Chapter 5 #2
Lamentation was cheerfully gesturing around the room with the coal scuttle, introducing Mr. Theophilus Wall—“our chef, very experienced”—and Mrs. Eugénie Wall, who was, evidently, Pomeroy House’s secretary.
Why Lamentation thought a mansion would need its own secretary, Archer could not begin to guess.
The tall freckled one—Miss Drake, Archer thought she was called—cast a suspicious glance at Wall. “The chef, is it? It certainly smells . . . pungent down here.”
Lamentation opened his mouth again, presumably to bring up the puppies, but Archer clapped his hand on Lamentation’s shoulder to silence him.
He smiled at the ladies-in-waiting. It was a real smile, now that he was sure of his plan, not the pasted-on grimace he’d managed that morning.
And then he did something he was good at.
He started to lie.
“Yes,” he said warmly. “Mr. Wall is our chef. He’s been with the Monfalcone royal family for nearly a decade. A personal favorite of the di Sangro princes and princesses. And in honor of your arrival, he’s concocted one of his specialties.”
All of his people were staring at him like he’d gone off his head, so he took Lady Ruby by the elbow and gently pivoted her away from the crew. “Lamentation. Gerry. Can you prepare plates for the ladies-in-waiting?”
Lamentation’s face could probably have served as an illustration of the word agog. “Plates of the—”
“Yes,” Archer said firmly. “The potage à la reine. Isn’t that what you call it, Wall? The queen’s favorite soup?”
Wall emitted a strangled sound.
“I think you will all find the yellow parlor most commodious,” Archer told the ladies-in-waiting. He piloted Lady Ruby by the elbow back down the hallway, and the other two fell into place behind him.
“The yellow parlor?” Lady Ruby repeated. “Did we pass that one on the way in?”
He grinned as he directed her down a series of winding halls and corridors. By God, he was almost enjoying himself now. “Why, no. You didn’t.”
The house had been odd even before Archer had moved in, outfitted with strange and vaguely sinister furnishings. One of the chambers—the one he had in mind—had been forbidding enough that even the hounds had hesitated to enter.
“Here we are,” he said brightly. He opened the door and gestured inside. “You may dine here.”
Not a single one of them moved.
The room was not overlarge. It boasted a single small window, which permitted just enough sunlight to illuminate the walls and decorations.
Everything—every single thing in the room, so far as Archer could tell—was covered in a motif of lions.
They twined rampant around chair legs and roamed across the upholstery.
Toothy, roaring mouths inscribed the corbels, and the western wall held a tapestry that featured more lions, along with gazelles, giraffes, and a bloodcurdling display of viscera.
Nearly everything was tipped in gilt, so that the general effect was one of golden carnivorous terror.
He smiled wider. And then he held out his hand, palm up. “The yellow parlor.”
The dark-haired one—Lady Alice, the one who had taken the puppy—had her hand at her breastbone, as if to keep her heart from beating out of her chest. Miss Drake looked nearly as dismayed as Lamentation had when Archer had ordered him to serve dogs’ marrow jelly as if it were a delicate French soup.
But Lady Ruby—
Bleeding, bloody, bollocking Christ, why was she so unpredictable?
She was smiling again, this time a delighted, astonished sort of smile, her gray-blue eyes shining like stars. She leapt across the threshold of the terrible room and started to run her fingers over the decorations on the walls.
“This is fascinating!” she exclaimed. “A whole boudoir dedicated to such a collection.” Her fingers traced the lines of embroidery thread in the tapestry with such palpable tactile pleasure that Archer’s skin prickled.
“This imagery recalls to me the Herculaneum collection, and yet there is something reminiscent of Tentyris in the ornament of the aediculae. Do you know who designed this room?”
He kept his smile pasted on his face, though he wanted to scowl. Bloody academics. She was meant to be frightened of the room’s leonine horrors, not prepared to write a monograph about them.
“I can’t say that I do,” he said. Another idea occurred to him, and he kept talking.
“The Monfalcone representative in London knows everything there is to know about the history of Pomeroy House, however. You might put your questions to him directly.” Perhaps if he could not frighten her off with architectural elements, he could send her bounding home in search of some greater expertise than his own.
But to his surprise, Lady Ruby paused in the act of stroking the tapestry. Her lips parted and she yanked her hand away and thrust it behind her back. Her expression of eager curiosity dimmed and then went out altogether, like an extinguished flame. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I will.”
Before Archer could summon a reply, Gerry and Lamentation made their way into the room, bearing crystal and silver and an air of beleaguered discombobulation.
They plopped the plates down on the glimmering lion table with a clatter—obviously neither of them had ever actually seen a footman—and Archer found himself ushering Lady Ruby into a chair.
Her skirts coasted over his shoes as she sat. Her mouth, which was pink and lush above her pointed chin, compressed just a trifle as she took in the slimy reddish substance on the plates.
Archer manfully held back a shudder. The marrow jelly was certainly edible—Wall wouldn’t have prepared it if it wasn’t—but the sight of it was . . .
Well. Wall had made it for the puppies, who were considerably less discerning about the appearance of their foodstuffs than your average London debutante.
He bent, just slightly, toward Lady Ruby. “The favorite of the Monfalcone queen,” he murmured. “I hope you enjoy.”
She tipped her head up to face him straight on, and he felt something catch in his brain, some scrape and spark as their gazes locked. It was those damned eyes of hers: clear and serious. She wasn’t charmed, this woman—but neither was she afraid.
This close, he could make out her perfume, warm and moody and not too sweet. It reminded him of . . . of things that had no scent. Rich, soft velvet. Amber. The wooden hull of his own Delphinium, polished and gleaming in the sun.
His breath snagged in his chest.
And then her chin came up. Her fingers closed around the soup spoon that Lamentation had dropped beside her plate. And as he watched her dip the spoon into the marrow jelly, he thought of Gravesmuir’s party. Pictured her there, with a sudden uneasy alarm.
She was stubborn, this woman. Determined. A great, galloping storm of public censure had not put her off her chosen course.
Perhaps this would not be as easy as he’d supposed.
“Thank you, Captain Archer,” she said coolly. “I do intend to enjoy my time here.”
And without taking her eyes from his, she dipped her spoon in the marrow jelly, smiled grimly at him, and took a bite.