Dear Miss Keating,
I’m terribly sorry to report that I am indisposed this morning and will be unableto accompany you and Lucy to the museum today. I am quite bedridden with amal de tête. There is a drummer in my head! I look forward to seeing you again for the Tillbury affair tomorrow!
Yrs,
Lady Wisterberg
She could imagine it. It had required two cups of strong coffee and a scone to vanquish the tympani in her own head, and she’d only had two glasses of ratafia. Goodness knows how many Lady Wisterberg had downed by the end of the evening.
Catherine only danced once the whole of the previous night, with Mr. Hargrove. And at no point during this dance did her heart accelerate, stop, or jolt, all of which it had done in the space of a conversation with Lord Kirke. She began to understand how difficult men could become an acquired taste, enjoyable in limited quantities, like espresso, or violent thunderstorms.
But Lord Kirke’s face now seemed so forbiddingly cool it seemed to her miraculous that she’d ever had the nerve to approach him at all. Perhaps he erected that expression like a fortress to protect all of his weighty, profound thoughts.
The coolness evolved into a sort of bemusement as he took in the sitting room, his eyes lighting on the chess set, the pianoforte, the mismatched furniture which nevertheless seemed to belong together, just like all the people in the room. He’d laughed last night, but she struggled to picture him planting his hands on his hips and throwing his head backto release a deafening baritone. À la Mr. Delacorte, or gleefully clapping instead of singing out “arse.”
Everyone had respectfully risen from their chairs to greet him and bow and curtsy.
Lord Bolt, who had returned that morning to The Grand Palace on the Thames with Captain Hardy, was the first to speak. “Welcome to our home, Kirke. Have you yet met Captain Hardy?”
“Bolt.” Lord Kirke sounded pleased. Catherine was unsurprised; lords always seemed to know each other, as one species recognizes another. “A pleasure to see you. Thank you. You’ve an enviable home. I’m grateful for the shelter, even if the circumstances that led me here are a bit regrettable. And it’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Captain Hardy. I know you by your formidable reputation, of course.”
“Likewise, sir.” Captain Hardy sounded a trifle dryly amused.
A wry smile played at the corners of Lord Kirke’s mouth. As though he relished every aspect of his reputation, and every gradation of the word “formidable.”
The proprietresses’ husbands had welcomed her very graciously at dinner. Catherine considered both quite handsome—Captain Hardy was chiseled and stern, with close cropped hair and silvery eyes; Lord Bolt’s face was long and elegant, his hair darker and longer, his eyes green. And it was a subtle thing, but it seemed to her as though the very building had collectively exhaled with their arrival. Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand were welcoming and charming, but now they seemed easier and more joyful, and this joy infused the very room. She understood: all these people were all, after a fashion, afamily, and she knew full well that when a member was away, the absence was a little disorienting and the balance of life felt a little askew, like wearing a shoe that was a bit too big. And the reminder of her own diminished family briefly twinged the breath from her.
“We’ve a smoking room if you’re in the mood for a cheroot later, Kirke.” Lord Bolt gestured with his chin to some place over his shoulder. “Although, one could hardly blame you if you happened to be holding a grudge against smoke of any kind at the moment.”
This puzzled Catherine, but Lord Kirke gave a short laugh. “Since I generally subscribe to a hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you philosophy, I’m all but required to join you for smoking when the time comes. Thank you.”
Mr. Delacorte cleared his throat. “If you prefer not to smoke, sir,” he ventured, “I’ve something in my case of medicines that might distract you from your troubles. It was meant to be a headache powder, but the last person who took it reported a vision of Lord Castlereagh soaring through the night sky while seated on the back of a winged horse. He said it was so majestically beautiful he’d forgotten he’d ever had a headache at all.”
Everyone slowly turned to stare in bemusement at Mr. Delacorte.
Lord Castlereagh was the Tory leader of the House of Commons, and not currently a popular man in England, for numerous reasons.
Lord Kirke seemed to be considering his words. “Forgive my hesitation, Mister...”
“Delacorte. Stanton Delacorte.”
“Mr. Delacorte. Better the night sky on a wingedhorse for Castlereagh than the Commons, but I think I’ll begin with cheroots and see how the evening goes. I wonder if you would mind expounding on the ‘little case of medicines’ bit?”
Mr. Delacorte beamed. “I import remedies from the Orient to sell to apothecaries and surgeons up and down the coast, herbs and other concoctions, some of which work a treat. And I’m a partner in the Triton Group with Lord Bolt and Captain Hardy.”
“Is that so?” Lord Kirke sounded genuinely interested. “Have you anything in your case of remedies that would make the entire Commons hallucinate that they’re Whigs instead of Tories?”
“I’m a purveyor of remedies, not miracles,” Mr. Delacorte said in all seriousness.
Everyone laughed while Delilah and Angelique exchanged silent, eloquent glances, wondering if they needed to make “Whig” and “Tory” Epithet Jar words while Lord Kirke was in residence. Just in case “spirited” became a little too spirited.
“I haven’t read your speeches,” Mr. Delacorte added, somewhat challengingly. “But I’ve had them quoted at me in pubs. Usually the bit about the intoxication—”
“LET THE INTOXICATION OF VICTORY LEAD TO THE SOBRIETY OF A COMPASSIONATE PEACE,” everyone in the room quoted in unison.
Lord Kirke didn’t so much as blink. He nodded once at the tribute, slowly, a rueful smile lifting the corner of his mouth. This probably happened to him all the time.
“I see. Fear not, Mr. Delacorte, I’m bound to give a few more speeches while I’m here. I feel it’s my sacred duty to make sure every Englishman experiences one.” His eyes gleamed wickedly.