Dot threw her arms about Mrs. Pine and burst into tears. “Please don’t take me from her. Not again.”
Chloe remembered all too well what it had felt like to leave Mrs. Pine, the closest thing to a mother figure Chloe had ever known. She could just imagine Dot’s joy at being adopted by wealthy family, only to be abandoned all over again. This time, at an institution where there was no Mrs. Pine. Just grueling hours of drudgery and hopelessness.
“Of course.” Chloe’s voice scratched. “You’re right. You should live wherever you choose.”
Dot sobbed into Mrs. Pine’s chest, inconsolable.
“Look.” Jacob knelt before her with the puppy in his arms. “Would you like to pet Goldenrod whilst the rest of us form a plan?”
Dot peeked over her shoulder.
“I warn you,” Elizabeth said from the sofa. “That puppy is a chatterbox and none of her jokes are funny.”
Dot let go of Mrs. Pine. “Puppies can’t talk.”
“I can!” said the puppy.
Dot squeaked and fell back against the cushion in surprise.
“Won’t you hold me?” asked the puppy.
Dot narrowed her eyes at Jacob with suspicion. “How are you doing that?”
“It was me.” Elizabeth could throw her voice and make it sound like anyone—or anything—she chose. She smiled at Dot.
The little girl reached out her arms. Jacob placed the puppy in her lap. She immediately licked Dot’s cheek, to her surprise and delight.
The butler, Mr. Randall, appeared in the doorway. “Pardon the interruption—”
Before he could explain further, the interruption himself flew into the parlor with a framed painting beneath one arm.
The Duke of Faircliffe. Father to Chloe’s favorite politician. A man who visited several times a year. Whenever he needed money.
Chloe stepped in his path. “Your Grace, this is not the moment for—”
The duke swept past her, heedless of his boots scraping mud against the hem of Chloe’s dress. Commoners were no more important to him than dust motes.
“I’m in a bad way,” the duke said to Bean. “You like unusual paintings. Why not purchase this one? The Three Witches of Macbeth. See the witches? It’ll match the demon painting you bought last time. Isn’t it nice?”
Chloe turned to Mrs. Pine. “I’m sorry. He’ll leave in a moment.”
“Perhaps he can help us,” Mrs. Pine said, her eyes bright.
“I wish he would,” Chloe murmured back. “Unfortunately, he never helps anyone but himself. Without grounds for a legal case, even a peer is limited on what he can do.”
“Then it’s hopeless?” Mrs. Pine asked, her voice bleak.
“Nothing is hopeless,” Chloe said firmly. “Lords may be powerless, but Wynchesters can do anything.”
“I’ve two other canvases out in my curricle,” the duke was saying to Bean. “If you’d rather purchase one without witches—”
“I’d rather not have you barging into my parlor while I’m entertaining guests,” Bean replied evenly.
The duke’s cheeks bloomed with color. “You cannot speak to me like that, you... you...” He seemed to remember where he was and why he was there. “It’s worth five hundred pounds. I’ve had it appraised. You can have it for three hundred. Two hundred, if you must.”
“I don’t want it at all.” Bean arched a brow. “As you mentioned, we’ve already got one.”
Their painting was called Robin Goodfellow in the Forest with Fairies, but the Wynchesters called it Puck & Family, and considered it a family portrait.
In Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Puck was a mischievous imp who played tricks and meddled, often in an attempt to improve the lot of those around him. In the painting, Puck and six other merry goblins danced in a circle in a magical forest. Puck was Bean, and the sprites were the siblings.
The summer that Bean had assembled his motley group of orphans, the Duke of Faircliffe had come to the house in much the same state he was in now. Out of money, and hoping to sell items from his home to chase creditors away.
Puck & Family had been the Wynchesters’ first acquisition as a team. For several of the children, it had been the first item they’d ever owned. They loved it because it symbolized their bond and their new future together as a family. The painting belonged to them, just like the Wynchesters belonged with each other.
The duke didn’t understand any of that. According to the gossip columns Graham read, the duke barely spoke to his own son, and had sold almost every heirloom his family had ever had, only to return to the gaming tables the following night.
“One hundred and seventy-five pounds,” the duke said desperately. “One hundred and fifty. Name your