“Wouldn’t it be exciting to see your name in the newspaper, Mrs. Breedlove?”
“Good heavens, Dot. No.” Angelique was exasperated. “You should not aspire to appear in the newspaper or gossip columns. It is not as glamorous as it seems. I should hope none of useverare. It’s not the kind of publicity that typically benefits an establishment, and do keep in mind your behavior here and elsewhere reflects on The Grand Palace on the Thames. So if you all could kindly refrain from frequenting gaming hells, we would appreciate it.”
All the maids giggled.
But the muscles across Angelique’s stomach suddenly tightened. For years they’d all known Lord Bolt as entertainment to be consumed, a pithy paragraph to read over the morning porridge. What must it have been like for him to know that all of London knew he was the rejected bastard of a duke? He seemed to have handled it with panache. But when she imagined her own bad luck, heartbreaks, and shame presented for public consumption and preserved for posterity, she couldn’t breathe. The girl she once was would have been shocked to learn how much she cherished this extraordinary, ordinary life.
“Ladies.”
When Mrs. Breedlove used that tone it made them nervous because it meant business. She was stricter than Mrs. Hardy. But they liked it, too. She expected more of them and she felt they were capable of excellence. It made them feel as though they were part of something important, and Mrs. Breedlove saw them as people. And Mrs. Breedlove was responsible for improving Dot’s reading and spelling.
“Lord Bolt is our guest. As such, we have ascertained that he is proper and fit company for our beloved boarding house, and so, as we do for other guests, we will cherish his privacy and not mention him to another soul outside of our home. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Breedlove.” They nodded eagerly.
“Thank you. We appreciate your discretion.” She smiled at them. “And if I learn that any of you have betrayed his confidence, there will be consequences.” She paused and fixed them with a meaningful raised-eyebrow stare to emphasize her point. “Now back to work.”
“Discretion,” Dot mouthed as they scattered to obey, saving that word up for use in a sentence one day.“Consequences.”
Fortified by a surprisingly accomplished breakfast of perfectly prepared eggs, sausage, and Lapsang Souchong miraculously and touchingly brought in for him, during which Delacorte and Cassidy didn’t speak because their arms were blurs that ended with flashing forks and their faces were lit with absorbed, satisfied wonderment, Lucien set out on a very particular errand.
The Grand Palace on the Thames occupied a spot at 11 Lovell Street, which wasn’t so much a street as a bit of fringe, like a loose thread on a sleeve, poking out onto the main street. The facade glowed white, which seemed rather a miracle given the twin insults of London weather and London coal, and it was tidy all around. Only two other buildings, plus a little pub that seemed to be called The Wolf And, according to its battered sign, shared the street.
And that’s when he saw her.
She seemed more vivid than anything else surrounding them. She was standing very still, a vision in a green walking dress and heavy shawl, the faintest of furrows between her eyes. She was staring at something with such concentration she called to mind the quivering needle on a compass.
“Mrs. Breedlove. Good morning.”
She pivoted.
There passed a moment, a little hiccup or snag in the flow of time, during which neither of them could seem to speak, as looking at each other was frankly all they wanted to do.
She’d tied her green bonnet ribbons in a neat bow beneath one ear, and it suddenly seemed like an arrow pointing to where he ought to put his lips. Right in that silky secret place where her pulse beat.
“Good morning, Lord Bolt. I expect you have a busy day of unnerving people ahead of you.”
Little did she know how closely this hewed to his actual agenda.
“Naturally. Fine weather for it. Saw not one buttwogentlemen pissing against the side of the building across the street this morning and that struck me an augury. The way seeing two ravens is and whatnot.”
She quirked the corner of her mouth and sighed. “Yes, that is a bit of a risky view, though that window does offer a good bit of light and a lovely view of the moon. And by the way, that’s an example of an observation you might not want to share in the drawing room in the evening, at least in precisely those words.”
“Once a governess, always etcetera. Never let a lesson go by unuttered.”
“Precisely.”
“Perhaps I shall utter one epithet after another in rapid succession and flip shillings into the jar the way one casts aside the shells of roasted chestnuts.”
He watched incredulity, irritation, hilarity, and a sort of wonder mingle in her expression like the awkward assortment of humans in the parlor. That little furrow formed between her brow again. She regarded him as if he were a marvel, a confusing natural phenomenon, something she would never believe existed unless she’d seen it with her own eyes.
There were worse ways to be stared at, of a certainty.
“We would welcome the revenue. And the opportunity to perhaps refine our rules,” she said.
He grinned.
She turned slightly away from him then, rather swiftly, to stare at whatever she seemed to have been staring at previously. A moment later she aimed a sidelong look through dark gold lashes and smiled. He felt that smile like a sharp, sweet kick in his solar plexus.