by Anne Gracie
“They will get used to each other,” she said. The dog scratched itself vigorously.
“It’s got fleas,” William said, in the manner of a man who has faced defeat before.
“We’ll bathe him. You’ll see, he’s going to make a wonderful addition to the household.”
“What are you going to call him?” Zach asked. “Brutus?”
“Haven’t you gone yet?” the footman growled.
“Apparently not,” Zach told him.
“Brutus? No,” she said seriously. “A name like that would cause people to expect the worst of him. But he has a lovely nature, I’m convinced. People place far too much emphasis on looks.” It was an interesting statement from a pampered society beauty, Zach thought.
“Like William,” she added.
“William?” Zach glanced at the big, ugly bruiser, incongruous in his stylish footman’s livery. A former prizefighter, he’d wager, with a cauliflower ear and a nose that had been broken more than once. “I can see the resemblance.”
The footman gave him a warning growl.
Miss Jane continued, oblivious, “People are sometimes nervous of William, because of his looks, you understand, but—”
“Time to go, Miss Jane,” the footman interrupted. He’d gone a little pink about the ears.
“But really, he’s the gentlest, kindest, sweetest-natured soul—”
“Aw, give over, Miss Jane,” the footman muttered, turning a delicate shade of puce.
“I don’t know what my sisters and I would have done without William,” she finished warmly.
“What about naming him RosePetal?” Zach suggested into the silence that followed. “The dog, I mean, not William. To signify his beautiful nature. The dog’s, not William’s.”
The footman glowered and flexed his big meaty fists in a warning manner.
“RosePetal?” She wrinkled her nose and gave him a severe look. “Heavens, no. He’s not an effeminate sort of dog. A name like RosePetal would embarrass him.”
Zach looked at the snaggle-toothed, bandy-legged canine cannonball and agreed solemnly that no, he wasn’t an effeminate sort of dog.
“But I doubt he’s easily embarrassed,” he added. In fact, given the enthusiasm with which the animal was snuffling at its own genitalia, he doubted embarrassment was even in its vocabulary.
The large footman cleared his throat. “Miss Jane, if you think Lady Bea is going to let that animal—with all its dirt and fleas and blood and who knows what else—into her nice new landau . . .”
Miss Jane frowned. “I see what you mean. William, I don’t suppose you’d walk him home for me?”
“No, miss, I would not,” William said firmly, with the air of a man who has snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. “The animal no doubt will—”
“I’ll walk him home for you,” Zach offered.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” William began.
“The very thing,” Miss Jane exclaimed with a dazzling smile for Zach. “Thank you.”
Now that, Zach thought dazedly, was a genuine smile. He took the end of the blue satin ribbon from her. “What’s the address?”
“Berkeley Square, number—”
“Miss Jane, you can’t give out your address to any riffraff you meet in the street!”
“Ah, but William, I’m not your run-of-the-mill riffraff,” Zach said, enjoying himself hugely. “I’m the riffraff that saved Miss Jane from a group of thugs, when her footman was worrying about parcels.”
William glowered.
“That’s true,” she said. “And I’m sure he’ll take very good care of the dog.”
“Very good care,” Zach assured her.
She gave him her address. “Give the man another sixpence, William. It’s quite a long walk to Berkeley Square. William, or Featherby, our butler, will give you another shilling when you deliver the dog,” she assured Zach.
“But—” William began.
Zach promptly held out his hand. It was quite fun, being tipped by a footman. He’d always experienced tipping the other way around. Besides, he could do with the change. Most of the coins he had were foreign.
William sourly produced a sixpence and handed it over, along with a look that suggested that if Zach valued his skin, neither he nor the dog should come within half a mile of the house on Berkeley Square. “Now come along, Miss Jane, Lady Beatrice is waiting.”
But Miss Jane wasn’t finished. “Thank you, Mr.—”
“Black, Zachary Black, at your service,” Zach said, bowing slightly, and although he knew it was the height of bad manners to ask a lady her name, he was currently being riffraff so he added, “And you are—”
“The likes of you don’t need to know ’er name,” the footman growled before she could say anything.
