“Come here,” he beckoned her over to him. “You others have the job of looking after the cab while we are gone. If I find the carriage safe and sound upon my return, you will each get a sixpence.” He handed the coins to the man in the driver’s seat. “The coachman will look after the money until I get back.” Rose saw him wink at the man, then exchange a friendly nod with him.
“What is your name?” Rose asked, leaning down to the girl, who instinctively backed away. Rose ignored the stench rising from the pavement and inelegantly lowered herself to the child’s eye level, taking the girl’s greasy little mitt in her gloved right hand.
“Ann, m’Lady,” she stammered.
“That is a wonderful name,” Rose assured her, secretly wondering what was wrong with her. She had never had a close relationship with children, but something about the girl struck an unsung chord in her heart. “Please take us to where the dog fight is taking place.” She straightened up.
“You could have told me,” she hissed to Cavanaugh. Dog fighting was one of the cruellest entertainment opportunities Rose could imagine. Even her father, who was by no means sentimental, abhorred men who set two innocent creatures upon one another until one of them was unable to stand.
“Would that have changed anything? You would have still insisted on coming.”
“You are right,” she admitted. “Nevertheless, you could have warned me.”
“I can still put you in the carriage and send you back home. Believe me, right now, I have got a good mind on doing so.”
“I think that is an excellent idea,” Mrs Prisson intervened, unexpectedly, but a pluck on her coat kept Rose from answering. It was Ann who looked up at her and smiled shyly. A quick glance showed her that the other children had actually done what the marquess had ordered them to do and had grouped around the cab like little guards.
“Let us get this over with. Ann, show us the way.”
Ann led them into a back alley that was perhaps even dirtier than the Whitechapel pavement. Even as she made her way through the filth, Rose heard the shouting and roaring of the men cheering for their favourites. There was an abject howling, followed by a collective groan of disappointed spectators. Rose felt the colour fade away from her face, and she clung tighter and tighter to Lord Cavanaugh’s arm while Ann moved forward, as if listening to a dying dog was part of her daily routine. The moaning had become a whimper that, to Rose’s ears, came very close to the cry of a baby.
“My Lady, that is enough. Wait in the cab. Upon my honour, I will only look for de Coucy but then question him together with you.” Rose heard her chaperone approvingly agree with him. She knew that she was testing the woman’s patience and could soon expect no further leniency.
Nevertheless, the marquess was impossible. Was he only capable of extremes? Could he not even be fairly friendly or fairly rude? Instead, he was either very, very ghastly or very, very lovable, but never average.
Rose nearly choked when she realised what she was thinking and disguised her inner turmoil as a cough. “It is all right,” she insisted, but this time, her protest went unheard.
Mrs Prisson hooked her arm under Rose’s while the marquess turned on his heels and set off back to the carriage.
“Are you coming, or would you like me to throw you over my shoulder like a sack and carry you to the carriage?”
Mrs Prisson snorted.
“You would not dare,” Rose whispered, but she saw the answer on his face and gave way. Nobody, not even Ann, who did not let Rose out of her sight, seemed to find anything strange about a man and a woman having an argument out on the street. The thought that nobody cared how His Excellency conducted himself with her was sobering. Although Rose went with him, he did not hesitate to open the door of the carriage, grab her by the waist, and hand-deliver her to the seat.
“I will be right back,” he promised, slamming the door in her face.
Rose heard him instruct the coachman to take care of the ladies until he returned. Then he reassured the children who demanded their money and promised them another sixpence if they also kept an eye on the ladies in the coach.
An eternity passed, during which Rose wrestled with whether to get out and find their own cab or follow him after all. She decided to stay, but only because she did not want to make a degrading spectacle. When the marquess had picked her up, he made it seem effortless, as if she weighed nothing – and she trusted that he would carry out his threat. He aroused the most contradictory feelings in her. In addition to developing a distinctly stronger male character during his time away from London, there was something that confused her.
