“Ha ha!” Delacorte knew, too.
(As did everyone else who lived permanently at The Grand Palace on the Thames. They had all learned the hard way not to share close quarters with Mr. Delacorte immediately after he’d eaten a rich meal.)
“Captain Hardy?” Mrs. Pariseau turned to him.
Captain Hardy drummed his fingers thoughtfully. “Oh, I’d whip out my knife, use my cravat as a sort of garrote, knee him in the back, and slam his head on the table.”
Everyone gave a start.
Except Delilah, who had once seen him do something very similar.
“How very specific, Captain Hardy,” Mrs. Pariseau approved finally, sounding both a bit rattled and breathlessly impressed. “How about you, Lord Bolt?”
“Hmmm... let’s see. I’d get my knife out, too. First, I’d bash him a good one with the chessboard to stun him, then knee him hard in the groin.”
Every man in the room hissed in an involuntary breath.
Mrs. Cuthbert visibly flinched at the word “groin.” “Iseveryman in the room carrying a knife right now?”
Every man in the room nodded.
“Oh,”she peeped in dismay. She touched two fingers to her lips.
“What about you, Mr. Delacorte? What would you do?” Mrs. Pariseau asked.
“I think I’d step aside so Hardy could be my weapon.”
Captain Hardy nodded, agreeably accepting that he was, in fact, a weapon.
“Or... I’d jam the rook into his eye socket,” Delacorte added gleefully. “Or the bishop. It’s pointier.”
Everyonehissed in a breath this time.
Delilah cleared her throat noisily, preparing to hurl herself verbally in front of the runaway carriage that was this conversation. But it seemed to have acquired momentum.
“Corporal Dawson, what would you use for a weapon?” Magnus asked.
The boy paled so completely at being addressed by Colonel Brightwall himself that his freckles stood out like inkblots.
“Sh-shoot,” he stammered.
“‘Shoot’ is not a weapon, Corporal. And you don’t have a gun to hand right now, do you?”
“S-s-sorry, sir.”
He stared dumbly, his mind clearly erased by the strain of looking into the face of a legend.
“I’m just a soldier, same as you, Corporal Dawson,” Magnus said quietly.
He looked appalled at this comparison. “Oh, no, sir,” he said with some conviction. “You are not the same asanyone.”
“I was. I was, in fact, an ensign, who became a corporal, just like you,” he reiterated gently but firmly.
Alexandra doubted profoundly the “just like you” part, but it was very kind of him to say.
But as if this had never occurred to Corporal Dawson, his frozen awe thawed a bit, and he eyed Brightwall with abject gratitude. As if a veil had been ripped away and he could imagine different possibilities for his future.
Brightwall tried again. “If, say, a Viking marauder were to storm through the window here with the intent of snatching up Mrs. Dawson and carrying her off—”