She gave Zach one of those bright impersonal smiles she seemed to think would put him in his place. Again. He grinned knowingly.
The smile faltered. She looked away, a slight pucker between her brows. “Take good care of my dog, won’t you, Mr. Black?”
“I will indeed,” Zach assured her, holding the blue satin ribbon that was attached to the ugliest dog in London.
He watched her walk down the lane toward the waiting landau, then, assisted by the big footman, climb lightly in. Zach and the dog made slower progress, reaching the main street just as the carriage pulled away from the curb. She was facing the other way, but she turned her head and looked at him. He couldn’t read her expression.
The carriage turned a corner, and he stood a moment, gazing at nothing, just the busy street, and found himself thinking of small purple flowers hiding among heart-shaped dark green leaves. Violets? Why on earth was he thinking of woodlands and violets? In a busy London street?
And then it came to him. Her perfume. The scent of violets.
Then a smell wafted up that smelled nothing like a violet. He glanced down at the dog. “Faugh! And I’m guessing flatulence isn’t the worst of your habits either, is it? The girl is clearly a little unhinged to want to bring such an unrefined creature into her home, but who am I to complain, since it provides me with an excuse to see her again? Come along then, RosePetal, let’s get you to Berkeley Square.”
Chapter Seven
How quick come the reasons for approving what we like.
—JANE AUSTEN, PERSUASION
“Where on earth did you get to, gel?” Lady Beatrice demanded as Jane climbed into the carriage. She was huddled in fur up to her ears. “It’s demmed freezing sitting here, and the racket is atrocious.” The street was filled, in fact, with traffic blocked by her ladyship’s waiting carriage, and the racket was the loudly voiced complaints coming from the other drivers. Lady Beatrice’s driver sat awaiting her ladyship’s instructions, sublimely unaware of the insults hurled his way.
“Well, gel, did you forget something?”
“Um . . .” Jane began, trying to think of how best to break the news of her new pet. She gave William, taking his place at the back of the landau, a warning glance, in case he planned to take it upon himself to explain for her. On the way back to the carriage, he’d made no bones about his disapproval of her behavior. Or the company she kept.
“Oi! What’s happened to your pelisse?” Daisy demanded. “It’s got a dirty mark there. And you’ve gone and lost that blue satin ribbon, and it took me ages to find the right shade of blue—and it was the end of the roll.”
“Sorry, Daisy.” Jane hadn’t thought twice about using the ribbon as a leash, but now she felt a twinge of guilt. It hadn’t occurred to Jane that the ribbon would be hard to replace.
“Well, get along, man, don’t dillydally.” Lady Beatrice leaned forward and poked the driver with her cane. “You’re holding up the traffic.”
Jane hadn’t intended to look back, but as the carriage moved off, she turned her head, just as
the tall gypsy emerged from the alley with the dog. He stood watching, still and silent. Those eyes, like polished steel, followed her.
Daisy, sharp-eyed as usual, followed her gaze. “Now there’s a good-looking feller,” she said with approval in her voice. “Pity about his clothes.”
“Did we get everything we needed?” Jane asked, trying to change the subject. “I’m so looking forward to the dance lesson this afternoon. We never did learn the waltz at the Pill.” At least she wasn’t the only one who found the tall man . . . noticeable.
Lady Beatrice twisted in her seat and peered at the gypsy through her lorgnette. “Hmm.” She nodded. “Give him a shave and a bath and put him in a decent coat and breeches and he’d make quite a sight.”
“Leave him in nuffin’ at all, fresh from the bath, and I’m bettin’ he’d look even better,” Daisy said, and Lady Beatrice gave an earthy chuckle.
Jane tried to think of dogs, ice cream, satin ribbons—anything except the tall gypsy dressed in nothing at all.
It was a miserable failure. She could feel her face heating. And not just her face.
