Chapter 27

"Why a rabbit?" Dominic asked.

Ahead of him Valentine jumped into the carriage, then leaned back and pulled his sister up by her wrist. Dominic winced, picturing

a dislocated shoulder, but Florence disappeared into the shady depths of the barouche without screaming in agony.

"You yourself pointed out that the children are having trouble painting rabbits because they've never seen one alive," Torie

said, as if that was truly important.

Which it was, but only in a world where accurately painting rabbits was important. Dominic caught himself before he ventured

that opinion: his wife would say that rabbits were important in her world, and she was right.

Torie stepped onto the box that Simons had placed below the carriage door and took the groom's hand to enter the carriage.

Watching her hand held by another man pushed Dominic to wrestle with a tangle of emotions, a state that he never cared for.

He wished he was bedding his wife. That was acceptable. He didn't care for her touching another man's hand. That was unacceptable.

It hinted at an unmanly subjugation to his wife . His father's voice in his head informed him that there was nothing more effeminizing than feverish attachment to one's wife.

"What will happen to the animal after it has been immortalized in paint?" he asked as he sat down beside Torie.

"Rabbit stew," Valentine said enthusiastically. "One of my favorites."

Torie snuggled next to him, her hand sneaking into his.

Before the morning, he might have established a manly distance and commanded the household, the way his father had taught

him to do.

Now?

After she let him crush her to the bed and begged for more? After she gasped and cried and even screamed? After she licked

him, and spread her legs—

He wrenched his mind away. He had no greatcoat, and he was wearing pantaloons that wouldn't disguise a cock-rise.

"May I see what rapier you're wearing today?" Valentine asked.

Dominic put a hand on his glass-studded hilt and withdrew the blade just enough so that Val could see it wasn't matte black.

"May I have that one when you're dead?" Valentine asked. "It's beautiful."

"I shall add it to my will," Dominic said, thinking that the twins were altogether too familiar with the idea of death. Hopefully

he and Torie would live into old age, and the children would stop thinking about inheritances and ghosts.

He hadn't been to Smithfield in a decade or more, but from what he saw through the window of the coach, nothing had changed. The huge field was dotted with pens stuffed with animals, surrounded by crowds of men smoking, brawling, and trading money. Innumerable hounds wove their way around a forest of legs, barking vociferously and adding to the lowing of unhappy cattle. A small herd of goats was bleating loud enough to be heard distinctly amidst the discord.

The moment the barouche door opened, the smell struck like a blow to the face: manure, urine, and mud, mixed with salt, juniper,

pepper, cinnamon, and all the other spices used to preserve meat. Jumping down, Florence took it in gulps; Valentine wrinkled

his nose. Torie clasped Dominic's hand to step down, turned rather pale, and slapped a handkerchief to her nose.

Florence's boots were sinking in filth. "Ew," she said, pulling up one foot and examining the clumps of reeking manure. The

carriage had necessarily drawn up along the same route by which cattle were driven to market.

"I've never seen so many people," Valentine breathed.

"You haven't been to a county fair?" Dominic asked.

His nephew shook his head. "Nanny didn't like us to leave the nursery because we always seemed to get dirty."

Dominic gritted his teeth, once again blaming himself for having no idea that his sister was erratic at best in her parenting

skills, if not entirely neglectful.

The crowd surging around the pens seemed virtually impenetrable, a ragged mob of odorous, sweaty men bellowing and quarreling,

roaring for attention and gasping for breath amidst clouds of brown dirt kicked up by cows desperate to free themselves from

the shoddy corrals.

"Do you see the drovers with their flat red caps?" Simons asked Valentine and Florence. "They're in charge of bringing the stock to market. Those with brown caps are countrymen who raise cows. Then there's the butchers, choosing a good animal to bring home and sell tomorrow. You can see them feeling the animals along the loin and rump to make sure they're nice and fatty."

