Angelique looked up at Miss Wylde, wordlessly, and she waited for any hint of the sensations she’d felt when she’d first read it—the shock, the horror, the shame.
She found, oddly, that she felt nothing at all but gratitude. Revisiting the moment reminded her of how far she’d come; it was a bit like reading a page from an old diary about someone she used to be. It was a reminder that she, Lucien, and The Grand Palace on the Thames had survived such casual ugliness because they were all surrounded by such love.
But Miss Wylde had worriedly sunk her teeth into her bottom lip.
“I . . . I thought . . . this Mrs. Breedlove is a woman who knows that life takes many twists and turns. And while I don’t believe you were ever a doxie—because, regardless of a few, er, decisions I have made, I am not—I thought that if any part of this is true, you might be inclined to . . .” she gulped a breath “. . . believe me when I say that things are not as the gossip sheets would have you believe. What they wrote isn’t true. Even if I can appreciate how the saucy little pairing of ‘Harlot’ and ‘Haywood Street’ is so very, very tempting for a gossip writer.” She said this tautly.
Delilah and Angelique were quiet for a few pensive moments.
Angelique quirked the corner of her mouth. “Your insight is uncanny, Miss Wylde. It’s convenient to blame the woman for things, especially when a man of power is involved.”
“I am not claiming to be utterly blameless. But I am not to blame, if that makes sense. You look happy now, and that . . . gives me hope. And this place is just so beautiful,” she said wistfully. She turned her head this way and that to take in the worn but pretty settees in shades of rose, the flowers on the mantel.
This was precisely the right thing to say to these women.
“I will understand if you prefer not to keep me here in light of the scandal. But if I’ve a roof over my head for a day or two”—she was already negotiating—“I can perhaps get word to Signor Giannini, in the hopes that he can pay me the balance of what he owes me for my performances so far, and then I can head for Scotland, where my mother has gone to live with a cousin.” This had been deemed more practical than Mariana and her mother attempting to squeeze into the tiny room on Haywood Street that Mariana could afford.
Her poor mother. You’re destined for greatness, Mariana, she’d always predicted. How on earth would she ever be able to tell her what had happened?
There was a little silence.
“Well, Miss Wylde,” Mrs. Hardy said. “We do thank you for your candor. It is our custom to take a few minutes to privately discuss whether we ought to admit a potential new guest, as the safety and comfort of all of our current guests is paramount, and we like to make certain the atmosphere here remains congenial for all. If you’d like to review our rules to see if you have any objection to them while we have a chat, do feel free.” She handed Miss Wylde a little card printed with the rules of The Grand Palace on the Thames. “Meanwhile, please drink more tea. We suspect you need it.”
Delilah and Angelique opened the door of the reception room to the frantic scuffle of slippers on marble, then the thunder of footsteps retreating up the stairs. Fleeing maids.
Delilah sighed. Eavesdropping maids could be dealt with in the morning. At least the foyer was empty now and the chandelier doused.
As was their habit, they crossed into the main sitting room, the site of much merriment, familial joy, knitting, spillikins, secret lust, a pantomime pirate battle, and on at least two occasions, vigorous sex.
The fire was still burning but was scarcely more than a glow. They both pulled their shawls tightly about them, thinking wistfully of the warm husbands waiting for them in their snug rooms.
“I like her,” Delilah said at once, in a whisper. “And I believe her.”
“So do I. Furthermore I think I know what else you’re thinking, Delilah . . .”
“And?” Delilah’s breath seemed to be held.
Angelique bit her lip. “It could work,” she said.
Delilah gave a little hop. “Oh, Angelique! She landed on our doorstep like a gift! Well, she would have been more of a coup before two fools decided to shoot each other over her, but now we can afford her. We can ask her to sing for one night in exchange for her board. We’ll send out invitations . . . sell tickets . . .”
“But the costs involved.”
“And the fun involved!” Delilah brought her hands together in a little clasp as she thought of something. “Angelique . . . we can decorate the ballroom with bunting! And flowers!”
“Bunting, yes. But flowers are an outrageous expense. And we can’t completely denude the blossoms in our little park outside.”
Delilah thought furiously.
“Tissue flowers?” she ventured on a whisper. “Can you see it?”
Angelique was silent. She pressed her lips together. “Delilah, I think my pulse is racing.”
They both muffled laughs.
“We’ll have a program printed. We’ll call it . . .” Delilah swept a hand out dramatically “. . . the Night of the Nightingale.”
“Sublime! But the cost of printing tickets and programs and ads in the newspaper . . .”
“Well. We’ll do the usual.”
The usual was to beg, borrow, trade, barter, charm, and occasionally gracefully coerce to get the things they needed for The Grand Palace on the Thames. Partially out of thrift, as their fortunes did tend to fluctuate, and partially out of the pure joy of the sport. They could make quite a bit of what they needed by hand. Actually purchasing something besides food was usually for when all else failed.
“But a mob wanted to kill her tonight, she says. Will we make a target of her if she’s onstage?”
“Well, they’ll have to buy expensive tickets to kill her,” Angelique said.
“Angelique!” Delilah pretended to be scandalized.
“In all seriousness, my sense is that many aristocrats like to get a good look at those they’re judging so they can feel superior,” Angelique added.
Delilah had once been married to an earl, which made her a countess, and she knew this was true. “Will they pay to experience that particular delicious sensation?”
“They should be so lucky! She’s extraordinarily talented. But we shall sell some tickets at a lower price, too, and perhaps give a few away, because everyone deserves to hear her, not just the rich.”
“Oh, yes. That is, if she agrees to do it.”
“If she agrees.”
“And besides, no one will be able to lay a finger on her, especially with Captain Hardy and his former regiment in attendance.”
“Oh, are they coming, too?” Angelique asked.
Delilah laughed softly.
“It’s a gamble,” Angelique said.
“Literally every moment of our lives, from the moment I hired Dot to this place, to Tristan, to Lucien, has been a gamble. And yet here we are.”
They looked across the foyer, where poor Miss Wylde’s head was drooping into her chest.
“Let’s get her tucked into a room for the evening and tell her our idea in the morning before we get carried away,” Delilah said.
“Oh, Delilah, you may be forgetting about something. Or rather . . . someone.”