The carriage pulled slowly—agonizingly slowly; she could feel his gaze on her still—into the street, while Daisy and Lady Beatrice continued their bawdy observations about the appeal of tall, dark men in general and the gypsy in particular. Jane looked straight ahead and tried not to hear them, tried not to think of the way those long, tanned fingers had gripped her wrist, the way that deep voice had shivered through her awareness.
There was something about that voice . . . She frowned, trying to place an elusive impression. When he’d spoken to those boys, he sounded like . . . like some kind of rough . . . And yet the way he’d spoken to her when she was bent over the dog, if she hadn’t seen him, she might have thought she was talking to . . . Except . . .
The carriage lurched and she lost her train of thought.
“Good, strong-looking shoulders,” Lady Beatrice was saying. “I like a man to be a man, not like some of the wispy little fashion plates you see cavorting at Almack’s these days.”
Jane wished they would stop. It wasn’t seemly to talk in such a way about a chance-met vagabond. Especially one with such strange, compelling eyes. Not that they could see the color of his eyes. And she knew very well, from personal experience, close personal experience, how strong he was. A shiver passed through her, which was strange, because she wasn’t a bit cold. On the contrary.
“A gypsy, I reckon from the look of—” Daisy broke off and squinted hard at the man and the dog. Especially the dog. “Oi! That’s my ribbon he’s holding, the one you just lost.”
Ah. Jane swallowed, and thrust the gypsy from her mind. The ribbon.
Daisy turned to Jane with a narrow look. “Jane? ’Ow did that gypsy get hold of my blue satin ribbon? He’s tied it to a flea-bitten mongrel.”
A heavily laden wagon pulled out behind them, and the gypsy and dog disappeared from sight. The carriage turned the corner and the old lady and Daisy sat back in their seats. Daisy turned to Jane with an expectant look.
Which to explain first, the dog or the ribbon? Jane moistened her lips and wondered how best to present her case. “You know how we’ve been talking about needing more protection.”
Lady Beatrice and Daisy looked at her. “No.”
“We have William for protection,” Lady Beatrice pointed out. “Has something happened to frighten you?”
“No, no, not at all,” Jane said hastily. “I didn’t mean protection, so much as company.”
“Company? We got plenty of company,” Daisy said impatiently. “The house is never empty, what with morning callers that come in the afternoon, and the literary society folk and—and everyone else. But what I want to know is how that gypsy feller got hold of my ribbon, because you won’t convince me it fell out of its own accord; my clothes don’t fall to bits. So did he pinch it from you? They can, you know—gypsies—pinch things from you wiv-without you even noticing.”
Jane would have liked to blame the gypsy, but people could be imprisoned and transported to the other side of the world for stealing a handkerchief or a loaf of bread, and for all she knew, a ribbon, so she couldn’t. Besides, the dog would be delivered soon, with the ribbon around its neck.
“I gave it to him,” Jane admitted. “The dog needed a leash.”
“So you gave him my blue satin ribbon?” Daisy said incredulously. “From your new pelisse? Which wivout that ribbon now looks like a bloomin’ sack.”
“I’m so sorry, Daisy, I didn’t realize that shade would be hard to replace, but after all, a dog is more important than a pelisse.”
Daisy and Lady Beatrice both stared at her in utter disbelief. “That—that’s heresy!” Daisy sputtered.
“Quite right,” Lady Beatrice said crisply. “Dogs are all very well in their place, but nothing is more important than the fit of a pelisse.”
“But I had to give it to him. He was injured, and might have run away.”
“Who? The gypsy?” Lady Beatrice asked.
“No, the dog.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t you think it would be nice to get a dog?”
Lady Beatrice stared. “A dog? Why on earth would I want a dog?” She said “dog” the way some people would say “elephant,” as if the whole idea were too outrageous for words.
Jane cast around for a reason that might appeal. “I believe it’s tremendously fashionable at the moment.”
Daisy, who was assiduous in keeping up with all the latest fashions and fads, shot Jane a narrow glance, but said nothing.
Lady Beatrice pursed her lips, put up her lorgnette and thoughtfully regarded Jane through it. “What kind of a dog were you thinking of? A poodle? A pug? An elegant little Italian greyhound, perhaps?”
