With the sense that she was walking arm in arm with chaos disguised by a beautifully fitted black suit, they abandoned St. John as she allowed him to lead her deeper into the room.
He steered her toward where Delilah and Angelique had claimed chairs among Dot, who was wearing a stubborn expression, and a woman sporting dashing white streaks in her dark, upswept hair who was gesturing emphatically with the book she held. Cheerful bickering about how to pass the evening was clearly underway and words flying about included Spillikins, Whist, ghosts, attics, charades, pirates, and myths.
The German musicians had gathered at little tables toward the back of the room to chuckle amongst themselves, and Mr. McDonald had claimed a table for himself and opened a book.
Outside of church, where her family had its own pew, or crammed into a coaching inn, Daphne had never been thrust into a room so full of people she could not easily identify by station or rank, all of whom seemed unrelated to, quite familiar with, and even fond of, each other. It was as vibrant as anorchestra, somehow; everyone was different but contributed to the whole. And while none of the furniture and none of the people quite matched, for that reason, it all somehow paradoxically did. The room itself—the furniture, the wallpaper, the curtains, the pianoforte—had a soft, warm, gently worn charm. It was liberally lit by the blazing fire and a scattering of oil lamps, which flattered everyone’s complexions.
Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt had yet to appear, she noted.
Delilah stood to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. St. Leger, may I introduce to you to our treasured guest Mrs. Pariseau? She is a widow and well-traveled, and she knows so many interesting things.”
Mrs. Pariseau, the woman who sported white stripes in her dark hair, was compact and curvy and she sprang to her feet to curtsy with a warm smile, which she aimed first at Daphne.
Then turned and looked up what seemed like miles into Lorcan’s face.
Her gaze lingered there, thoughtfully.
She returned it to Daphne. Then swung it back to Lorcan, clearly increasingly bemused.
“Well. My goodness. There’s certainly a storyhere,” she finally concluded, with relish. Her dark eyes crackled with mischief. “I would love to know how the two of you managed to meet.”
Daphne’s heart gave a lurch.
Lorcan said somberly, “Well, Mrs. Pariseau, I shall tell you. Like Daphne in the Greek myth, I met her when she was in need of some urgentassistance. But instead of a tree I saved her by turning her into my wife.”
Daphne was stunned to realize this was actually true, metaphorically speaking.
There was a chorus of “awwws” while Mrs. Pariseau gasped and clasped her hands to her bosom in pure delight. “Weloveour myths here at The Grand Palace on the Thames! Do yousee, Dot?”
“Do I see what?” Dot said stubbornly. She actually liked myths well enough. It was just that shepreferredghosts.
They all turned when a man built a bit like a Welsh pony strode into the room. “I feelmuchbetter now!” he announced cheerily. “Those parsnips worked a treat to rush everything on out!”
Suddenly his face lit up like a firework with happy astonishment. “Is it... could it be... St. Leger?”
“Delacorte?” Lorcan sounded amazed.
Daphne was shocked when Mr. Delacorte whumped her fearsome fake husband on the back. “I’ll be daa-a—” He came to a halt before the word became an official epithet, and Mr. Delacorte and Lorcan launched into the mutual backslaps and handshakes of men who have clearly shared some meaningful experience, while everyone else looked on in bemusement.
“I’ll never forget that night at the Crown and Crow in Brighton, St. Leger. I like to tell the story about how you bought a round for all the lads and then dared that lass to dance on the bar! Ha ha! And then she fell and you caught her in your—”
“Delacorte, allow me to introduce my wife, Daphne,” Lorcan said smoothly.
Delacorte’s mouth froze midlaugh. He turned to her.
Daphne smiled patiently at him. Very amused, despite herself.
“You’vea wife? St. Leger. You’ve awife,St. Leger,”Delacorte amended quickly. “What an aston...” He cleared his throat. “...er, astonishingly fine thing. Congratulations to you both. What a pleasure and honor to meet you, Mrs. St. Leger.”
He bowed very elegantly to Daphne. His suit was handsomely tailored and beautifully kept, and the arc of his stomach taxed the top buttons of his waistcoat. His eyes were a rather lovely dreamy shade of blue, and his hair, a trifle too long, tufted out from behind his ears.
“Please do not leave me in suspense, Mr. Delacorte. I’m wondering how your Crown and Crow story ends,” she prompted. Mischievously.
Delacorte flicked a hunted look at Lorcan, who returned it with a warning one.
Delacorte tipped his head back, face abstracted, as if he were flipping through a long sequence of events to get to the last one.
“We put out the fire just in time, and managed to find the rightful owner of the goat.”