What Rose did, however, was to open the door of the coach, look out and listen. Unfortunately, the King’s Head was on a busy street where the carriages and passers-by created a real pandemonium, not to mention the noise level surging when someone opened the tavern door. The children’s eager expressions were directed at them, and the coachman was grunting a warning to wait in the cab. She closed the door again. Each time, Rose hurriedly withdrew and pressed herself into the backrest just in case one of Richard’s friends came out and recognised her.
How much time had passed? Rose did not have a pocket watch, but if she could trust her instinct, then surely more than half an hour had gone by. It was not dusk yet, but it was already late afternoon. With a soft moan, she thought of her parents and the moral lecture she would receive when she returned home. Not without good reason, she had to admit in fairness. Her actions had the best of intentions, but … was that the marquess who was coming out of the alley? She stuck her head out of the window as far as possible, despite Mrs Prisson’s protests.
It was not the Marquess of Cavanaugh, but another man in a grey suit. One she even knew! She quickly pulled her head back in, but it was too late.
Viscount Eaglethorpe, one of Richard’s friends, had seen her and was approaching the carriage. Her heart pounded as she saw him stop in front of the cab and look unsteadily through the window. Eaglethorpe’s eyes wandered up to the driver’s seat, while Rose pressed herself back into the upholstery of the carriage as far as possible.
This was the moment she promised God and all the saints of the English Church to be a well-behaved young lady in the future, if she were to get away with this again. No doubt Eaglethorpe would recognise her, if he stuck his head through the window. Rose heard children screaming in polyphony outside, accompanied by the driver’s growling bass. Eaglethorpe cursed, and one of the children began to cry.
That was enough. Rose wriggled out of Mrs Prisson’s grip, who must have understood rather quickly what was going on with her protégé – namely the attempt to get out of the carriage to put the viscount in his place. Rose did not think he had enough energy to hit a child, yet she could not sit idly by. She pushed the door open and gasped when, suddenly, behind Eaglethorpe’s narrow-shouldered figure, the much larger marquess loomed.
“It is time to go,” he growled.
Rose’s heart slid to her knees, believing that he was talking to her at first, but his words were addressed to the viscount, who stared at him for a moment, before his unfocused gaze found a new target, and finally staggered away.
Only then did she see that the Marquess of Cavanaugh had a big bundle pressed to his chest, and it was moving.
“Mrs Prisson, please take a seat next to Lady Rose,” he said curtly. The chaperone uttered a sound of astonishment, and Rose joined in as Cavanaugh laid the bundle on the bench. It was a big, pitch-black dog, and it was bleeding from numerous wounds.
Suddenly, Rose felt exceptionally meek. She saw the marquess hand out the promised coins to the children, then he attended them inside the carriage. Rose waved to Ann who waved back timidly. She had to return, perhaps with her sister Felicity, who, along with her husband, ran a refuge for fallen women and their children here in Whitechapel.
The marquess carefully lifted the huge animal’s head and rested it on his leg as the carriage lurched away. Rose rummaged in her handbag for a
handkerchief but could not find one. So, she removed the stole from her shoulders and started dabbing at the blood while the marquess stroked the dog’s head.
“What have they done to you?” Rose whispered. Her attitude to dogs had been similar to that of children – she preferred to stay away from them. Apparently, today was a day when all her previous convictions were thoroughly whirled around.
“What people do best: hurt and kill,” Cavanaugh said, responding to her rhetorical question.
“Did you buy him from his owner? What will you do with him?” The dog let out a soft whine as she touched a particularly large wound on its ribs. “It is all right, big chap … everything will be fine, I promise you. Now all you have to do is hold still for a moment, and you have almost made it.” She realised that the marquess was staring at her and felt a warmth rising from the back of her neck.
“His owner wanted to throw him in the bin,” said Gabriel, “because he lost the fight and because ‘there was nothing left to use,’ so the man said.” She glanced up briefly and wanted to ask what he had done to the man but changed her mind. “I do not know what I will do with him … I … have no use for a dog, certainly not one this size. Provided he does not die.”
