Delacorte offered him a roasted chestnut from a paper cone of them he’d bought out on the street.
He’d actually been holding it out to Hugh for close to half a minute, but Hugh hadn’t noticed.
Hugh took one. “Mrs. Locksley was pretty, indeed,” he said absently.
Mrs. Locksley been a guest at The Grand Palace on the Thames not too long ago. Blue eyes? Why couldn’t he quite recall at the moment? They’d all been mildly smitten.
She smelled like a damned garden. Lillias, not Mrs. Locksley.
“How is your sister?” Delacorte tried, when Hugh failed to pick up the conversational torch.
“Oh, she’s well.” Hugh smiled faintly, because Maeve lived in Baltimore with their aunt and he missed her like the devil.
“I take it you’ve had no luck finding the Clay family, otherwise we’d be... celebrating?”
Hugh had told Delacorte, in general terms, that his search for Woodley’s daughter was how he came to be in London, his only lead.
“No. There are an unconscionable number of families named Clay in the general London area, and I learned the Clay family in Dover was not the one I’m seeking. I’ve been directed to a possible likely Clay family in Surrey.”
He fell silent again.
Delacorte chewed noisily and drained the last of his tankard.
“I should say we’ve been lucky at The Grand Palace on the Thames, surrounded by so many pretty women, the likes of Brownie and Goldie and our handsome Mrs. Pariseau,” Delacorte said.
Brownie and Goldie were the pet names Delacorte had given the brunette Delilah and blonde Angelique, quite unbeknownst to them.
“Indeed.”
“All that said,” Delacorte told him, “it looks like you could use a woman. Or be well used by one,” Delacorte added cheerily.
Hugh stared at him. “Thedevilare you running on about?”
“You’ve been a moody cuss all night.”
“A ‘moody cuss’?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or bang his tankard down with a scowl. Which he supposed would have proved Delacorte’s point.
“And you’re usually an even-tempered fellow.”
“Which, believe me, is no mean feat around you.”
“Ha,” Delacorte said, and popped a chestnut into his mouth and chewed.
“Or...” Delacorte mused. He finished chewing before he went on. “Perhaps you’re moody because you’realreadybeing well used by a woman.”
“Or perhaps we don’t need to talk about women,” Hugh said very evenly.
Delacorte’s brows went up. “I see. Fair enough.” Delacorte glanced down, then shook out the bit of paper in which the roasted chestnuts he’d purchased were wrapped. He read silently for a moment.
“Well, would you look at this.”
He read aloud:
The yearly Landover Ball is well-nigh upon us and all the ladies of thetonare atwitter with speculation about what the lovely Lady Lillias Vaughn will wear. If history is any indication, we can anticipate an enchantress set loose in a ballroom specifically to bewitch all the bloods. The ones not in love with her are bound to be by the time the night is over, and hothouses all over England will be denuded of flowers as heirs spend their inheritance to fill her foyer with flowers. Oh, whom, whom will she choose in the end?
Young Giles, Lord Bankham, lately in townfrom Heatherfield, was out riding in The Row today looking like a modern Adonis on his new gray hack. Rumor has it that a certain young and fetching Lady Harriette will be making her debut at the Landover Ball, and perhaps soon after a debut as a wife of an heir. Care to speculate which one?
“Good God,” Hugh croaked. Appalled.