by Anne Gracie
“I know.” Jane sighed. “I’m always the damsel, never the knight.”
Daisy twisted around to stare at her. “Never the night? It wasn’t dark.”
“No, knight with a k.” Then remembering that it was less than a year since Daisy had learned to read, she said, “A knight in shining armor, with a sword.”
“Why would you want—oh, you mean other people come to your rescue. Good thing too. Right mess you’d be in if they didn’t.” Daisy took Jane’s pelisse and laid it on the bed. “I’ll find you a new ribbon for this. Unless you’ve made arrangements to meet your feller again to get it back.”
Jane turned away. “He’s not ‘my fellow.’ And you’re making far too much of it. It was nothing, really nothing.”
“Right. That’s why you were staring back from the carriage—starin’ at nothin’, like he was a big bowl of strawberries and cream and you all starvin’ hungry.”
“I was looking at the dog,” Jane said with dignity.
“Oh, the dog got you all flushed and bothered, I see.” Daisy’s eyes were dancing.
“I wasn’t flushed. Or if I was, it was the relief—yes, the relief of saving that poor animal from those dreadful ruffians.”
“Has he got a name, this gallant knight of yours?” Daisy asked casually, putting her own pelisse away.
“Zachary Bla—oh, stop it! There is no need to look so knowing, it was only polite to ask; he’d just offered to bring—” She broke off. “I was being polite, that’s all.”
“Polite.” Daisy nodded. “And of course, you usually go around introducin’ yourself to gypsies you meet in the street. Lady Bea know about this interesting little habit of yours, does she?”
“He’s not a gypsy—at least I’m not sure.” She frowned, considering his accent.
She caught Daisy’s speculative look and felt her cheeks warming. “Oh, don’t be silly, Daisy, you know I couldn’t possibly be interested in someone like him.”
“Because you’re betrothed to Lord Comb-it-up?”
“Don’t call him that. And yes, I am betrothed. And I wouldn’t dream of looking at any other man.”
Daisy shrugged. “No harm in looking, I reckon, and your bloke is a right tasty eyeful.”
Jane glared at her. “He’s not ‘my bloke’—it’s quite ridiculous to talk like that.” And she didn’t like Daisy referring to him as a “tasty eyeful” either, even though in all honesty—no, she wasn’t even going to think it.
Daisy ignored her. “Speaking for meself, I quite like a feller who’s a bit rough ’round the edges—as long as he ain’t rough with me. I don’t fancy them all smooth and polished and, and natty, like Lord C—” She caught Jane’s eye. “Like some o’ those fellers that come to the literary society.” She wrinkled her nose. “Nothin’ of interest there. Nothin’ to set a girl’s pulse racin’.”
Jane tried not to think of how the gypsy’s touch, the look in those hard, green-gray eyes—even his smell—had set her pulse racing. “Marriage is not about that kind of thing,” she said, tidying her hair in the looking glass.
Daisy gave her an incredulous look.
“It’s not,” Jane insisted. “It’s for security and for having children.” And having a home in which to raise them. And protect them.
“If you say so. Me, I don’t never plan to get married so what would I know?” Daisy added with a grin, “But I wasn’t suggesting you marry the gypsy, lovie—just that you fancy him to bits.”
“I do not! I don’t fancy anyone.”
Daisy gave her a thoughtful look. “You never talk about love or fancies, or anythin’ like that, do you, Jane? Why not, I wonder? Even Lady Bea does it sometimes, and Abby and Damaris never stop.”
“That’s different,” Jane said. “Besides, Abby and Damaris are married now.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to be married, or in love, to fancy a good-lookin’ bloke. It’s only natural, and it ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.” Downstairs the front doorbell jangled and Daisy’s face lit up. “Ooh, that’ll be Abby and Damaris now. I can’t wait to see ’em—it’s been that long since we had a proper talk, just us girls, without the men. Besides, I’m starvin’, so ’urry up, Miss I-Never-Noticed-He-Was-Handsome.” She hurried toward the stairs, whistling a jaunty tune.
