Presently, the smoking room gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the sitting room.
Mrs. Pariseau and Mrs. Cuthbert had gone out together to see a play—somethingsedate, Mrs. Pariseau had assured a fussing Mrs. Cuthbert—and Corporal and Mrs. Dawson were out visiting friends for the evening. That left Mrs. Durand, Mrs. Hardy, Dot, and Alexandra, who had apparently just concluded a rousing game of whist and had taken up knitting and embroidery in order to recover their nerves. Alexandra had been loaned an embroidery hoop.
Captain Hardy settled in at a table with a book while Lucien headed upstairs, muttering something about a change of clothing.
Alexandra’s hands stilled on her embroidery when Magnus entered the room. She somberly tracked him with her eyes as he wended his way toward her and settled almost gingerly into an adjacent chair. Her expression was both intent and a trifle wary.
Whatever she saw in his eyes made her briefly duck her head down to the embroidery.
As if her lost composure could be located in her lap.
She looked quickly up again, aware that they had an audience. “How was the rest of your day?” she asked politely.
“Busy and satisfyingly productive. And yours?”
“It was lovely. I met a striped cat named Gordon.”
He smiled faintly. “Any day you meet a cat is a good day.”
She began to smile, too. Then her eyes darted away uncertainly, then she looked down at her lap again, and then at the wall.
He watched a flush travel along her collarbone and spill into her cheeks.
He stared at her profile. Ah, yes. He would warrant she’d been haunted all day by his last words to her before he closed that carriage door.
He thought he might have paid another five thousand pounds for her thoughts right at this moment.
Mr. Delacorte had settled in at a table, but his boot toe tapped restlessly. “The night is still young. I don’t suppose I can interest any of you gents in a donkey race on in an hour or so?” he asked hopefully.
“I beg your pardon, Delacorte? I hope ‘donkey race’ is not a euphemism,” Magnus said.
“Ha. Two splendid donkeys are on tonight. My favorites! The odds-on favorite is a big hairy chestnut-colored brute, built like a snorting brick on four legs, mean as a cuss,lovesto run.”
“Oh, he soundsadorable,” Dot enthused. “What is his name?”
Everyone swiveled toward Delacorte when he didn’t reply.
He cleared his throat. “Oh, is his name really important, in the scheme of things?” he said finally, cheerily. “He’s a donkey.”
“The donkey’s name is Brightwall, isn’t it?” Magnus said.
Every pair of eyes in the room widened.
Delacorte was clearly struggling with the truth. “Does it matter what he’s called? He’s a splendid beast,” he finally decided to say. “You’veneverseen a handsomer donkey.”
Magnus was thoroughly amused. “Where is this donkey race featuring Brightwall the Beast?”
Delacorte gave up. “The night races are held on some woods on the outskirts of Holland Park. They get up a makeshift track, it’s all lit by torches, and you can make wagers and everything. It’s a wonderful time.”
“Sounds quite illegal,” Magnus remarked pleasantly.
“Oh, it is,” Delacorte assured him.
There fell a little silence.
“Who’s he racing against?” Brightwall wanted to know.
“Another excellent jenny named Shillelagh.”
