Vivian’s stomach cramped. She clutched her abdomen and bent forward, the remaining cheese held in her fist. The dog—Piccola Persa, the girl had called her—nudged Vivian’s fingers with her nose, licking heartily, continuing to sniff and nudge her nose around in hopes of more.
Had the dog already eaten enough to make her good and sick? Vivian licked dry lips and swiped the cloth around her sweating neck again. The aroma of cheese filled her nose, and her throat clamped shut so tight that a pain stabbed there. The girl Eleanor would return soon. Indecision added to the mix of emotions churning about inside Vivian, but there would have been no point in putting herself through this if she didn’t do the job right.
For a moment she imagined Charlotte Haliday, still bruised from her assault, bending over her dying dog, and she felt another twinge of guilt. Should she show Lady Charlotte compassion? No. Vivian had never known a single person to show her mercy. Not her husband, her mother, or her father. A harsh laugh broke from her. Most assuredly not the man whose loins produced her.
Uncurling her fingers, Vivian opened her hand and exposed the little round of cheese. The dog snatched it up, swallowed, and swept its tongue out to capture any trace that might remain.
Okay. Vivian had to leave. She simply had to. She needed to get away from the dog, and she wanted to be gone before the girl returned, full of questions after not finding a Mrs. Stover residing in the house down the street. She grabbed the beast’s leash, stood, and tied it to a nearby bush. Almost done. All she had to do was—
Vivian looked up just in time to see the girl round the corner. She waved and began backing away, as if she couldn’t wait there any longer. The girl quickened her pace, and the dog gave a little yip, but Vivian turned and hastened away.
She heard the girl calling after her, but she pretended not to hear. She hated that the dog would suffer, but then, this was all for a good cause and couldn’t be helped, could it?
#
Charlotte sighed and laid her book down, shifted and rubbed her aching hip. Since Wakefield’s escort home she’d been resting in bed and trying not to spend every moment bedeviled by his disclosure.
She liked David. Liked and admired him more than any man she’d ever known. She’d envisioned them as friends who could engage in sensual delights to their mutual satisfaction without the complication of love. But why had she ever thought that such a warmhearted man would hold himself distant from his lover? Of course his feelings were engaged. David wasn’t a man who did things by half measure. He wouldn’t give a small part of himself and try to restrain the rest, as she had.
She’d lain under him, his body intimately linked with hers, and looked into his eyes. He’d filled his fists with her hair, pressed against her, kissed her mouth and tasted her. In those moments she’d known every part of him was present, and nothing was more important to him than being there with her. How could she have been so foolish as to think she could share her body with such an exceptional man and not have his deepest feelings affected?
This morning she’d seen his heartfelt concern for her well-being, too. He’d appeared downright murderous.
Yes, he’d told her he would not marry, but he’d not said he wouldn’t fall in love. The thought of him loving her… Well, the responsibility frightened her. It gave her power over him, gave her the ability to hurt him, and she didn’t want that burden. She owed it to him to make sure he understood. As much as she admired, liked and desired him, she could not allow herself to love him. And if he couldn’t accept that…she didn’t know what she would do.
Unbidden, memories of their last night together filled her mind. She’d experienced more pleasure then than she’d known was possible to attain in a man’s arms. She wished she was there with him now, at their cottage, instead of lying here with too much time to think these unsettling thoughts.
She’d sent a note, reassuring him that she’d suffered no more than bruises and was resting. His reply had instructed her to stay at home tomorrow. She didn’t want to do that.
She had to stop this. It made little sense. Three months ago she hadn’t known David Scott. Today she longed for him with an intensity that didn’t wane. Just his presence would have comforted her, but in lieu of that she would have taken one of those new photographs or maybe even a miniature of him, or a lock of his hair. She didn’t love him, but she would admit she felt more for David than she had for any other man, including Haliday in those first days of their marriage. But love was not going to be possible for her, and it would be devastating to him.