Jane, following, pressed her lips together as she recognized the tune; Away with the raggle-taggle gypsy-o.
She was not, absolutely not, about to have her head turned by a handsome gypsy. The very idea was ridiculous. Ludicrous. Impossible.
She was a betrothed woman.
Zachary Black was merely delivering a dog for her.
* * *
It took forever to get to Berkeley Square, partly because of RosePetal’s determination to investigate interesting smells and christen lampposts, and partly because Zach had spotted a market, where he’d bought some healing herbs and a pot of ointment from a gypsy woman, and a red leather collar and a lead—a chain, because he didn’t trust the dog not to chomp through a leather one.
“A fine laughingstock you made of me in your blue satin ribbon,” he’d told the dog severely as he buckled on the collar. “The ugliest dog in London in the prettiest ribbon. Apart from which, I don’t trust you an inch. If you spotted a cat or some other mortal enemy, would you respect the restraining powers of a blue satin ribbon?”
The dog looked up, panting gently through that atrocious but endearing snaggle-toothed grin.
“I didn’t think so. No honor at all. And this collar is too smart for you by far, I know, but you’re coming up in the world, RosePetal. Just think of it, she’s offered me two shillings—two! Aren’t you impressed? I wouldn’t have given tuppence for you.” He clipped on the chain. “Don’t get any ideas about it changing your status in life, though—she’s probably forgotten you by now. Or changed her mind about keeping you. Girls like that are impulsive. They don’t think things through. Look at the way she charged into that pack of bullies.”
It still stunned him, the way she hadn’t hesitated. Foolhardy, and impulsive, yes, foolish too. But undeniably brave. And all to rescue a street mongrel—and an ugly one at that. In Zach’s experience, ladies usually cooed and fussed over pretty little creatures, balls of fluff, or puppies—appealing-looking animals.
“Not you,” he told the dog. “Not an appealing bone in your body, is there?”
The dog glanced up at him, wagged his entire behind at Zach and grinned that tongue-lolling, lopsided, hideous grin. Zach laughed. “Your appeal, while not immediately obvious, is an acquired taste. But she didn’t know that when she risked her skin for you, did she? Those louts could have hurt her quite badly.”
She was an intriguing mix. She was clearly a sheltered young lady of the ton. There was no hint of vulgarity in her voice or demeanor, and her clothes were of the finest materials and what he took to be the latest mode, though he was more au courant with ladies’ fashion on the Continent.
And there was a definite innocence about her. Those blushes couldn’t be faked.
Yet she knew what a cosh was, and how to use it. And then there was the instinctive way she’d used her knee to disable their leader. Where had she learned that little trick? It wasn’t the kind of thing young ladies of the ton were taught. A brother, perhaps? It was intriguing.
No, she was intriguing.
Not to mention enticing. That mouth of hers, so soft and lush, like silken-skinned cherries. Would it taste as sweet? He grinned to himself. She’d probably rather die than kiss a gypsy.
Though she’d shown no sign of the scorn that respectable people—particularly respectable ladies—showed gypsies. The big footman now, he’d shown Zach the kind of reception most gypsies received.
Not Miss Jane; she’d treated Zach almost as politely as if he’d been a gentleman. Even called him one once. Why? Because he’d saved her pretty hide from
a mauling by those thugs? Or because his act had slipped? He had forgotten himself for a moment—and that did disturb him. He never forgot who or where he was—his life depended on it.
Why would he lose concentration today? Because he was back in England after all these years? Because he was, despite what he’d told Gil, growing weary of the life he’d been living? Whatever the reason, it was a warning.
Zach rolled up the blue satin ribbon and tucked it in his pocket. She wouldn’t want it back, not after it had been around the dog’s dirty neck. He’d return it if she asked for it. Of course.
He continued on his way, ruminating on the enigma of Miss Jane. She was full of contradictions. A lady with a footman, who airily told the footman to pay the gypsy and yet didn’t talk down to him, or try to freeze him out, as most ladies would. She’d also talked to the footman as if he were someone she both liked and respected. William wasn’t simply a servant to her; he was a person, with feelings.