“N-no, I was thinking of something . . . sturdier. A dog with, with personality, rather than any particular appearance.”
“Personality?” Lady Beatrice uttered the word distastefully and shook her head. “No, no, my dear, that cannot be right. If dogs are in fashion this season, they must be an accessory and thus chosen with as much care as a hat or a pair of shoes.”
“An accessory?” Jane was disgusted. “A dog is not an accessory. It’s a creature with feelings and—”
“Bloody hell, you’re talking about that ’orrible-looking mutt, aren’t you?” Daisy said. “The one the gypsy was holding.”
“Yes,” Jane confessed. “And I’m not really asking you, Lady Beatrice. I—I’ve adopted him.”
“Who, the gypsy?” Lady Beatrice winked at Daisy and chuckled, then broke off, eyeing Jane sharply. “You adopted a dog?”
Jane nodded, and the old lady rolled her eyes. “Foisting yet another wretched animal on us, gel?”
“Foisting? But you love the cats,” Jane pointed out indignantly, smarting a little under the accusation, all the more discomforting because it was true.
“Cats,” Lady Beatrice said majestically, “are different.”
There was no arguing with that.
Daisy joined in, “If you wanted a dog, why choose a bandy-legged, ugly brute like that one?”
“How would you know what he looks like?” Jane retorted. “You weren’t even looking at the dog—you were staring at the gypsy.” And making unseemly remarks about him in the bath. Or out of it.
Daisy snorted. “I was lookin’ at my blue satin ribbon first, and I could see perfectly plain that it was tied around the neck of the ugliest mutt in London.” She turned to Lady Beatrice. “Truly, it’s an ’orrible-looking animal.”
“He—he’s not the handsomest of dogs, it’s true,” Jane admitted, “but he has a noble soul and will make a wonderful companion, I’m sure.”
“Noble soul?” Daisy made a rude sound.
“Oh, pish-tush, enough squabbling, gels.” The old lady waved her hand. “I’ll take a look at the anima
l and decide for myself. I presume it’s being delivered?”
Jane nodded, but didn’t explain by whom. Daisy slanted her a knowing look and gave a snort of laughter. Jane tried not to look self-conscious, but her cheeks felt uncomfortably warm.
“I’ll inspect the creature when it arrives,” Lady Beatrice said as the landau pulled up in front of their house. “Now, hurry up and change out of your street clothes, gels. Damaris and Abby will be joining us for luncheon. They should be here shortly.”
“Just Damaris and Abby?” Jane asked. “Not the men?”
“Max doesn’t take luncheon—says it’s a meal for ladies, and I daresay Freddy is the same.” She added waspishly, “Having an ale and bread and cheese at noon, or a meat pie bought in the street, isn’t luncheon, apparently. Because men have no need of luncheon.” She snorted.
* * *
As Jane and Daisy changed out of their street clothes, Jane explained what had happened in the alleyway. “I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t been there, Daisy . . .”
“I knew it,” Daisy said. “That handsome gypsy feller got you all of a flutter, din’t he?”
Jane blinked. That wasn’t the impression she’d tried to give. In fact, she’d absolutely minimized the gypsy’s involvement in the telling of the story. “He did not. And I was not all of a flutter.”
“Mmh-hmm,” Daisy said in a don’t-believe-a-word-of-it way.
“Was he handsome?” Jane added airily, if belatedly. “I didn’t notice.”
Daisy made a rude sound.
“As I recall,” Jane turned indignantly, “it was you waxing lyrical about his appearance—naked from his bath, you said—you and Lady Beatrice, quite shameless, you were. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested.”
Daisy said nothing. She didn’t need to; her look said it all.
“And if I were in a flutter—which I wasn’t—it was no doubt because of those horrid, wicked boys—from whom he rescued me—”
“Handsome and heroic—he gets better and better. Sounds like you ’ad a lucky escape. Bit silly to take on those blokes on your own, though. Good thing ’e came by when ’e did.”