Since Angelique longed to one day visit Spain and she was fond of Italians, she disliked the notion of inflicting the duchess upon them. She suggested—she did not insist—that Russia might be a fine place for her to retreat to for the time being. How gratifying that the duchess had taken up her suggestion, Angelique thought dryly.
Gossip at White’s—Lucien returned with it and shared it with her—had it that the baffled Duke of Brexford wanted none of his wife’s Russia madness. He liked things to go on as they were. No country could possibly be more interesting than England, and given that he had a grand bloody house in London and houses scattered all over the country, whatmorecould a woman possibly want? He would be staying; he would allow his wife to go, because she would not be quiet about it. His son, the marquess, could write letters to his mother in Russia. He was nearly fifteen years old and at Eton; surely a boy didn’t yearn for his mother anymore at that age?
Angelique had known how that had sounded to Lucien. And while he agreed that the duchess did indeed have to go, he spared a thought for his half brother.
“Shouldn’t you ladies be dusting?”
Angelique had a wraithlike ability to sneak up on the slothful.
The maids leaped and squeaked and scattered like mice confronted with Gordon the cat. Nothing was allowed to settle for long at The Grand Palace on the Thames, and that included dust, maids, and dirty dishes, but excluded the guests and said cat, who worked all night and could therefore be allowed to sleep all day if he chose.
“Sorry, Mrs. Bree—Mrs. Durand,” Dot said sincerely.
Angelique had decided she quite liked the sound of Mrs. Durand rather than Lady Bolt in her role as proprietress of The Grand Palace on the Thames, which suited Lucien. It was his mother’s name, and his own. He was proud of it and of her, and he was honored she wanted to use it.
There were so many new things to remember, Dot reflected. Names becoming other names, like when Lady Derring became Mrs. Hardy and now Mrs. Breedlove, new servants hired—Rose was just one ofthreenew maids taken on to help with the anticipated business of The Grand Palace Annex—and soon there would be footmen, two of them, the prospect of which was nearly unbearably thrilling, because she would be allowed to be present for the interviews.
“Anything interesting in the newspaper today, Dot?” Angelique peered over her shoulder.
Newspapers weren’t cheap. This one would be read a full dozen times by anyone who could read. They liked to keep them available for guests, and when it had been spilled upon, torn, or smeared beyond recognition, they were employed in other ways.
“Somanythings,” Dot said delightedly. “And the more words I know, the more interesting things get.”
Angelique smiled. “Words to live by, truly, Dot.”
She slipped the newspaper out of Dot’s hand, Dot’s cue to scramble back to work.
She knew what it said, and she was going to save it for her husband. Perhaps even have it framed. Or maybe it was best to use it for kindling, allow the ashes of that part of his life to rise from the chimney as smoke, to mingle with the smut of London, and perhaps blow off to sea.
“There she is, lads.” Captain Hardy’s voice was only a hair or two less warm than the one he used to say the word “Delilah.”
Lucien, Captain Hardy, and Mr. Delacorte stood on the dock and looked up with great satisfaction at theZephyr, that beautiful vessel of commerce. Her sails were furled for now. She looked restive, as though she yearned to be cresting waves on the way to India.
After many conversations over brandy, some of them arguments that ultimately entertained them more than resulted in any sort of lasting rancor, Captain Hardy and Lucien had decided to combine efforts under the Triton rubric, and Mr. Delacorte had been invited to be a partner as well. With his unique knowledge of merchants up and down England, his niche for cures and potions and so forth, and a portion of his tidy little savings, he’d been a surprisingly astute addition to the group.
The dock was its usual swarm of workers, sailors, merchants, prostitutes, pickpockets—a mass of humanity.
Delacorte suddenly peered at the end of the dock. “Who’s the lad in the fancy coat dressed like a little lord? Good God, he’ll be eaten alive out here. They’ll strip him like locusts for his boots and buttons. HO, LAD! LOSE YOUR MUM?” Delacorte, being Delacorte, managed to be genuinely concerned and offensive all at once.
“Whoa,” he said at once. Taking a step back. “That lad about singed me eyebrows off with a look, even from this distance. Reminds me a bit of the way you look sometimes, Bolt,” he said cheerfully.
Lucien went still.
He pivoted abruptly. And shaded his eyes and peered out at the tall, colty young man standing at the end of the dock, radiating indecision and diffidence and staring unabashedly at them.
He exhaled at length.
“That’s my brother.”
Seldom had a word been so complexly inflected with so many different emotions. Exasperation, resignation. Wariness.
And yet he was surprised by how much he enjoyed saying them.
“Half brother,” he corrected, absently.
Tristan and Delacorte remained absolutely silent.
While a pair of gulls squawked and squabbled over a bit of bun left on the ground next to him, the future Duke of Brexford lifted a hand and tentatively waved it at Lucien.