Perhaps she didn’t know any better. She was young—only eighteen or nineteen. Perhaps that was it. She probably treated everyone politely. Well brought up. Or perhaps she’d been raised by nonconformists or radicals.
But would nonconformists or radicals keep servants dressed in livery? And who was this Lady Beatrice with the new carriage who wouldn’t want a dog in it? A relative? Her grandmother?
He pondered William’s reaction to the dog. Clearly it was not the first time Miss Jane had brought home a stray.
“She might want you,” he told the dog as they turned the corner into Berkeley Square. “But will that old lady feel the same? I doubt it. You are not most ladies’ vision of an ideal pet. And who could blame them?” he added as the dog stopped to scratch vigorously behind one ear. “Such attractive habits you have.”
Two fashionable-looking ladies were looking at him askance. He raised his shabby hat to them and gave a flourishing half bow, which caused them to turn hastily away. Grinning to himself—he did enjoy playing the disreputable vagabond—he led the dog across the park toward the address she had given him, and rang the front doorbell.
A very dignified butler answered, took one look at Zach and the dog and said, “You will find the tradesmen’s entrance around the side,” indicating the direction with a regal sweep of his white-gloved hand. Clearly he had been expecting them.
He went to close the door, but Zach stuck his foot in it and said pleasantly, “Not a tradesman; doing a favor for Miss Jane.”
The butler narrowed his eyes and subjected Zach to a swift, though thorough scrutiny. “Nevertheless, the animal must be delivered through the tradesmen’s entrance.”
Zach didn’t move. The butler looked at Zach’s foot. “I would hate to have to call William. Miss Jane would be so embarrassed by a scuffle on her aunt’s front doorstep.”
Zach frowned. The butler added smoothly, “Such an incident would hardly add to the young lady’s case for keeping the animal.”
The fellow had him there. With a grin, Zach withdrew his foot. “Rolled me up, by George, foot and guns, without even an exchange of fire. Smart fellow. Come along then, RosePetal, we’ve been put firmly in our place.” To the butler he said, “Tell Miss Jane the dog and I will be waiting for her in the square.”
The butler frowned. “But the side entrance—”
Zach smiled. “Did you forget? Neither the dog nor I are tradesmen.”
Chapter Eight
I have not the pleasure of understanding you.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Luncheon was a light, informal affair: cucumber sandwiches, a little cold chicken and some lemon curd cakes, washed down with cups of tea. And since they hadn’t been all girls together since Christmas, there was no shortage of conversation. Not that there ever was when all four girls were together.
It was wonderful to have her sisters back, and under normal circumstances Jane would have loved nothing better than to spend the rest of the day talking with them and hearing all their news.
But the matter of a tall, dark gypsy kept intruding into her thoughts.
Because of the dog, she told herself firmly. She had to get him cleaned up and presentable-looking before Lady Beatrice saw him. As he currently was—muddy, bloody, beaten-up and flea-ridden—she wouldn’t have a hope of being allowed to keep him.
It would be different when she had a home of her own. She wouldn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to adopt a dog then. Except Lord Cambury. And he liked dogs.
She kept glancing at the clock on the mantel. How long would it take him to get to Berkeley Square?
“Jane, gel, what the deuce is the matter with you?” Lady Beatrice asked, interrupting a story Damaris was telling. “You keep looking at the clock. Are your sisters boring you, or are you expecting someone to call?” Clearly the dog had not even crossed her mind. And a good thing too.
“Of course I’m not bored,” Jane, embarrassed, assured them. “Truly, I’m not. Go on with your story, Damaris. It all sounds utterly delightful.”
To her surprise, they all laughed.
“Delightful indeed,” Damaris said with a chuckle. “I was in the middle of relating my travel-sickness woes—not something I had intended to bore you all with, but Abby did ask. And despite the misery getting there—though Freddy was so sweet, you wouldn’t believe—I do not regret going to Venice. Freddy was right—it’s a magical place.”
Jane blushed. “I’m so sorry, Damaris, I was woolgathering.”
