“It’s just a little something I began to enjoy in the country, and I’ve heard of it occurring in London, too.”
(Secretly, both Delilah and Angelique fervently, fervently hoped this embarrassing thing wasn’t the Vicar’s Wheelbarrow. They still now and again needed to turn men away at the door who came looking for it.)
Mr. Bellingham cleared his throat. “I don’t supposethere’s any hope of persuading any of you to . . . well . . . go with me to a . . .” he lowered his voice self-consciously “. . . donkey race?”
Mr. Delacorte sat bolt upright.
Then went as rigid as a statue.
His face blanked.
He rose slowly, slowly to his feet, hands braced against the table.
Then sat down again.
Then shot again to his feet.
He opened his mouth. No sound emerged.
Everyone in the room witnessed history being made: Mr. Delacorte was too excited to speak.
“Bellingham...” he finally managed, in a voice hoarse with emotion. “I fecking...” He closed his eyes, and then swore again softly. “I feckinglovedonkey races.”
“Oh, truly, Mr. Delacorte?” Mr. Bellingham was delighted and relieved. “Do you mean it? It’s just so funny! I mean—the jockeys trying to cling to them! Their little hindquarters are so droll when they run, don’t you think?”
“So are Lord Bolt’s, when he runs,” Mrs. Pariseau murmured.
Nearly every head in the room whipped toward her in shock.
Mrs. Pariseau widened her eyes innocently at them. “Oh, come now, I’d only got atinyglimpse of his hindquarters when he flew over the balcony in only his shirt. I could nothelpbut see. Should I put a pence as penance in the jar?” she said contritely. “I think I shall. I have never before made a visit to the jar and I should feel very daring if I did.”
“Don’t let us stop you, Mrs. Pariseau,” Mrs. Hardy said sweetly. And quellingly.
The contents of the epithet jar often bought the morning newspapers, thanks to Mr. Delacorte.
It looked like the jar was going to get a lot of traffic tonight.
“I think Maggie may have gotten a bit of a look at his frontquarters,” Delacorte said frankly. “Which is why she fainted.”
Lord Bolt slowly raised his head from the chessboard and stared purely astounded daggers at Delacorte.
“Lucien... are youblushing?” Angelique murmured, peering closely at her husband.
It was possible history was being made for the second time tonight.
She was torn between defending him and enjoying it, because it was admittedly bloody funny, and she’d had a little sherry, too.
At the table behind Lord Bolt, Captain Hardy’s eyes had practically vanished with stifled mirth.
“I wonder if hindquarters ought to be a jar word,” Lord Bolt said tautly. “Also ‘frontquarters.’”
“Indeed. Look what you’ve done to poor Mr. Bellingham, you two,” Mrs. Hardy said reproachfully.
Mr. Bellingham had gone the shade of a tomato.
Aurelie was, in truth, blushing, too, though she very much wanted to laugh. It was easier to laugh now that Hawkes was alive.
She surreptitiously watched him to see if he was enjoying himself, and it seemed very clear that he was, and he was decidedlynotblushing. She was pleased, because she frankly loved this room, and this kind of discourse. She could imagine days upon days just like this. Every one a little different, and yet reassuringly the same.
