t say! I import cures from China. Sell them to apothecaries.”
Bolt went still and regarded him curiously. Now this was interesting, too. “What kind of cures are you talking about, Delacorte?”
“Oh, some of it is bollocks, mind you. Wouldn’t cure a pimple. And some of it is, infact, bollocks. Also, eyes and hooves and horns and snouts and tails and whatnot. Ground up, mixed with this and that. Most of it is made of herbs and you can take them in teas. Some of it works a treat. I try to sample my wares and know what I’m selling and I’ve good customers all over. Hard to get a wife when I travel so much,” he said wistfully. “I expect that’s true of you. Man goes thither and yon, and a woman wants to stay and have a family.”
Bolt waved a hand noncommittally. “Is this a good business, this niche of yours, Delacorte?”
“Oh, I make a fair bit. A fair bit.”
“I import silks and satins, spices, things of that nature. From the same region.”
“Isn’t that interesting? Captain Hardy just bought a ship and he’s up to the same.”
“Indeed. I look forward to meeting him. Some of the Chinese remedies are very effective, Delacorte. I say that with the utmost seriousness.”
“You don’t say.” Mr. Cassidy was intrigued now, too. “Say, if I’ve a sore elbow—”
“Sore elbow, eh, Cassidy?” Delacorte chortled. “Doing a bit too much of this, eh?” He performed an astonishingly rude, explicit gesture with a pump of his fist.
Lucien and Cassidy dropped their jaws.
The silence nearly reverberated. It was so appalling it achieved a sort of transcendence.
It was also one of the funniest things Lucien had witnessed in his life.
In large part because Mr. Cassidy was eyeing Delacorte with the rankest astonishment he’d ever seen on another human’s face.
“No,” Mr. Cassidy finally managed. In a voice positively frayed with incredulity and great, strained patience.
“How much have you dropped in the epithet jar so far, Delacorte?” Lucien asked mildly.
“Three pounds twenty,” Delacorte admitted. “But I feel I am becoming more and more of a fine gentleman every day, thanks to it.”
“Well, that much is clear,” Lucien said easily.
Mr. Cassidy grinned at Bolt.
Delacorte was still brisk. “Well, I’ve a salve I could sell you, Cassidy, for the elbow. Stinks like the inside of a hog pen. Good for aches and the like. But you could take the acupuncture cure, too. They stick needles into you so’s you resemble a hedgehog, and snip snap your trouble is gone.”
“Delacorte, have you gone mad?” Poor Cassidy sounded stern. His credulousness was taking a buffeting.
“I swear on me mum’s grave.”
“I won’t swear on that, but they can do wonders with those needles,” Lucien concurred easily. “Ancient remedy, tested by time. He’s completely right.”
“I know where we can all go get jabbed for our ailments. Take in a boxing match, get jabbed with needles,” Delacorte said. “A pub meal.”
This was what men were bound to get up to when they were segregated from women. Talk inevitably veered to stabbing, hitting, shooting, and masturbation, all followed by a greasy meal.
“Count me in, Delacorte,” Mr. Cassidy said firmly.
Seemed the American was adventurous, but then he’d have to be, living in the colonies.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but I must be off” was what Lucien said before he could be roped into acupuncture and boxing. “I’ve an appointment.”
“Happy Revenging,” Delacorte called after him cheerfully.
The view from the top of St. James Hill hadn’t changed in a decade.