A high-pitched little howl suddenly drew her attention to Persa, asleep on the rug. Her pet’s body gave a series of jerks, legs stiff and sticking straight out in an unnatural way, so, ignoring her pains, Charlotte left her bed and knelt beside the dog. What she found was glassy eyes that were rolled up to reveal the whites of Persa’s eyes. Jaw clenched and head extended backward, convulsions racked the beast’s body. Foamy white spittle oozed from the terrier’s muzzle.
“Persa!” Charlotte blinked away tears suddenly flooding her eyes. “Help!” she yelled.
The convulsion ended as suddenly as it began, leaving the dog unconscious and breathing heavily.
Rebecca hurried in. “My lady?”
“Something’s very wrong, Rebecca. Persa had a convulsion.”
The maid gasped, hand pressed against her chest. Mrs. Jones appeared in the doorway, too, and she strode to them.
Persa made a small noise. The dog blinked, her legs moved, and a moment later she was standing, her nose pushed under Charlotte’s hand, tail waving slowly. Charlotte hauled her onto her lap and cuddled her. A moment later, Persa began to retch.
Charlotte set the dog down and watched helplessly as the contents of Persa’s stomach splashed upon the rug. When Charlotte pulled her back up onto her lap, the little dog collapsed.
“Something’s horribly wrong,” she realized. “Mrs. Jones, is there anyone who can help?”
The housekeeper hurried for the door. “I’ll ask Walters and Beckham.”
Charlotte hoped one of them knew someone knowledgeable about dogs.
She stroked her hand along Persa’s body. The feel of the dog’s silky hair and solid little body was comforting, but Charlotte knew it was false comfort. And, suddenly, her bruises protested her position on the floor.
“Help me, Rebecca.”
Charlotte transferred Persa to the maid’s arms and slowly rose to her feet. Once back in bed she motioned for the dog to be laid beside her. Quiet, Persa submitted to the transfer. Beside Charlotte, she lay still, panting.
Eleanor appeared, her face white. She immediately knelt beside the bed.
“She was fine on our walk, my lady.” The girl’s voice shook, and a tear slid down her pale cheek.
Charlotte laid her hand atop Eleanor’s head. “Sometimes illness strikes suddenly. There’s no way for Persa to tell us when she’s feeling poorly.”
The dog’s brown eyes, usually alert and full of affection, held a sad combination of misery and fear. It made Charlotte feel helpless, an emotion she particularly hated. She’d lived with it for too much of her life.
The ever-brisk Mrs. Jones returned. “Beckham went down the street to Lord Beamish’s stable. One of his grooms is son to his kennel master.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones.”
Persa struggled to her feet and whined. An audible rumbling came from her stomach.
Eleanor stood. “Shall I take her outside, my lady?”
Charlotte nodded.
Slow and careful, Eleanor gathered Persa into her arms.
“When you come in, bring her to the kitchen,” Charlotte instructed. There had been more than enough lying in bed. She could survive a few aches, as Persa would be better in the warm kitchen. There’d be no risk of soiling carpets, either, and the small grassy area behind the townhouse would be only a few steps away.
“Mrs. Jones, please have the floral chair and footstool moved from the sitting room to the kitchen
. Perhaps Mrs. Lipton can put up with us in her kitchen for a day.”
The housekeeper’s eyebrows rose the merest bit, but she gave a quick nod and hurried off.
“Rebecca, get my old blue gown, the one I wore gardening at Hazelton Park.” She saw Rebecca roll her eyes and smile as she turned away to the armoire, and Charlotte reined in her own smile. Rebecca had wanted to toss the dress years ago, but it was utterly comfortable and cut very loose. It allowed for freedom of movement on the days Charlotte sought the oblivion of digging in her garden.
Charlotte had just settled in a corner of the kitchen with Persa on the upholstered footstool when Lord Beamish’s groom, Oliver Newton, arrived. It seemed her entire household followed, crowding into the kitchen. Eleanor, Mrs. Lipton, Mrs. Jones, Penny the kitchen maid, Walters and Beckham all stood in a circle around her chair and footstool.
