He stood, and like a gentleman, reached down and hauled her up by the elbow, as her hand was sore.
They smoothed out their clothing and gathered their composure.
“Your cap, Dot.”
He reached over and nudged it back into place with one finger.
They were on their feet just in time. They whirled at the brisk sound of feet on the clean, clean floor. Dot knew the light, swift treads of Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand well.
They came into view wearing worried expressions.
How lovely to be someone they worry about, Dot thought, touched and pleased.
“Is everything all right here?” Mrs. Hardy said. “We thought we heard a terrible shriek.”
“It was probably just the wind,” Mr. Pike told them gravely.
Dot nodded soberly. “Definitely not a ghost.”
“You’re going to love the smoking room, St. Leger,” Delacorte had confided with confident relish.
Lorcan, leaning against the wall, lit cheroot in hand, was forced to concede that, given time, he might indeed develop great affection for it, for a certain genius was evident in its design. The proprietresses had clearly understood men could scarcely be trusted to be civilized once out of sight of women, so they had decorated it with a thick rug, perfect should a ridiculous wager or a drunken insult result in an impromptu wrestling match, for instance. Not unheard-of in his experience. Long velvet curtains hung from the windows, the chairs were well worn and comfortable and the little table in front of the settee was handsome but battered, and everything was in attractive shades of dirt-and-blood-hiding brown.
All of the gentlemen—save Mr. McDonald, who neither smoked nor imbibed in spirits, though Delacorte secretly thought he could benefit alotfrom both—of the house had repaired there uponlistening to Mrs. Pariseau readThe Ghost in the Sculleryfor a half hour or so. A cracking story, Lorcan thought. They’d left the women behind to get on with knitting or whatever it was they wished to do.
Lorcan’s imagination had not extended to coming home every day to a place where the comfortable settees matched the carpet and the curtains. Or to the same woman, for that matter. He’d never even had a permanent home of his own. He’d been grateful for safe shelter wherever he’d found it.
Hardy and Bolt and Lorcan and Delacorte, like pillars, occupied the wall in corners of the room, whilst the German musicians had flopped at once onto the settee, slouched, and spread wide their legs or flung their boots up on the table, all the things they wouldn’t dream of doing in front of the ladies. Before the weather eye of the older men, they were always more subdued, and nightly they quickly and quietly enjoyed the kind of good tobacco and brandy they couldn’t otherwise afford before excusing themselves again.
St. John claimed a chair as though it was a throne.
Cheroots were passed around and lit and sucked into life, brandy was gurgled into snifters, and the air filled agreeably with smoke.
It would take a lot of brandy, however, to ease the tension in a room which contained both Lorcan and Captain Hardy in close quarters. Which mordantly amused Lorcan, and was the reason he’d decided to join everyone.
Lorcan gazed through the haze of smoke atyoung Lord Vaughn, who looked too comfortable for Lorcan’s satisfaction. The young lord was studying him somewhat sullenly.
For a moment they regarded each other as though each were exhibits in a menagerie.
“Mr. St. Leger, why do you wear an earring?” Lord Vaughn asked finally.
“Because I feel it enhances my delicate beauty.” Lorcan exhaled a plume of cheroot smoke.
“Did it hurt to be pierced?”
“No more than getting shot or stabbed,” Lorcan said agreeably.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he detected smiles twitching on Hardy’s and Bolt’s faces.
“You aren’t worried you’ll be robbed for it?” St. John pressed.
He smiled faintly. “Anyone is welcome to try, certainly.”
St. John sank back against his chair and gloomily sucked on his cheroot.
Lorcan decided that disconcerting young Lord Vaughn would be his new favorite pastime. It was both entertaining and an act of charity. He could perhaps save him from getting killed in a duel one day for aiming sultry smiles at other men’s wives.
His visceral response to that had surprised him. Because of course Daphne wasn’t really his wife. “Wife” was a word he shied away from the way Mr. McDonald shied away from spirits.