Which is when two fingers clamped onto the flesh of her bottom and squeezed.
“SHITE!” she shrieked and whirled about.
To find Daniel Peck staring up at her.
His eyes were twice their usual saucer size in absolute astonishment.
His little hands were clamped over his mouth.
Her heart was thundering. She covered it with her hand and pulled in a breath.
Delilah was stunned. She had never so much as muttered that word aloud in her life—not as a verb, noun, or adjective. Ever. She’d been acountess, for heaven’s sake, and before that the daughter of a baron, scrupulously raised to be as perfect as possible. It simply did not ever spring to her lips.
“All right. I ought not have said that word, Daniel,” she said carefully. “But you pinched my bottom. You startled me. That wasn’t nice atall. You mustn’t ever do that to people.”
“It’s a bad word?” His face was brilliant with thrilled realization. “You said a bad word!”
Oh, dear God. She could foresee where this was going, and she knew there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Daniel, sweetheart. Where is your mother? Your nurse?” Delilah craned her head desperately down the stairs.
He turned around.
“Shite!” he incanted merrily under his breath, as he hopped down the stairs. “Shite shite shite shite shite.”
One “shite” per stair.
That evening, someone else at the Grand Palace on the Thames uttered an astonishing word.
“Check,” Dot said quietly.
All the guests were in for the night, and every single head swiveled toward Dot and Mr. Delacorte in surprise.
If Dot had indeed checked Mr. Delacorte’s king, it would be quite a milestone.
More specifically: It would be a miracle.
“Check, Ithink,” she amended. “Am I right, Mr. Delacorte? Is it a check?”
Mr. Delacorte peered at the chessboard.
“I’ll be da—” He darted a look at the Epithet Jar.
Dot’s bishop had been lurking behind the knight she’d just moved. Voila! It was now checking the king.
Delacorte was cautiously pleased with his pupil.
He gently moved his knight to block her check. “Well done, Dot.”
“All the credit goes to Sir Percy,” Dot said humbly. “He did it on behalf of the queen. He is in love with her.”
“Who is Sir...” Mr. Delacorte stopped. He did not want to encourage this.
Dot pointed to the knight she’d just moved.
Behind Dot and Mr. Delacorte, Ginny had been dealt into a game of whist with Mrs. Durand and Mrs. Hardy. Given that the trail for the vase seemed to have gone cold, she felt a little guilty about thoroughly enjoying the evening’s dinner—a stew with lots of things in it, all of them delicious—then going on to recreate with a game of cards. Though she supposed even people on the way to the gallows enjoyed a last meal.
A pistol had been aimed at her today, besides. She needed to replenish the strength that a few moments of potent terror had leached away. She could not sustain hope if she was starving. And rules were rules.