“That,” Lady Beatrice said crisply, “was apparent. I would have expected you’d show some interest in the land of your birth.”
Jane’s jaw dropped. The land of her birth? As if Lady Beatrice hadn’t made up the entire story of them being born in Venice, when she knew perfectly well they’d all been born in England.
Damaris and Abby giggled. Daisy rolled her eyes. Of them all, Daisy was the one most disapproving of Lady Beatrice’s flights of fancy. Lies, Daisy often said, never did nobody no good.
“Is there something wrong, Jane?” Abby asked.
“She’s waitin’ for an ’andsome gypsy to bring her an ugly mutt wearing a blue satin ribbon,” Daisy said.
Abby laughed. “Have you taken up fortune-telling, Daisy?”
“No, it’s true. I’m getting a dog, but he’s not really that ugly,” Jane said. “He’s like we were, before Lady Beatrice rescued us—homeless and without a family or anyone to care—”
“Very affecting, I’m sure,” Lady Beatrice interrupted. “However, we have yet to decide whether the dog stays or not. You may show it to me, and then we’ll see.” She bent and picked up Snowflake. “There are the cats to consider.”
Jane prayed that her dog was the cat-friendly type. And that the cats were dog friendly.
“What’s this about a gypsy?” Abby asked.
“Some horrid boys were torturing him,” Jane said.
“Who, the gypsy?”
“No, the dog. The gypsy helped me get rid of the boys. He’s bringing the dog here. I asked him to because he was too dirty to ride in the carriage.”
“Who, the gypsy?” Lady Beatrice asked.
“No, the dog. He was all muddy. The gypsy is actually quite clean.”
Lady Beatrice snorted. “Believe that when I see it.”
Jane rose. “The front doorbell rang a moment ago. It’s probably him.”
Lady Beatrice held up a magisterial hand. “Stay where you are, gel. Well-bred young ladies don’t answer the door, especially not to gypsies. Besides, gypsies know better than to approach the front door of a gentleman’s residence.”
“But—”
“In any case, there is no need for you to speak to the fellow yourself. What is the point of having servants if they can’t deal with such trivial matters? Featherby or William will give him a coin for his trouble and that will be the end of the matter. Finish your
luncheon and listen to your sisters’ news. Now, tell me, Damaris, did you meet the doge in Venice?”
Jane, frustrated, sat back in her chair as Damaris responded that no, they hadn’t met the doge, but they’d met a number of other Venetian noblemen and ladies. She described some of the occasions.
Jane did her best to concentrate. Of course she wanted to hear her sister’s news, she was interested, she truly was, but Venice was a long way away, and she’d never heard of any of these people, and her dog and Zachary Black would be here at any minute—if not here already.
It was only polite to thank him herself, surely? She felt Daisy’s shrewd gaze on her and plastered an interested expression on her face.
She tried not to fidget, tried not to think of a pair of silver-green eyes gleaming in a tanned face. And the way her pulse had leapt when he touched her.
Finally luncheon came to an end. Lady Beatrice allowed Abby to assist her upstairs, where she would lie down for a short “composer” before supervising their dancing lesson later on. Damaris and Daisy hurried away to get in a fitting for a dress Daisy had almost finished, and Jane was free to go and find her dog.
Zachary Black would have left by now, which was disappointing—though only because she would have liked to thank him personally, she told herself. Being polite. Really, she was eager to see her dog.
Jane looked into the front hall, but there was no sign of anyone. No doubt they’d taken the dog to the kitchen. He’d be hungry. She headed through the green baize door and entered the servants’ area.
“There’s something not right about that gypsy,” Featherby was saying to William. Jane drew back and listened.
“Well, of course he’s not right—he’s a gypsy,” William responded.
“Is he, that’s the question.”
“Course he is, Hewitt,” William said. “You saw that coat of his.”
Featherby nodded. “I did see his coat.” His nose wrinkled. “I smelled his coat, and yet . . .”
“And yet, what? If he looks like a gypsy, smells like a gypsy and acts like a gypsy, what else would he be?”