Dot put a finger to her lips and beckoned them with swoops of her hand. They scrambled down the stairs, each of them wearing identically worried expressions, although Mrs. Pariseau’s was also just a little thrilled. It wouldn’t be the first time a drama had unfolded in the foyer.
“The Earl of Highgrove, Miss Woodville’s brother, won a prize. A man has brought this prize to the door.” Dot was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to pause dramatically, which she did until everyone leaned closer. “He says the prize is a ‘she.’?”
Delilah, Angelique, and Mrs. Pariseau reared back, and they all hissed in breaths between their teeth.
“Andhe says that she’s tired and cranky,” Dot added, with relish.
Mr. Delacorte, happily full of breakfast, ambled through the foyer then, blinking in the sunlight. He was whistling softly and carrying his case of unusual medicines, on his way to visit a few apothecaries.
He halted when he saw the crowd. “Well! What’s the occasion?”
Dot took a breath in preparation for launching into her story again.
Miss Woodville was still staring accusingly at Mr. Marchand.
“Miss?” the man called plaintively from the other side of the door.
“I’ll take care of it,” Mr. Marchand said grimly.
He opened the door a few inches, slipped out, and closed it behind him.
Dot put an ear to the door and a finger to her lips while everyone crowded around her.
They staggered backward when the door swung open again seconds later.
Mr. Marchand reappeared in the doorway. His expression implied he was very carefully suppressing some unidentifiable emotion.
“Why don’t you all come out and meet her?” he suggested neutrally.
Quizzical glances darted between all those gathered.
Mr. Marchand stepped aside, flung open the door, and beckoned with a flourish.
Everyone nearly tripped over one another to get out into the courtyard.
Whereupon Mr. Delacorte stopped abruptly and clapped a hand to his chest.
A beatific smile spread slowly across his lips. A near-celestial radiance suffused him. His expression suggested that, like Job, he’d at last been rewarded for all the trials and noble sacrifices he’d lately endured. The torment of chess with Dot. The slings and arrows of Daniel’s crossed eyes and belly thumping.
“It seems your brother won a donkey, Miss Woodville.” Mr. Marchand gestured.
A little brown-and-white donkey, saddled and haltered, switched her tail and flicked her long ears. She sported long, long eyelashes and limpid, sweet brown eyes, much like Daniel Peck’s.
“EeeeAWWW!” she announced.
Mr. Delacorte beamed toward the sky, as if God himself had dropped it at their door.
“We can’t keep a donkey,” Miss Woodville said despairingly. “We don’tneeda donkey. Why did Hogarth wager for adonkey? We already have William, who eats enough for a whole herd of goats.”
“Hold on—William is agoat?” Mr. Marchand was indignant.
Ginny was impressed that he’d remembered what she’d said about William.
The donkey stretched out her neck, bared her teeth, and chomped the blooms off the violets Dot was holding.
Chapter Thirteen
After much fussing over and patting of the donkey, who quickly ate the rest of Dot’s flowers and seemed inclined to eat the little garden in front of the Grand Palace on the Thames as well, arrangements were made to board her for a few weeks in the adjacent livery stables by virtue of an intricate bargain with the stable owners involving a dozen of Helga’s scones, a week’s stay free of charge at the Grand Palace on the Thames, tickets to a program at a bawdy theater (which Mr. Delacorte had in his coat pocket), the current contents of the Epithet Jar, plus two pounds and two shillings and four pence, donated from the pockets of Mr. Marchand and Mr. Delacorte and the reticule of Miss Woodville.