"Ahah." It's a lower sound, that particularly insincere laugh. The one that always crops up when he's got something buried and doesn't intend for the whole world to know about it.

Just maybe one person, instead.

His thumb pinches faintly against her palm, a warmer sign of gratitude: someone else might've let it slip, after all. Where he lives. And if— even at a distance— someone were to overhear that, all the false gold would peel right off of him in an instant. The shine utterly gone.

"I'm afraid my home isn't suitably tended to at the moment. But...if you're not the sort to mind a little lack of polish, well. I'll be ready when you are."

It's the end of the night, after all. They've all likely drank, and chatted, and argued, and flattered, and danced to their fill— much like everyone else still lingering at a more subdued pace. If he takes his leave now, it's entirely possible Madame Baudin will exhale with so much relief it'll blow the rest of the guests right out the front door.

And wouldn't that be something.