“He will not,” said Rose, stroking the blood-caked fur. The dog opened his eyes and gave her a shockingly penetrating look. “See, he understands me. He is going to make it. I know he will.” The dog closed his eyes and let out a sigh. Rose felt the warmth of his muscled body and wondered if he might have a fever. “Did you find Richard?” she inquired – admittedly, a little late – this being the real reason for their trip to Whitechapel, without stopping her petting for one second.
“No,” Gabriel de Vere answered her question. “No one has ever seen him there. Either his butler has deliberately lured us down the wrong path or …” Rose watched as he frowned, and a look of irritation swept over his features. “Or it was a misunderstanding,” he finished his sentence.
“Well, I for one, am not surprised that nobody knows Richard there. He is not the type for something so barbaric.”
“I agree with you.” Cavanaugh surprised her with his answer. She was about to ask him what he was withholding as the carriage slowed and halted in front of his house. Rose and Mrs Prisson waited for the marquess to get out with the injured dog in his arms and hurried after him.
“My Lord,” said the butler, who opened the door for them and understood with one glance what had happened. “I suggest you carry the … dog into the storeroom. There is a large table where you can put him down. I will call Wellburn right away.”
Without giving any thought to the “why,” Rose went to follow him, but was held back by Mrs Prisson.
“We should go home now,” she said. “We have had more than enough of an adventure for one day.”
“Oh, please, I just want to make sure the poor dog is well looked after. Please, Mrs Prisson. Only ten minutes.” Feeling restless, she watched the marquess leave.
“All right,” her chaperone said. “Ten minutes and not a moment longer.”
“Thank you,” Rose called over her shoulder and dashed after the marquess.
Firstly, she helped him to lay the dog in the most comfortable position on the huge table. Rose inhaled sharply but did not look away when she saw a flash of white rib. The dog did not even growl or make a move to bite the hands that gently lowered it.
She moved around to the other side of the table and realised she was crying when she saw her tears drip onto its black fur.
“Give him a name,” she whispered, stroking his silky mouth with droopy lips. The dog was panting and breathing too fast, its pink tongue hanging out.
“I …” Their eyes met over the injured animal.” All right. From today, his name will be Oberon.”
Only the fact that it knocked briefly, and a plainly dressed man with a heavy-set appearance entered the room, prevented Rose from crying even more.
“My Lady. Sir.” He did not impede with futile pleasantries and went to the table and stroked Oberon’s nose. “So, this is the patient. Let me see if we can patch you up, old boy. You are a brave lad – I can see that.” He spoke to the dog as if to a human, and when Rose saw how carefully his mighty hands moved over the dog’s limbs, she calmed down a little.
“Tim Wellburn is the best when it comes to injured animals.” The marquess’s voice spoke close to her ear. Rose just nodded. She did not trust her own voice and crying in Gabriel’s arms was the last thing she wanted. At least, it would have been completely inappropriate. “Excuse me for a moment. If you want, you can stay here and watch. You do not mind, Wellburn?”
Had he just asked a member of his staff for an opinion?
Before Rose knew it, the person in question muttered his approval and asked Rose to help turn the animal. When they had finished the procedure, Rose was bathed in sweat and Gabriel was by her side again.
It was as if Oberon knew they would do him no harm. He remained peaceful and even licked Rose’s hand once. They were silent while Tim did his job. He washed the wounds with warm water and placed so many bandages on Oberon that the big dog resembled more an Egyptian mummy than a dog. “He should sleep now, my Lord. Do you have a quiet place for him, or should I take him to my room?”
“He will stay with me tonight. Take him to my bedroom, Tim. If necessary, stay with him until I am back to look after him myself.” He grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled her away. “Come on, it is time we took you home. It is already dark.”
Her parents had to be going half-crazy with worry, Rose thought, wondering if she would ever be allowed to set foot outside the house again. Nothing was left of the forwardness that, only a few hours ago, had made her announce that she was too old for being confined to her quarters. “I have sent word to your parents. They know that you are only going to be late and that you are well. Come, I will take you and Mrs Prisson home now.”