A rather strapping young man, Newton knelt, murmured to Persa and examined her, his large hands gentle. Eleanor stood beside Charlotte’s chair, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Persa whimpered as Newton pressed against her abdomen.
“Excuse me, my lady, but have her bowels run?”
“Just now,” Eleanor said. “And she’s vomited twice.”
Eyes grave, Newton studied Eleanor. He nodded. Persa lay panting, and he opened her jaws, examined her teeth and leaned forward to sniff the dog’s breath. Then he straightened and shook his head.
“I can’t be sure, my lady, but the dog’s condition puts me in mind of poison. Could she have gotten into the rat powder, perhaps?”
Startled, Charlotte looked at Mrs. Jones, who shook her head.
“No, my lady. We’re careful to put it where Persa can’t get it,” the housekeeper said.
Newton stood. “All you can do is wait, my lady. Try to get some milk down her. You might have to drip it into her mouth.”
After giving a few more instructions and receiving Charlotte’s thanks, the man accepted the coin Walters pressed into his hand and left with assurances he’d return if summoned.
Poison? Charlotte believed Mrs. Jones, who was efficient and capable.
“How could she have gotten poison?” she wondered aloud.
Eleanor collapsed beside the footstool. Her hands gripped the stool’s edge, her slumping figure the picture of despair. “It’s my fault, m’lady. This morning in the park I left her with a stranger. Persa must’ve got into something while I wasn’t there watching.” Shoulders shaking, the girl began to cry.
Charlotte sat forward. “What? What do you mean? Eleanor, enough now. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
The girl’s story tumbled out. In spite of all the advantages Charlotte had given her, it was obvious Eleanor was still desperate to be back with her brothers and sisters. Charlotte knew fine things didn’t fill emptiness. She’d hoped the people in her household and Eleanor’s studies would make the girl happy, or at least content. Perhaps with more time they would. Charlotte would make sure Mrs. Jones saw that Eleanor’s visits to her brothers and sisters increased.
Of course, while she understood Eleanor’s yearning for her family, the girl’s decision to abandon Persa to a stranger hurt. But the girl looked so distressed…
“Hush, now. There’s no reason to think Persa got into poison when you left her. There’s no poison in the park. It’s more likely that it happened while she was chasing the man who seized my reticule. Mr. Chetney found her sniffing all around the tavern the blackguard disappeared into.”
Eleanor sniffled and wiped her wet cheeks with her fingers.
“We’re going to take the very best care of her,” Charlotte continued. “Why don’t you get a bowl of milk and a rag? You can soak the cloth in the milk and see if Persa will lick it. If she doesn’t, we’ll do as Mr. Newton suggested and drip the milk into her mouth.”
Thirty minutes later there was another convulsion, which caused Eleanor to break out into fresh sobs, but they settled into a routine that seemed to alleviate Charlotte’s anxiety and eventually Eleanor’s as well. Charlotte imagined none of her servants would forget those hours with their viscountess and her dog in the kitchen and Eleanor running Persa outside at regular intervals.
Persa seemed a little less miserable once evening fell. Newton returned to check on her and remarked at how pleased he was with her small improvement.
Knowing he was a groom, Charlotte pulled him aside. With everything possible done for her dog, she wanted to ask his advice on a subject she’d been considering for several days. Ever since David had spoken with such longing about riding, she’d wondered exactly why he couldn’t still do so. Riding sidesaddle as she did, a rider basically perched atop a horse. Unlike men, who gripped a horse with their legs, women merely balanced, which was why most chose not to hunt or jump; the security offered by their pommels was minimal. But, couldn’t David use a specially built saddle that secured his legs, one on each side of the horse?
Accustomed to being connected with his mount, the possibility of any other way of riding probably hadn’t occurred to him, but a stable need only have the same pulley apparatus that he used to get in and out of his coach. To mount, he could position a horse under it and pull himself up. He’d need help swinging his leg over and strapping his legs down, but once settled he would be completely independent. He’d be able to give partial direction to the horse with his one strong upper leg, and since David had been an excellent horseman she guessed he wouldn’t have any difficulty balancing on the back of the horse, especially one eventually trained for one-sided leg signals.
