The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time Delaney reached her front door. Her house was not a grand estate like Hamilton House. It was not even a comfortable townhouse like the ones her clients inhabited. It was a narrow, squeeze of a building on a quiet street in Chelsea. The paint was peeling slightly around the door frame, and the third step creaked if you looked at it the wrong way.
But it was hers. Or at least, the rent was paid for another month.
Delaney fumbled with her key. Her fingers were cold and stiff. Finally, the lock turned with a rusty clack, and she pushed the door open.
She stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind her, sliding the heavy bolt into place. A single woman living alone could never be too careful.
She leaned her back against the wooden door and closed her eyes. She let out a long, shuddering breath. The silence of the house wrapped around her. Utter silence. The kind of silence she longs for after a long day.
"Home," she whispered.
She pushed herself off the door and walked into the small sitting room. It was neat and tidy, mostly because she did not own enough things to make a mess.
She dragged herself up the narrow staircase to her bedroom. The room was small. It held a narrow bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a vanity table that had seen better days.
Delaney walked to the vanity. She struck a match against the rough strip on the side of the box. The flame flared to life, smelling of sulfur. She lit the single tallow candle sitting in the brass holder.
The soft, yellow light flickered, casting long shadows against the walls.
Delaney turned to the mirror. She looked at herself. The gray dress looked even drabber in the candlelight.
"I'm so tired," she muttered. "Need to get this off."
She reached around to her back. She began to undo the buttons. There were twenty of them. It was a daily torture. Her fingers worked, popping each button through its loop.
Finally, the bodice loosened. Delaney peeled the fabric down her arms. She stepped out of the heavy wool skirt and kicked it aside.
She stood in her chemise and petticoats, shivering slightly in the cool air. She picked up the gray dress. She folded it neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles with the palm of her hand. Even if she hated it, she had to take care of it. It was her armor.
She walked to the wardrobe and pulled the doors open.
It was a sea of gray.
There were charcoal gray dresses. Dove gray dresses. Slate gray dresses. And for special occasions, a very daring mushroom-colored dress.
There was not a single ribbon of blue. Not a scrap of pink silk. Not a hint of yellow.
Delaney reached in and pulled out a fresh dress. It was identical to the one she had just taken off. She laid it on the solitary wooden chair in the corner.
"A thrilling selection, Delaney," she said to the empty room. "Will you be the gray mouse tomorrow? Or perhaps the gray rock?"
She smiled a little. She was content with it. Colorful birds got noticed. Colorful birds got shot at. Gray mice survived.
She poured water from the pitcher into the basin on the washstand. The water was cold. She gasped as she splashed it onto her face and neck, scrubbing away the dust of London. She washed with a bar of lavender soap—her one luxury.
After she was clean, she changed into her white cotton nightgown. It was simple and soft, worn thin at the elbows.
She sat down at the vanity and pulled the pins from her hair. Her dark curls tumbled down her back, hitting her waist. They were thick and heavy. Without the severe bun, she looked younger. She looked less like "The Expert" and more like the girl she used to be.
Her eyes drifted to the small leather bag sitting on the table.
She remembered the collision. She remembered the Duke's large hands steadying her. She remembered the way he had knelt in the mud, ruining his expensive breeches to save her work.
She reached into the bag and pulled out the stack of damp papers.
The ink had run. The notes were a blurry mess of black smudges.
Delaney sighed. She ran a finger over the ruined page.
"I am glad the Ellingwood match was a success nevertheless," she murmured.
She thought of Rowan's face. He had been so handsome it was almost offensive. And he had been so… shiny.
"That oaf," she said, shaking her head. "He almost made me lose money." She mimicked his voice in annoyance.
'I was looking at my watch.' You are prickly, Madam."
She felt even more annoyed, but then she tapped her temple with her index finger.
"Thank goodness I have a memory like a steel trap," she whispered. "I memorized the contents of the Roulet file last night. Lord Roulet wants a title for his daughter. He is willing to pay double for a Duke."
She paused. A Duke.
"No," she said firmly. "Not that Duke. I will find Lady Belle someone else. Someone who is self aware."
She pushed the papers aside. It was time for the most important ritual of the night.
Delaney opened the top drawer of her vanity.
Inside, sitting comfortably on the velvet lining, were three tin containers. They were old tea tins, battered and scratched. She had painted a word on each one in white paint.
The first tin said: DEBT.
The second tin said: JUSTICE.
The third tin said: FREEDOM.
Delaney reached for her purse. She poured the coins onto the table. The gold and silver clattered cheerfully against the wood. It was the payment from the Baron's wedding.
She began to count.
"One pound. Two. Three..."
Her fingers moved deftly. She stacked the coins into neat little towers.
"Fifty pounds," she said. "A good haul."