Lucien snorted.
“Without giving my name. Simply the company’s name. Triton Importers.”
“I’d say the odds are slim of responding to something so vague.”
“The duke likes money. And flattery.”
“Very well, sir. Perhaps you will advise as to the content of the letter?”
“Naturally. I take it you have more faith in my ability to charm than your own?”
“We all have our strengths, sir.” Exeter’s tone implied that he scarcely considered charm a strength.
“I expect you’ll be in touch if you’ve had a response.”
“Straightaway, sir.”
“Meanwhile, you can find me at The Grand Palace on the Thames, making marks on the wall with a burnt stick.”
“Something tells me, sir, that you hardly find the accommodations intolerable.”
“Oh?”
“You look well-fed and you’ve a certain bemused air.”
“And I don’t normally have this air, is this what you’re trying to tell me, Exeter?”
“You’ve no air at all, sir. No air at all.”
Lucien snorted again.
When Captain Hardy had first arrived at The Grand Palace on the Thames a few months ago he’d taken to occupying a table in the corner of the drawing room while trying to readRobinson Crusoe. His was a Rock of Gibraltar sort of presence. Not a motion or word wasted.
Lord Bolt occupied the little table, fingers drumming in a little tympani of boredom, eyes hooded yet alert as he looked out over the room the way he would eye a hand of poker, deciding how he would bear the evening. He couldn’t do what he wanted to do, which was to stare at Mrs. Breedlove unabashedly. Perhaps even yearningly. Perhaps accusingly.
He relived the kiss often, because what man wouldn’t? The ceiling of his admittedly comfortable room, the best room in the house, was a convenient scrim for reflection.
But he found himself thinking less about her lips and body than her words. Odd to realize that the elegant reserve overlaying what was clearly a passionate nature—very like a beautiful glaze over fine porcelain—was both part of her allure and... a sort of accommodation.
For some reason, Mrs. Breedlove did not wish to be fully known.
He’d decided he was going to be the best damned friend Mrs. Breedlove ever had.
Delacorte and Cassidy were at the chessboard again, and Mrs. Pariseau was trying to talk Delilah and Dot into a game of Whist, and Lucien thought he might as well jump in to being a friend with both feet.
“What are you knitting, Mrs. Breedlove?” he asked.
Everyone pivoted their heads in shock and, it seemed, concern. One would have thought he’d burst out with something in Turkish.
Mr. Delacorte looked seconds away from offering him some tonic from his little Case of Horrors, which was what Lucien had christened the leather satchel after Delacorte offered him a peek inside.
He ignored all of them.
“A... coverlet?” she said cautiously.
“Ah.” He imbued this syllable with fascination.
There was another little silence.