Chapter Three

Colonel Magnus Brightwall—for it was, indeed, he—and his wife, Alexandra, sat side by side, but a significant span of settee

remained visible between them. Their thighs seemed in no danger of touching, even if one of them exhaled, or should Colonel

Brightwall take a notion to sprawl. He didn't look like a man who had ever taken that notion in his life. Dot was right about

his posture.

Lavender arced beneath Alexandra's red-rimmed eyes. Her gold ball gown was crushed and rumpled and her bright hair had slumped

to the nape of her neck. She was both "draggled" and beautiful, by anyone's definition.

Delilah and Angelique liked her immediately. Alexandra's face lit when she saw them, as if she recognized friends, and they

saw in her at once a kindred spirit, someone who had been raised gently and now found herself married to the last man on earth

she'd ever expected to marry, a man who was astonishing in some way.

"It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand, but I'm distressed you are compelled to meet me when I'm clearly not at my best. Perhaps you can tell I've had a rather eventful evening." She smiled valiantly.

"Dot will be here soon with tea," Delilah assured her. "And we'll have you in a room as soon as possible."

Angelique nodded her agreement. As proprietresses of The Grand Palace on the Thames from the beginning, Delilah and Angelique

were so often of one mind now they had developed a sort of shared, silent language. They were both usually comfortable speaking

on each other's behalf.

As for Colonel Brightwall... well, "liking" was beside the point when it came to someone who was a revered English institution.

One did not like or dislike the London Bridge, for instance. Perhaps they would come to know him; such men, when exposed to

things like Mr. Delacorte and the sitting room or irresistibly attractive guests, had proved to be human, after all.

But quite apart from his imposing presence, they found Colonel Brightwall had that otherness they had learned often characterized

Great Men: a weighty reserve combined with an unsettling intensity born of seeing and accomplishing things no other human

ever had, or ever could. He had legendarily saved the life of General Blackmore, now the Duke of Valkirk, who had once been

their guest, and in so doing had nearly lost his own.

And he was polite. Just as Dot had said.

But when he'd politely introduced his wife, he hadn't looked at her.

Nor had she looked at him.

They in fact appeared to be studiously avoiding each other's gaze.

But Mrs. Brightwall didn't seem the least frightened or cowed. Her posture was erect; she held her head high. She was clearly

well-bred. But both the Brightwalls seemed distracted and darkly absorbed. This, and a certain palpable simmering tension,

were the only things suggesting the two of them were linked at all.

Perhaps it had to do with whatever nonsense had allegedly happened the previous evening. The bit with a stolen carriage.

But Delilah would wager that this was not a happy marriage.

Had it ever been? They had been apart for five years.

A cold, superstitious little wind whistled through her soul. She immediately desperately wanted to feel Tristan's familiar,

beloved rough palm against hers, and to twine her fingers through his. They were so happy now. But life was long. She felt

she didn't want to bring an unhappy marriage into their house any more than she wanted to bring the plague in, and she knew

this was neither completely rational nor compassionate.

Dot had assessed this correctly, too. Delilah kept a mental list of Dot's unique talents, just in case someday some exasperated

person wanted to know why Delilah and Angelique kept Dot. She was also conscientious, loyal, kind to a fault, and in some

ways surprisingly pragmatic.

"The Grand Palace on the Thames was recommended to me by the Duke of Valkirk," he told them. "And I of course am acquainted with your husband, Captain Hardy, a fine man, indeed."

"That is very kind of you to say, sir, and I, of course, concur," Delilah said pleasantly.

"I'm given to understand yours is a very exclusive establishment, and an interview is required to determine whether we are

suitable for admission."

Was she imagining the challenging—even somewhat roguish—glint in Colonel Brightwall's eyes?

Angelique cleared her throat. "The Duke of Valkirk's is of course an unimpeachable reference, and we are so pleased that we

were able to make him comfortable for the duration of his stay. We are particularly gratified that he met his wonderful wife

here. And yet I hope you know no reference at all is required, Colonel Brightwall. We are delighted for you and Mrs. Brightwall

to stay with us. You honor us with your presence."

He nodded, graciously.

Mrs. Brightwall appeared to be studying the flowers in the vase on the mantel. It was anyone's guess whether she was actually

listening.

"We feel you should know that guests from many different walks of life stay with us—we find this enriching and interesting.

We also have a list of rules we cannot waive for any guests. We like to be certain they feel comfortable abiding by them before

we formalize our arrangement. For we enforce them scrupulously."

Angelique delivered this information with a gently ingratiating smile.

They had nearly evicted the Duke of Valkirk for rudeness to another guest. She wondered if Valkirk had mentioned this. They

would do it again if they had to.

If the notion that he would not be exempt from rules amazed Brightwall, not an eyebrow flicker betrayed it.

He did smile, faintly. "I cannot wait to see them."

Delilah obligingly placed the little cards upon which the rules were printed into the Brightwalls' hands, and they bent their

heads to read.

All guests will eat dinner together at least four times per week.