After consulting with Newton, Charlotte was even more encouraged, and she acquired the name and direction of an admirable saddle-maker. She’d surprise David, she decided. Giving him a way to experience the freedom and activity he so craved would be tremendously exciting. She couldn’t wait to go riding with him and see his face mid-gallop.
Charlotte penned a note to David, even though she wouldn’t be able to send it until the next morning. She explained the events of the day, excepting the saddle talk with Newton, and added a humorous bit about eating in the kitchen with her servants. Charlotte had thought Walters might not survive that, but they’d all managed to get through what she knew was an uncomfortable meal for them.
She hesitated at the conclusion of the note. I wish we were at our cottage, she finally wrote, but just the thought of you gave me strength today.
Remembering David’s concern when the thief knocked her down had made a great difference as the wretched day progressed. David cared about her. Cared about Persa, as well. Knowing that had made the strain of the day easier to bear, even if it also reminded her of her obligation to protect him from a broken heart. Lord Wakefield had made that clear.
Charlotte sighed, wanting to be strong for David. They would have to talk about their future.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Early evening shadows were beginning to darken Rose Cottage. David lifted his head, intent on the sounds of an arriving carriage. Finally.
The notes exchanged the past several days while Charlotte watched over the health of Persa had been a poor substitute for seeing her. He’d nearly gone out of his mind, worrying about Charlotte after the assault and unable to see her and assure himself of her well-being. He’d wanted to see Persa, too, as Beckham, serving as message carrier, thought the poor mite close to death. But as much as David wanted to be there, a visit would have necessitated his men carrying him up Charlotte’s stairs like a helpless infant. He’d chosen to be satisfied with notes.
He set the carved figurine he’d been absently rubbing on the table beside him. The carving wasn’t half-bad. Always before, his whittling had been done to while away nighttime in camp or amuse Julian and Anne’s children. This carving was different. He’d tried his best to capture the look of Charlotte’s dog. The beast was positioned upright on its hind legs, front paws held out.
He recalled the day Charlotte adopted Persa. He’d discouraged her, not wanting to add compassionate to the gr
owing list of admirable qualities he’d observed, but kindhearted she had told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted the dog. That day he’d kissed her.
The cottage door opened, and Charlotte entered. All he could do was drink her in. Tension eased away and effervescent buoyancy took its place. A coachman deposited a bag in the entry, tipped his hat and closed the door as he left. Thank God Charlotte came to him quickly, her lips as eager as his.
It didn’t take much pulling to convince her to settle onto his lap. By the time he released her mouth, they were both breathing hard. He buried his face in her dark, glossy hair and inhaled the glorious scent.
“David.”
Her surprised, pleased tone made him smile. She’d seen the carving. He picked it up and handed it to her.
“But where did you find it? It looks exactly like Persa.” Charlotte’s elegant fingers explored the small carving. “I adore it.”
“I made it for you, Bluebell.”
She turned her head and looked at him. This close her eyes were amazing, their deep purple-blue color unlike anything he’d ever seen. Perhaps, on rare summer nights, as the first stars appeared the last faint glow of sunlight painted the sky that shade.
A delighted smile curved her lips. “You made this?”
“I started whittling during my army service and found I enjoyed it.”
Charlotte held the figurine against her chest. “You couldn’t have given me anything I’d like better.”
He started to tease her, but seeing her eyes he held his tongue. She meant it. He guessed he could have offered emeralds and she wouldn’t have found them any more appealing.
“How is she?” he asked of Persa.
Charlotte smiled, gave a breathy exhalation and shrugged. “She seemed fine today. Her appetite’s not quite back to normal, but her eyes are bright and she’s wagging her tail.”
“That’s good news. I can’t wait to see her.”
Charlotte set the figurine on the table. “And what is this? More presents?”
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