The Wallflower Wager. Tessa Dare

tub. “Is there something we can do for you, Mrs. Burns?”

      “I only came to inform you that you have a letter, sir. It’s just arrived.”

      “The post came this morning.”

      “This letter didn’t come through the post, Mr. Duke. It’s from Lady Penelope Campion.”

      * * *

      Dear Mr. Duke,

      As requested, here is an inventory of the animals in my care:

       Bixby, a two-legged terrier.

       Marigold, a nanny goat of unimpeachable character, who is definitely not breeding.

       Angus, a three-year-old Highland steer.

       Regan, Goneril, and Cordelia—laying hens.

       Delilah, a parrot.

       Hubert, an otter.

       Freya, a hedgehog.

       Thirteen kittens of varying colors and dispositions.

      Gabe leafed through the report in disbelief. It went on for pages. She’d given not only the names, breeds, and ages of every misbegotten creature, but she’d appended a chart of temperaments, sleeping schedules, preferred bedding, and a list of dietary requirements that would beggar a moderately successful tradesman. Along with the expected hay, alfalfa, corn, and seed, the animals required several pounds of mince weekly, daily pints of fresh cream, and an ungodly number of sardines.

      The steer and the goat, she insisted, must go to the same loving home. Apparently they were tightly bonded, whatever that meant, and refused to eat if parted.

      The laying hens did not actually lay with any regularity. Their previous owners had grown frustrated with this paltry production, and thus they had come into Her Ladyship’s care.

      And the lucky bastard who accepted a ten-year-old hedgehog? Well, he must not only provide a steady supply of mealworms, but remain ever mindful of certain “traumatic experiences in her youth.”

      He had to read that bit three times to believe it.

       Traumatic experiences in her youth.

      Unbelievable.

      The world teemed with children who received less food and attention than she gave the least of these creatures. Gabe knew it well. He’d been one of them. At the workhouse, he’d subsisted on broth, bread, and a few morsels of cheese every week—when his diet hadn’t been restricted as a punishment for misbehavior, which it usually was.

      He didn’t have time for this, and he didn’t trust himself to linger over the task, either. That would mean calling on Lady Penelope at least as many times as there were creatures on this list. Considering they had less than a month to resettle the animals, that would mean seeing her virtually every day. Too many opportunities for stupidity.

      Loving homes, his eye. He was tempted to escort all the creatures on a loving journey to the nearest butcher. What Her Ladyship didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

      Then again, if Her Ladyship happened to discover it later, it would likely come back to hurt him. And even Gabe wasn’t quite so ruthless as to send an innocent hedgehog to slaughter.

      Not the butcher’s, then. But there had to be somewhere he could take them all in one go. He didn’t suppose a menagerie would be interested in an ancient hedgehog or a trio of nonlaying laying hens. Releasing a compromised goat and its best friend, Angus the Highland steer, into the middle of Hyde Park . . . ? That seemed unlikely to go unnoticed.

      A city the size of London offered few, if any, possibilities.

      What he needed was a farm.