All guests must gather in the drawing room after dinner for at least an hour at least four times per week. We feel it fosters

a sense of friendship and the warm, familial, congenial atmosphere we strive to create here at The Grand Palace on the Thames.

All guests should be quietly respectful and courteous of other guests at all times, though spirited discourse is welcome.

Guests may entertain other guests in the drawing room.

Curfew is at 11:00 p.m. The front door will be securely locked then. You will need to wait until morning to be admitted if

you miss curfew.

If the proprietresses collectively decide that a transgression or series of transgressions warrants your eviction from The Grand Palace on the Thames, you will find your belongings neatly packed and placed near the front door. You will not be refunded the balance of your rent.

Gentlemen may smoke in the Smoking Room only.

A little silence elapsed. From a distance, faintly, came the clink of the tea tray traveling up from the kitchen with Dot.

Delilah and Angelique had learned to pitch their ears for it. To the end of their days their hearts would begin to hammer

at that sound, in anticipation of a crash.

"A warm, familial atmosphere," Colonel Brightwall quoted slowly from the card. With just a frisson of irony.

He hadn't yet lifted his head from the card. He seemed to be pondering it.

Mrs. Brightwall looked up then, her expression inscrutable.

"Indeed," Angelique said brightly. "Our guests seem to relish it."

He finally lowered the card.

Delilah and Angelique smiled at him encouragingly.

"Yes. We will abide by these rules," he said shortly.

He bothered to neither look at nor consult his wife.

Whereupon Alexandra finally shot him a glance fleeting in duration, but which seemed capable of leaving a bleeding puncture wound.

Angelique and Delilah were both tempted to give him a little kick, too.

"I'm given to understand the suites are comprised of two rooms," Brightwall said.

Delilah stopped herself from glancing at Mrs. Brightwall. "They are."

"Thank you, Mrs. Durand and Mrs. Hardy," Alexandra said. "These rules are wonderfully civilized. Yes, I can abide by them."

Brightwall's jaw tensed slightly.

"We're glad you agree, Mrs. Brightwall. Mr. Benjamin Pike will show the two of you to your suite, if you'd like to see it

now. We'll have Dot bring the tea up to you."

Alexandra stood, followed, more slowly, by her towering husband. He was momentarily very still, as if suppressing a twinge

of pain.

And suddenly both Angelique's and Delilah's hearts went out to them.

Tea could solve nearly every ill, but they didn't think it was going to do much to fix whatever was ailing the Brightwalls.

Perhaps spirited discourse would. One could hope.

The suite to which the boardinghouse's strapping young footman brought them was located in what their proprietresses referred to as the annex. Blue velvet curtains poured to the floor from tall windows, through which the very tops of the spires of ships were visible. A long blue settee presided over the center of the room, and comfortable chairs surrounded two little tables—one for dining, one for games. On the mantel a decanter of what appeared to be brandy glowed in the reflected light of the leaping fire.

All in all, Alexandra conceded it was a handsome room.

But why the devil were they here?

"Magnus, if I may ask a question?"

Magnus turned to her coolly, eyebrows upraised, as though she were a footman who had made an inquiry.

"This seems like a lovely place. The Grand Palace on the Thames..."

"That strikes me as more of a comment than a question."

She clenched her teeth against a spurt of anger. "May I ask why we have we come here, instead of to the town house on St.

James Square?"

Which is where she had lived since shortly after their wedding.

He'd owned it for years.

He absently peeled a glove from his hand as he glanced around the room, taking inventory of their furnishings.

"I am selling the town house." He stuffed his gloves into his coat pocket.

She went airless.

Her heart contracted into an icy knot.

"But... but... it's my home. That is... it's... it's where I live."

He settled upon her the whole of his attention then. It still required an inward adjustment whenever he did that. That first connection with his eyes had always been a bit like staring into the sun.

"The town house is mine to do with as I please."

And then he merely waited, as a cat would wait to see what a mouse would do next.

His expression revealed to her nothing.

Panic welled in her chest, shortening her breath.

"But... the... the furnishings... the... the canopy bed..."

Why on earth would she mention the canopy bed specifically? Except that it was pretty and she loved it and she had carefully

chosen it. Never once had she abused her allowance.

And she had slept alone in it for nigh on five years.

"The money used to purchase the furnishings was mine," he explained with what felt like hateful patience. "Therefore the contents

of the house also belong to me."

She was inwardly quaking now; it was the feel, she thought, of the strands of her soul giving way, one by one.

"So I expect my clothes belong to you, too. Since your money purchased them." Her voice was deceptively calm.

"If you like, yes."

They stared at each other.

His face was cold, implacable as stone.

Her breath was a roar in her ears now.

She could almost hear a "plink" as the last fiber holding her being together finally snapped.

She clawed off one glove with violently shaking hands. "Take this, then." She flung it at him. She had the satisfaction of

seeing him blink. "Since it's yours."

She stripped off the other and whipped it at him. "Take this one, too."

"Alexa—"

"And this." She kicked off a slipper and punted it. It sailed toward him.

He dodged nimbly.

She kicked off the other, sending him dodging in the other direction.

Then she scrabbled at the laces on the back of her ball gown.

