Chapter Three #3
If he hadn’t vanquished any inclination toward that most pointless of all emotions years ago.
He paced restlessly before the hearth.
Finally, he settled onto a settee, surrendering almost reluctantly to its comfort.
He idly contemplated how he might refurnish this room when he owned the building. These days, if he wanted something—anything—he
generally got it. Resourceful ruthlessness was another of the gifts he’d taken from St. Giles.
He swiftly rose to his feet again at the sound of footsteps crossing the foyer.
The two lovely women approaching—a brunette in maroon silk and a blonde in brown—were smiling at him as if he were the prodigal son returned at last. This mordantly amused him.
People looked at him in a lot of different ways, but this was never one of them.
“Mr. Marchand, I’m Mrs. Hardy and this is Mrs. Durand.” Mrs. Hardy was the brunette. “We were growing concerned! We’re so
delighted you’ve arrived safely.”
He bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Lord Bolt made this place sound like a paradise when he told me about it, and
I can see nothing to contradict his opinion of it. I apologize for arriving so late or for causing concern. My meeting with
a potential new colleague went longer than I anticipated and hacks were surprisingly scarce this evening.”
“Please do not worry about it, Mr. Marchand. I know Lucien wanted to be here to greet you, but you can blame me for his absence.
I insisted he go on up to sleep, as he and Captain Hardy have an early start tomorrow morning. He is looking forward to your
stay.”
“I look forward to spending time with him again as well. I’ve never seen a man look so contented. I’m told the food here is
remarkable. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a finer chandelier.”
He was apparently saying all the right things, because the ladies’ faces went brilliant with pleasure.
“We won’t keep you, Mr. Marchand, as it sounds as though you’ve had a long day and no doubt you would like to get up to your
room,” Mrs. Hardy said. “We’ve got the fire burning hot and high in there for you. Perhaps you would like some drinking chocolate
brought up, or some tea?”
The words “fire” and “chocolate” sounded absurdly seductive to Marchand.
“But first, why don’t we have a seat here while you take a look at our rules to make certain you feel able to comply with them before you decide to stay.” Mrs. Durand handed him a little printed card.
What the devil? Bolt hadn’t mentioned any conditions, either.
The ladies and Marchand settled opposite each other on the pink settees.
He bent his head 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.
Most of those rules were sensible. But he wasn’t at all certain how he felt about being required to dine and discourse spiritedly
with a house full of strangers for the next few weeks. It had been eons since he’d been required to do something he didn’t want to do. He was fairly certain he’d lost the knack.
Despite himself, he was pleased he’d squeaked in under the Grand Palace on the Thames’s curfew tonight. Many would be surprised
to learn that a man who oversaw veritable nightly orgies of spending and drinking was punctual to a fault.
“I’m curious as to what constitutes spirited discourse,” he ventured politely.
“Oh, we have great fun in the sitting room,” Mrs. Durand told him. “Our guest Mrs. Pariseau often reads stories aloud, and
she does all the voices for the characters. Sometimes others take a turn. We like Greek myths, and horrid novels, and we’ve
been reading The Arabian Nights Entertainments lately. And last night we all went around and said what tree we would be if we were trees, instead of people.”
After a moment he repeated, politely, “Trees?” And by that he meant you have got to be bloody joking.
They nodded cheerfully in tandem.
He inspected them for signs of mischief, but both ladies were admirably inscrutable.
“Discussions can get a bit, well, heated at times, which is always exciting,” Mrs. Hardy added.
“We’ve several avid chess players under our roof, too, if you play. But if you’re feeling a bit shy about socializing, you
can bring down a book or some correspondence and just quietly sit with us.”
Shy? He narrowed his eyes. He had the sense that he was being lured into some sort of trap, the nature of which he could not quite
identify. He tried to picture Bolt, who had once raced his high-flyer down Bond Street and often had to be extricated from
fistfights, sitting about and comparing himself to a tree.
Though when he looked into Mrs. Durand’s lovely hazel eyes it was a little easier to imagine how that had come to pass.
Domesticity was a religion to which Marchand did not subscribe. He did not aspire to a wife. And he was almost never at leisure.
He worked; he went to operas and musicales and horse races and boxing matches; he took fencing lessons and fired guns at Manton’s;
he enjoyed short-lived but satisfying carnal liaisons that often ended tempestuously, because he was “not an easy man,” or
so he was frequently told, and which was certainly putting it lightly. He didn’t suppose any of this would be changing anytime
soon.
Though he’d gotten considerably more cautious about entanglements as he’d grown older. He’d learned the cost.
“Certainly I’m happy to comply with your rules for the duration of my stay. I, in fact, also have a similar list of rules for conduct for my gentleman’s club. Men in particular need to be told how to behave, don’t you think?”
They all laughed together knowingly.
Lucifer’s Fall’s list of rules was shorter: Discretion, of course, as he’d told Miss Woodville, was one of them. Repeated
violence—a man would be forgiven one or two thrown punches—would get a member suspended. Cheating was the cardinal sin. A
man would be expelled from the club and the proverbial social earth salted of his name if he cheated. Marchand would personally
see to it. He’d needed to do this only once before, to a nefarious viscount, and witnessing the results had apparently put
the fear of God—or rather, Marchand—into the other members. The man had ultimately left the country.
“We’ve set aside a smoking room for men to temporarily escape the shackles of etiquette, should you find them too suffocating.”
Mrs. Hardy apparently sensed the run of his thoughts.
“Oh, thank God.”
Thankfully they laughed at that, too.
“Have you ever evicted anyone?” He pointed to that particular rule on the card.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hardy said simply.
His curiosity burned.
He thought better of asking them to expound. A warm room and drinking chocolate awaited him.
Surely he could follow a few rules in order to advance his agenda. Which was, of course, getting them to sell the building
to him.
“Certainly I’m happy to comply with your rules.” His staff was smart and well-trained. They could do without him for a few nights per week. “And drinking chocolate would be a very civilized way to end my day, thank you.”
“We’re so pleased you want to stay,” Mrs. Hardy told him, sounding sincere. “Dot will bring up your chocolate.” She produced a room
key from a jingling set at her waist. “It’s the third floor, last on the left. Mr. Pike will help you with your valise, if
you like.”
He thanked them, and politely declined Mr. Pike’s assistance.
He wondered if they would have indeed thrown him out tonight if he didn’t agree to the rules. He rather thought they would
have, just as warmly as they’d welcomed him. Perversely, he approved. It hadn’t before occurred to him that implacability
could also be kind.