Page 66 of Miss Devoted
“Do you know everybody, Hazel?”
“I chose not to know him, in a certain sense. Selfish men, however charming they can be, often fall short when a lady has needs.”
Psyche felt a mad urge to laugh. “I admire you, Hazel, but I do not understand you.”
“Because you are asleep on your feet and too virtuous for your own good. Tell me how I can help with Mr. Delancey’s situation.”
This conversation was a significant departure from the house rules. Discretion, privacy, manners. “You will enable my meddling? Involve yourself in my affairs? This could get quite messy, Hazel. Michael faces a real possibility of ending his days on the gallows.”
Hazel’s intention wasn’t clear as she crossed the room. Psyche at first thought her objective was to tidy Psyche’s unbound hair, to adjust the draperies, to—"
Hazel’s arms came around her. “I would not meddle in your affairs, you daft idiot. I wouldsupport your causes. You took me in when I was living in near squalor, you never judge me for my many foolish indulgences, you let me cluck and carp, and without you, I would have had no choice but to accommodate the selfish men or consign myself to marrying another selfish man. There is nothing I would not do for you, Psyche.”
For one moment, Psyche allowed herself to be comforted, to be warmed by Hazel’s fierce affection and fiercer honesty.
“Thank you.” She stepped back. “Thank you very much, and if you don’t need the coach, I do.”
“You’re off to see Mr. Delancey?”
“No, but I have calls to make.”
“Psyche…”
Hazel would not beg, but she could reproach with silence and fume while smiling. Besides that, she knew everybody, and she was no stranger to heartache. Why hadn’t Psyche realized that sooner?
“Very well,” Psyche said. “Wehave calls to make.”
Hazel’s smile would have lit up heaven itself. “Of course we do, but, my dear, one does not go into battle exhausted. You nap. I will catch up on my correspondence, and when the day has advanced to a decent hour, we will summon the coach.”
Psyche wanted to make those calls now, and to flaming perdition with decent hours and napping.
She yawned. She considered what was at stake. “A bit of a lie-down might not hurt.”
“I’ll wake you at noon.”
ChapterFourteen
“I am here on the recommendation of Mrs. Psyche Fremont,” Michael said, “and that of Mr. Henderson.”
The print shop was cozy, a pot-bellied stove radiating heat from one corner, the counters littered with the tools of an engraver’s trade. A slightly chemical scent hung over the place. The walls displayed various renderings of flowers, horses, children, and churches, as well as a few pen-and-ink sketches of cats, dogs, and birds.
The majority of the fare on offer was pretty or whimsical or merely pleasant. Competent art, intended to add a light, gracious touch to a parlor, kitchen, or bedroom.
Psyche’s flower girls had a wall to themselves, and seen as a group, they had even greater impact than when viewed singly. Thin faces, swollen bellies, radiant flowers, and blighted hopes.
Ricardo’s genial-shop-owner smile remained in place, while his gaze became subtly sharper. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing, sir?”
“Mr. Michael Delancey,” he said, bowing slightly. “I am not in the market for a print, though I admire Henderson’s flower girls.”
Ricardo gestured to the framed set on the wall behind the counter. “Half of London admires them, while Henderson seems to think only grand portraits and dull landscapes deserve artistic respect. If you can inspire our friend to finish the series, I would be most obliged. I’m three short of the full set.”
“I will do my best.”Provided Psyche and I are on the same continent.
Michael had left her on her doorstep the previous evening, then returned to Circle Lane. There, he’d had a long talk with Mrs. Harris and Finny and tucked Bea in according to the usual routine, as if tragedy was not looming two and a half days away. His travels had next taken him to Meg’s, where he’d been served surprisingly good ale, along with a short homily on the stupidity of playing by the rules when opposing a cheat.
Meg’s sermon had stuck with him as he’d crossed the Thames, and when he’d sent a note to Lambeth a few hours ago pleading illness. He was ill—sick with worry and anger.
“If you aren’t here to buy a print, and you don’t have the look of the starving artist, and I doubt you are a journeyman engraver, then what brings you to my doorstep, Mr. Delancey?”