She roughly yanked it off over her head and whipped the dress at him. "TAKE IT! Since it is yours, too. Since nothing is mine. Not my skin, my clothes, not my life, not the air I breathe. Nothing in this world is mine. It's all yours. You

bought it. So take it. Do what you want! Take it all. Take it, take —"

She ducked and reflexively threw her hands up over her head when he lunged toward her with shocking speed.

Suddenly all was enveloping warmth and soft darkness.

She staggered backward. Somehow the backs of her knees met the settee.

She sank down onto it, shivering, and dropped her face into her hands. Half naked but engulfed by her husband's greatcoat. He'd whipped it off and surrounded her with it.

She could feel him gently adjusting it, tucking it around her shoulders.

She submitted to being tended to by her tormentor.

And then he must have stepped away.

The ensuing silence seemed to ring interminably.

She could hear her own breath, shuddering in and out into her palms. This must be what it feels like to be mad. I've gone mad , she thought. How horrifying. How humiliating.

How liberating .

It was all that was left to her. She had no weapons, no resources at all of her own. And more's the pity, it simply wasn't

in her to just surrender. Her downfall would clearly be messy and protracted.

What was he doing now, in this silence?

Staring at her in horror?

After what seemed an endless amount of time, she heard the unmistakable sound of the bung being pulled from the little decanter.

Then the gurgle of brandy into a glass.

"I don't want brandy," she said into her hands.

"I see."

He paused.

"Whiskey, then?"

This was almost funny. She had never forgotten that about him: the flashes of dry, incisive, irreverent humor. It took one by surprise. She had once found it as unexpected and delightful as a sudden brisk breeze in a closed room.

"I don't need to be medicated ."

"Fair enough," he said almost equably. "But I don't suppose there's any dishonor in numbing the shock of being reminded you

have a husband."

And what a husband. An imperious, unyielding bastard of a husband.

"Or in taking the edge off of spending a night in less than hospitable accommodations. Despite the clear benefit of the fact

that a number of children named Alexandra will likely be picking pockets in St. Giles in the near future."

This was sounding perilously close to conciliatory.

"Dishonor." The word was muffled by her hands. "Of course. My greatest concern at the moment."

But then, for Brightwall, she thought cynically, honor was never a small concern. And why should it be? He was an edifice.

An institution. He had earned every bit of it.

He'd protected her dignity and modesty immediately with his coat. Likely he'd suspected she could hardly sustain more regret.

But then, wasn't he renowned for always knowing what to do? For thinking and acting quickly?

Another silence stretched.

It was blessedly, blessedly quiet here at The Grand Palace on the Thames, she would give it that.

She was loath to look up from the safe darkness of her own palms.

"Inside coat pocket," he informed her.

She sighed heavily and reached into his large coat. Her searching fingers brushed over a little collection of the kinds of

homely things men carried about: something made of stiff paper, perhaps a theater ticket, a tiny box that might have been

for snuff, or perhaps a flint and steel—did he take snuff? Surely not. A few shilling coins.

How terribly odd and sad it seemed that she didn't know the kinds of things her husband tucked into his coat pockets.

It smelled of tobacco and woodsmoke, a hint of cloves, and perhaps a touch of horse. She didn't know why all of this together

should be comforting. Somehow it was.

Her hand emerged holding a handsome little silver flask. His initials were engraved upon it in fancy curlicues. It was the

sort of thing men were given as a gift.

She pulled the bung, took a breath as though she were about to wade into freezing water, and recklessly took her first-ever

gulp of whiskey.

She immediately coughed and spluttered.

Dear God. She might as well have poured fire down her throat.

Eyes streaming, she stared him, half in amazement, half in betrayal.

She'd had no idea about whiskey.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "It gets better in a moment."

Even as he said that, a blessed warmth was stealing through her solar plexus, and into her veins, it seemed, flowing like satin over the raw, jagged edges of her nerves.

"Oh, I understand whiskey now," she breathed.

His smile was fleeting, but real.

And so they sat together quietly.

She didn't apologize for throwing things.

He didn't apologize for being the icy, imperious bastard who had inspired her to throw things.

She supposed they tacitly agreed they were both entitled to be somewhat awful, given the circumstances.

A weighted detente of some sort seemed to settle. She tucked the whiskey back into his pocket.

Then again, over the course of his life, he'd been shot at by bullets and cannonballs, a few of which famously had not missed.

A hurled slipper or dress was child's play. If anything ever truly shook him, it was impossible to tell. Impassivity seemed

to be his special skill. Revealing vulnerabilities could get one killed in battle, she supposed. Perhaps it went bone deep.

Perhaps, despite his flashes of humor, he was merely an iceberg in Weston-cut clothes.

After all, a man had to be assumed invincible if he wanted to get men to follow him into battle and do all that fighting.

This was what she told herself, anyhow.

It was easier to believe this.

Because she sometimes awoke from fitful dreams of turning around that fateful night in that twilit garden, to find him standing there. A silent witness to her perfidy.

He'd been utterly motionless. His face white and stunned as if he had just taken a cannonball to the gut.