"Quite a few pickpockets amongst that crowd, I'd expect," Dominic said. "Are you carrying a reticule, Torie? It might be best

to leave it here in the carriage under Mulberry's supervision."

"I don't think I care to wade onto that field. How on earth would we find a rabbit amidst such confusion?"

"We needn't go into the center," Simons said. "There's only one rabbit seller. He has a hutch along the fence, close to the

stalls selling pickled beef and the like. We shall avoid the crowd altogether."

"Thank goodness," Torie said. "I wish I'd brought a fan." She waved her handkerchief in front of her face.

"I like the smell," Florence said, sniffing loudly. "It's much more interesting than flowers, even more than a rosebush. Flowers

are dreary in comparison."

Torie pressed the handkerchief to her nose.

"I'll take my lady's arm," Dominic said to the coachman. "Keep the blunderbuss on the ready, in case someone tries to pinch

the vehicle. Simons, you are in charge of Master Valentine and Miss Florence. Do not allow them out of your sight. In fact,

you'd better take their hands."

"I am so glad you came with us," Torie told Dominic as they picked their way along the fence, trying to avoid liquid puddles

of muck. "I had no idea what Smithfield was like."

"Look at all the bacon!" Valentine called. They'd reached a row of stands from which hung sides of beef, pungently smelling of saltpeter, sugar, and honey; long strings of dried herbs and garlic; and bouquets of rushlights made from melted tallow from rendering mutton or beef.

"We should buy a present for Cook. Mrs. Cottage would like one of those big haunches," Florence said. "A haunch is the buttock and thigh of an animal," she told Torie.

"Buttock," Dominic began, but the twins interrupted him in a chorus.

"Goes on the Prohibited List!"

"We wouldn't know how to choose the best haunch," Torie pointed out.

Dominic thought his wife had turned faintly green.

"Simons knows." Florence tugged on the groom's hand. "Don't you think we should buy a side of beef? Then Mrs. Cottage would

know we were thinking of her when we came to Smithfield. I'm sure she wishes she could have come with us."

"Ah, but Mrs. Cottage is very particular," Simons replied. "She don't deal with just one butcher. Even with three butchers visiting the house, if she can't

find a chicken as plump as she'd like, she sends one of us grooms to fetch yet another butcher. Just look at all these stalls,

Miss Florence. I wouldn't know how to find her favorites."

"We can just get that one, the biggest," Florence persisted.

"That's venison, not beef," Simons said. "Besides, we've arrived."

The rabbit hutch was a small building past the row of stalls. When they walked inside, they found two rows of cages full of twitching, furry animals. The smell was so strong that Torie choked and swayed. Here the stink was not merely excrement; an acid smell of blood suggested that the rabbit seller butchered his creatures on the premises.

Dominic decided that he was allowed to wrap an arm around his wife, improper though that might be. Torie turned her face into

his chest and said something muffled by his coat.

He bent down.

"I love the way you smell."

Dominic only allowed his valet to sprinkle him with scent if he was headed to the Royal Court, where it was taken as an insult

not to smell like bergamot and cedar.

"Leather," Torie said, just loud enough to be heard. "Musky with a hint of lemon."

"That would be my soap," Dominic said, looking down at his wife's bright head. She never powdered during the day. Today she

smelled of perfume rather than turpentine. He just caught it over the reek of rabbit urine.

The children were walking down the first aisle, looking into every cage, so he held her tighter. "You smell like black currant

and jasmine," he whispered.

Torie lifted her face. "My perfume is called Rosa Turchia. I'm not sure what that means."

"Whatever it is, it's captivating."

"I feel as if the stench is intensifying moment by moment," she said, looking watery-eyed. "Is that possible?"

"Torie!" Florence cried.

When they turned around, Florence was holding what looked like a mitt on her palm, the kind of thing that ladies slipped over their hands when it was snowing.

"Oh no," Torie groaned.

It wasn't a mitt, because suddenly long ears flicked up.

"Babies!" Florence cried.