“Thank you,” whispered Rose, who was again close to tears. “But you do not have to accompany us. It was my idea to track down Richard, after all.” She clapped her hand to her mouth as she realised that in the past few minutes, probably even hours, she had not even thought once of Richard, let alone the reason for all the secrecy. She looked up at Gabriel and wondered when she had begun to call him by his first name in her mind. He looked as dirty and filthy as she felt (and probably appeared), but at that moment, she could not care less. He had saved Oberon and was insisting on staving off some of her parents’ well-deserved anger.
Perhaps it was time to reconsider her opinion of the Marquess of Cavanaugh.
Chapter 18
Lady Rose was uncharacteristically quiet when he accompanied her home, and Gabriel did not feel like talking. Usually, he was not the kind to be bothered by silence, but he did not like seeing her this dispirited. “Tell me what is on your mind.” It was probably not the most skilful opening to a conversation, but he did not want to keep reassuring her again and again that he intended to bear most of her parental wrath or that Oberon would recover.
She snuggled deeper into the blankets which he had spread around her and the silent Mrs Prisson, and sighed. They had taken the open carriage, as the inside of his covered carriage still bore the traces of transporting the injured dog. An eternity seemed to pass before she finally opened her eyes and looked at him. Her gaze never failed to touch him, whether he wanted to grab her and shake her, or kiss her, but that moment was … different. For a moment, he longed to take his words back and ask her to close her eyes again, just so he would not have to drown in the blue sea – but it was too late. The distance between them, which he had carefully adhered to, shrank, although neither Gabriel nor Lady Rose had moved. The wall between them turned to dust until they were just a man and a woman who had together been pushed to their limits this very day.
“Nothing really.” Her voice was little more than a whisper that almost perished in the clatter of hooves and the shouts of the boys commending the evening newspaper editions.
&
nbsp; “You are lying.” The words left Gabriel’s mouth before he had even thought about how rude it was to accuse a lady of an obvious lie. “Tell me what is troubling you. Please,” he added, lest it sounded too much like an order.
“Can we not just leave it by saying that it was a gruelling day, and I did just about everything wrong that I could possibly have done wrong?” She turned her head to one side, just a little and not enough to hide her welling tears from him.
He felt the chastising stare of the chaperone and relented. “Of course, if that is what you wish.” He paused, forcing his fingers to remain still, instead of taking her face in both hands and turning it towards him. “I know you are worried about what your parents are going to say, but …” Gabriel was searching for the right words to give her at least a little comfort. His heart was pounding fast, just like that day when he had first walked onto the battlefield. “But you should not be too hard on yourself, Lady Rose. You followed your heart, and there is nothing wrong with that.”
“I cannot believe that you are the one saying that. This morning, when I turned up at Battersea Fields and this afternoon, you seemed anything but enthusiastic about my presence.”
“Nothing has changed. What I mean to say is that I admire your desire to help your betrothed, as well as your loyalty.” Her eyes grew wide as if she could not believe what he was saying. That was not surprising, because Gabriel himself could hardly believe what he had uttered. He pulled himself together. “I only wish you had resorted to other means. Was there really no other way than to drive through the city all on your own? Anything could have happened to you.” The mere thought was enough to rattle him.
“If I had seen another way, believe me, I would have taken it. But what do you think I should have done? Ask my parents to provide a carriage so that I could throw myself in front of my fiancé and prevent a duel?” There was no longer any question of her feeling low-spirited. “Would you just let your sister go if she came to you with such a request?” She glared at him, wrought-up. “And since we are on the subject, my Lord, I could not have gone to Richard alone, even though we are officially engaged. Nor could I have approached you to ask you to cancel the silly, foolish, daft duel. As an unmarried woman, I had no option but to act behind my parents’ backs and hope for their leniency.”
An Unkissed Lady: A Historical Regency Romance (The Evesham Series) Page 11
