But when they went to fetch the key the estate agent gave them the bad news: “I’m afraid it’s been sold, ladies. The transaction was final today.”
In the following three seconds Angelique’s and Delilah’s emotions were a bit like a weathervane in a windstorm. They of course presented pleasantly inscrutable expressions to the agent.
“Well,thatis disappointing,” Delilah said, because she was the one who could actually speak. Angelique’s heart was hammering too distractingly. “Would it be possible for you to share with us the name of the purchaser?”
“I’m strictly not at liberty to say, I’m afraid. And besides, I believe the purchaser intends to transfer the property into another’s hands straightaway, anyway.”
Angelique and Delilah exchanged a speaking glance.
And Angelique’s heart kicked off one of its shackles.
Angelique cleared her throat. Still, her voice emerged on something like a whisper.
“Did the new owner say anything about... about opening a gaming hell?”
He snorted. “Ah, if only. He said rather the opposite. He said he expected it would be heavenly.”
And hope, that fickle flower, bloomed brilliantly. It was precisely what she’d said to him that day when he’d found her staring at a bare tree stuck out of the ground.
Neither Delilah nor Angelique could speak for smiling. Delilah reached for Angelique’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
The estate agent narrowed his eyes at Angelique.
“Pah! Look at you now, madam. Sure, andIam the one who ought to be weeping. The docks are going to be right dull, at this rate, thanks to you lot.”
That night...
A light rain ticked against the windows and made the crackling fire in the parlor spit and dance a bit, so Captain Hardy got up to give it a good poking. Despite his efforts, the flames sullenly resisted roaring. But all the guests of The Grand Palace on the Thames were well-fed and in for the evening, and the room was warmer for it. Coverlets and scarves unfurled from knitting needles. Mrs. Pariseau was at the chessboard, learning how to play from an exquisitely patient Mr. Delacorte. Mr. Cassidy was reading aloud fromRob Roy, and a fine voice he had, a baritone that caressed the ear, everyone agreed, though he needed a little work on the female voices. Dot was listening to the story so raptly—and admiring Mr. Cassidy’s cheekbones—she had inadvertently embroidered the “B” from “Bless” right directly onto her lap. Mrs. Locksley was surreptitiously drawing Mr. Delacorte. So far he looked like the letter “D” on two stocky legs.
And then came the knock on the door.
Delilah and Angelique exchanged swift glances. It had been nearly two weeks since anyone sought lodging at The Grand Palace on the Thames. One person had arrived in the dead of night searching for The Vicar’s Hobby, and they were gently told that this was no longer a palace for rogues, thank you very much and shame on them. They had no way of knowing whether the broadsheets had influenced this little drought in visitors. Perhaps in another week they could draw conclusions.
“Would you answer the door please, Dot?” Mrs. Hardy said calmly.
Dot leaped up.
They listened to her feet click across the foyer.
Then the click of the latches seemed to echo as she unlocked the door.
There was a silence.
Followed by what sounded like a stifled “Oh!” of pure delight.
Angelique froze.
She somehow knew. She knew.
She closed her eyes and leaped like a falcon sent skyward.
She knew.
Even before she heard his footsteps, measured, slow, across the marble foyer.
And so when Lucien Durand, Lord Bolt, appeared in the room, she was already trembling.
Later everyone present claimed they knew the moment his gaze collided with Angelique’s. Because the dying fire ignited with a whoosh and blazed to light the room like the sun.