Magnus was staring at her, astonished, but not, it seemed, unamused.
Thusly she wickedly roped her distinguished husband into the controversy.
“Surely not,” Mrs. Cuthbert stammered. “Surely notanything.”
But Mrs. Pariseau was positively luminous with the possibility of an invigorating exploration of weaponry and clasped her hands in delight.
“Whatan opportunity to discover how resourceful all of us would be in an emergency. Can anything indeed be a weapon? If, for instance, a scoundrel who might be armed with a pistol, an intruder, was to sneak up on you now right where you’re sitting... how would you defend yourself with the objects closest to you? I think I would jab him withmyhairpins.”
Alexandra nodded approvingly. “Very good choice,” she said, as though she was suddenly an expert.
“What about you, Mrs. Hardy? Mrs. Durand?” Mrs. Pariseau turned to them.
Delilah and Angelique regarded Mrs. Pariseau levelly. While undoubtedly enlivening, they were not at all certain that figurative violence was the best way to inject spirit into the room’s discussion. A milder topic might have been a safer choice for reviving the conversational momentum after a week or so of inertia. A recovering invalid shouldn’t spring out of bed and dance a jig straightaway, after all.
But Mrs. Pariseau looked so pleased to finally have a topic she could sink her teeth into that Delilah cautiously capitulated. She tentatively held up her knitting needle.
Angelique followed suit. Cautiously.
They were prepared to rein the conversation in, if it came to that.
“What about you, Dot?” Mrs. Pariseau asked. “Perhaps your embroidery needle?”
Dot looked up from her sampler and tipped her head in thought. “I would throw my fist right into his jaw,” she finally said. “And he would fall to the ground, unconscious. And then I would kneel next to him and brush his hair out of his eyes and say, ‘Oh, please, ohpleasedon’t die. I don’t want to go to Newgate!’”
This was greeted by a moment of thoroughly nonplussed silence.
“Thank you, Dot,” Mrs. Pariseau finally replied politely. “I’m certain the intruder would never return again if you did that.”
Dot smiled, pleased.
Mrs. Cuthbert’s wide-eyed gaze had been whipping from person to person as Mrs. Pariseau called on them, as if stunned to find herself in a room full of potential brigands.
“What would you use as a weapon, Mrs. Cuthbert?” Alexandra asked.
“I—I wouldneveruse a weapon.” Her chin had hiked defiantly.
Somebody snorted rudely. It was difficult to tell who.
“If a thief were to creep up behind you now in the sitting room, you would passively allow him to take your pretty necklace even when you have a chance of fighting back?” Magnus sounded genuinely curious.
Mrs. Cuthbert absently touched her necklace, a flicker of uncertain, bashful pleasure in her eyes.But she was not going to allow flattery to divert her from the deliciousness of exasperation and alarm. “Why are we discussing this? Has an intruder ever done this? Do we need to prepare for this eventuality? Is this atest?” The pitch of her voice escalated with every word.
No one in the history of The Grand Palace on the Thames had ever been more confused about the purpose of the sitting room conversations.
“You could always hurl your slippers at him, Mrs. Cuthbert,” Magnus suggested.
Alexandra turned swiftly toward him. Her jaw dropped.
He didn’t meet her eyes, but she could tell by the little creases at the corners of his that they were glinting.
“But slippers arenotfor hurling!” Mrs. Cuthbert was aghast.
Alexandra covered her mouth with her hands to keep her little gasp-laugh from escaping.
“Huh. I’ve needed to get out of scrapes before but I never thought of throwing a boot!” Mr. Delacorte mused. “Mine would level a bloke with the smell alone.”
“I know whatelseDelacorte could use as a weapon,” Lucien said.