Delilah folded her into her body and the weeping continued.
Tristan closed the door behind him when he softly walked out.
“Have I made a terrible hash of everything, Delilah?” Angelique sniffled into her shoulder.
“Maybe.”
Angelique laughed and then coughed. “Comforting.”
She sat up, and rubbed her palms against her face, knocking at her tears.
“Hashes can be made right, Angelique. And if you know his heart, I expect you know just how to make it right.”
Angelique sighed.
She did know his heart. He was brave and bold and maddening, a man unafraid to face his truth, a man unafraid to shoulder her truth for her.
And suddenly she understood that what she’d always considered her greatest weakness was, in fact, a gift, and she knew precisely how to use it to show Lucien how she felt.
Lucien was right, Angelique found. Mr. Exeter was an efficient, startlingly useful man.
He also charged dearly for his services, but a person had to make a living somehow.
Angelique understood this all too well, and didn’t begrudge him the unique niche he’d carved, given that her own niche could not be more unique.
“She can be found perambulating in the gardens outside of St. Gideon’s church, where she goes to perform...” and here Mr. Exeter coughed “...services for charity.”
They exchanged a wry, speaking look.
Angelique poured the tea for him.
(Exeter, of course, hadn’t told Angelique that Lucien was living above his offices. He was the soul of discretion for anyone who needed to hire him.)
“She is usually alone for no longer than ten minutes during this time. Her driver awaits her at the church steps and is alert to her presence, but her driver and footmen can in all likelihood be distracted with a bottle of something for the duration.”
“I imagine a bottle of somethingisnecessary in order to endure her,” Angelique mused.
So on a morning when the first daffodils were beginning to open among the graves, Angelique sat on a little bench of St. Gideon’s churchyard and waited for the Duchess of Brexford to amble past. She wore a stunning burgundy wool dress and a pelisse lined in fur, and her face above it was stark white. Her hair was sleek and dark, done up simply, and her complexion was ivory fair and blotched in pink. She was handsome, the kind of handsome that commanded attention rather than inspired impassioned poetry.
Angelique rose from the bench and curtsied, long and low in front of her.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
The Duchess stopped short. Her eyes darted about, reflexively seeking the usual servant who protected her from the need to speak to plebeians. When she recalled there were none, she dispassionately raked Angelique head to toe with a glance that made it clear she was as worthy of notice as the trees, the flowers, the ground, the headstones.
She said nothing.
She attempted to circle around Angelique.
And very gracefully Angelique swept into her path and blocked her.
The Duchess of Brexford was nervous now. Even beautiful, well-dressed women could produce a knife or a pistol. “Do I know you, madam? I think not.”
“Well, we haven’t been formally introduced, but you did try to steal my cook. Fortunately she preferred to be happy, and she is. I do not bring her regards, by the way. She shudders colorfully when she hears your name and we all have a wonderful laugh.”
The duchess went rigid with shock. And then her eyes narrowed in fury. “What on... what the... You’ve someextraordinarynerve. Step aside. Who the devil do you think you are?” Her voice was ice and daggers. Very impressive if she was a duchess of yore, the sort who shouted “off with her head” and that sort of thing.
Angelique feigned a yawn. “For heaven’s sake. I don’t have to step aside. You’re not thequeen. You’re merely a frightened woman of middle years who committed a crime for which you have heretofore not paid, and I am here to see that you do.”