Until they hired a footman or two, Dot was charged with answering the door, and it was her very favorite responsibility—and she hoped it would remain her responsibility, even when (or perhaps if) they hired a suitable fellow or two. Discovering who had knocked held all the anticipatory thrill of opening a gift. A new guest? A drama? The King of England? All three of those things had appeared on the other side of the door at The Grand Palace on the Thames at one time or another.
And she was an absolute savant at describing to Angelique and Delilah the people on the other side, in her own singular way. She had not yet been wrong.
They heard some murmured words.
Angelique and Delilah exchanged an anticipatory glance.
They heard the door close with a satisfying clunk (it was a nice heavy door).
But then they heard only one set of footsteps returning. It was, in fact, not so much a step as a shuffle.
Presently, a bouquet of roses entered the room on a pair of legs. Or that’s what it looked like to the already startled people seated.
It was in fact Dot, holding a great urn, from which brilliant plump roses on long stems burst forth.
Dot peered from behind them. “They’re for Lady Lillias. A footman had them sent over from your townhouse.”
Hugh stopped pulling air. He in fact went motionless.
All heads whipped toward Lillias. Everyone was simply vibrating with curiosity.
Lillias was staring at them as if someone had instead brought her heads on pikes. “Oh God. Not more of them. How did they know to send them here?” She sounded aghast.
But also—astoundingly—a little bored.
As though roses that cost a fortune were simply her queenly due.
The colors and shapes of the room were suddenly too bright and distinct. A lot of emotions were waiting to have a go at Hugh; all of his muscles tensed as though he could forestall the need to feel them by refusing to take a deep breath.
“Ohhh, Lillias, who sent them?” Claire asked eagerly.
“Yes, tell us who!” Mrs. Pariseau leaned forward. “Oh my, they’re so lovely!”
“There’s a little message with them,” Dot said. She attempted to shift the roses into the crook of her arm so she could hand over to Lillias the little crumpled sheet of foolscap clutched in her fist.
It proved too complex of a maneuver. The foolscap made a break for it, and when she attempted to snatch it up, she accidentally created the perfect updraft and sent it flying through the air instead. It fluttered like a drunken bird in flight, glanced off of Delacorte’s reaching fingertips, and drifted down, down, down.
Right onto the little table in front of Hugh, as if it was a falcon he’d called from the sky.
He stared down at it for a moment. His ears were ringing.
“Read it, Mr. Cassidy,” Claire begged him.
He levered his head up and looked square at Lillias. Her chin was up a little too high; the cant of it was officially arrogant. But her eyes were wary and ever-so-slightly beseeching and her jaw was tense.
Everything about her expression begged him not to read it.
And that decided it.
Hugh picked it up casually.
He did. Out loud, slowly, his inflection ironic, with the oddest sensation that he was reading it over his own shoulder:
A humble gift for a maiden fair
Perhaps you’ll tuck one in your hair
Or press one to your rosy lips