Delilah exchanged a swift glance with her husband. He was planning to leave for Dover with Sergeant Massey for a short spot of business in an hour or so, and she wanted to soak up his presence.
But Dot was not in the habit of making recommendations. Cheerfully following orders, and occasionally getting them right, was her forte.
She had proven to be rather a savant at describing guests, however.
“Is he behaving in an... ungentlemanly manner, Dot?”
“Well, no. He is one of the most gentlemanly gentlemen I’ve seen, but not in the way you’d expect. His kit is very fine and his boots, well, they’re Hoby, and the way he stands is very... and you know how they are, Lady Derring—I mean Mrs. Hardy. Gentlemen, that is.”
“I do indeed know how they are.”
“He has only said a few words. His voice is very fine and low. He is merely standing there, mostly.”
“So the trouble is...” Delilah coaxed. She could feel the fine strands of her patience groaning like the buttons on Mr. Delacorte’s vest.
“Well, there are two troubles. Mrs. Breedlove’s cheeks have gone pink.”
Well.
This was fascinating.
“Whereare they pink?” Delilah asked swiftly.
“Here and here.” Dot pointed to places high on her cheekbones.
Angelique typically sailed through her days like a swan on a sea of jaded wit and cool aplomb, all born of worldly experience. Very little occurred to change the color of her face, unless it was the heat of the kitchen on baking day.
“I see. What was the second thing, Dot?”
“Oh, you’ll think me silly...”
“I would never dream of thinking such a thing,” Delilah lied.
“I believe I saw the letter ‘B’ on his ring!” she said excitedly. “Oh, Lady Der—that is, Mrs. Hardy—do you suppose he could be...” she lowered her voice to another stage whisper, pressed her knuckles to her lip “...theLord Bolt? It’s just he looks so... so...”
She clasped her hands together and gazed at her mutely, blinking her huge pale blue eyes.
Apparently not even the broadsheets—which Dot read with religious fervor—could provide her with a sufficiently hysterical word.
Delilah silently counted to three to fortify her patience. Ten would have been better but time seemed of the essence.
“That poor misguided young man drowned in the Thames adecadeago. A life wasted. Unless you’re a newspaper that peddles gossip, in which case they profit from him still.”
“But the broadsheets said someone who lookedjust like himwalked into Mantons last week and shot the heart out of every target and walked out again without saying a word. Scared everyone silly, they said!”
“But, Dot—”
“And that someone who lookedjust like himwalked into his favorite glove maker in the Galleria and paid for a pair that Lord Bolt had ordered specially just before he died, black with brown wrists, and walked out again! Right dear they were, too.”
“Dot—”
“And that Lady Wanaker claimed her loins had started up a burning out of nowhere like they always did when Bolt was—”
“Dot, please!”
“...and that a mysterious wager appeared in the betting books at White’s, signed and dated with the word ‘Bolt,’ and it said ‘I wager every penny I possess I will have revenge.’ I ask you! It fair made me shiver, it did! Andno one saw who did it.” She pressed her knuckles against her teeth.
“DOT.”