by Jane Feather
“I am resolved, lass,” he said softly. “Looking daggers at me isn’t going to change anything.”
He turned to the gowns over the chair, sorting swiftly through them. “This one goes with your eyes,” he cajoled, holding up a sprigged muslin gown with a cornflower-blue sash and blue ribbons.
“It’s so demure,” Chloe muttered.
“It’s so suitable,” he retorted, and called the modiste. “Miss Gresham will try this gown.”
With as good a grace as she could muster, Chloe submitted to being divested of the peacock-blue taffeta and buttoned into the muslin. Madame Letty tied the sash around the slender waist and stood back with a smile.
“Beautiful,” she said. “Mary, fetch that chip straw hat, the one with the matching ribbons. It will look exquisite.”
Chloe was unconvinced and rather glumly stepped out of the dressing room to show her guardian.
A slow smile spread across Hugo’s face as he examined her. “Come here.” He beckoned her and turned her to face the mirror again. “Now, that, lass, is a vision to delight the most jaded eye.”
“Is it?” Chloe looked longingly toward the glitter of the discarded taffeta.
“Trust me.”
When they left Madame Letty’s an hour later, Chloe possessed three gowns, a velvet cloak, the chip straw hat and a well-cut but unexciting riding habit of dark blue broadcloth. Hugo had allowed her a tricorn hat with a silver plume to go with the habit, but otherwise had ruled the selection with an iron hand. Chloe was quiet as they walked back to the George and Dragon, and Hugo tried to think of something to make up for her disappointment.
Suddenly, Chloe was gone from his side. With a shout of outrage she darted into the road, dodging in front of a curricle driven tandem by a young blood in a caped driving coat with a dozen whip points thrust into the buttonholes.
His leader reared, snorting, as Chloe ducked, jumped sideways, and plunged into the center of the traffic-filled thoroughfare.
Hugo, without looking at the driver, seized the leader’s harness, holding his thrashing head as he stared across the street anxiously for some sign of Chloe. The young man filled the air with profanity.
“For God’s sake, man, stop swearing and look to your horses,” Hugo said impatiently, his eyes still searching the gathering throng for Chloe, even as he continued to hold the horse.
Without responding, the driver cracked his whip, catching the leader’s ear. The horse leapt forward and Hugo jumped aside just in time. At the same instant he recognized the stolid features and flat brown eyes of the curricle’s driver. Chloe had run in front of Crispin Belmont’s horses.
He watched the curricle’s plunging progress up the steep street at the behest of its evil-tempered driver. Maybe not Jasper’s son by birth, but certainly by temperament. A small crowd had gathered on the opposite side of the road, voices raised in fervent argument. With considerable foreboding Hugo crossed the street and pushed through the crowd.
Foreboding was justified. Chloe bore no resemblance to the disconsolate girl of the dress shop. A diminutive firebrand, she was violently berating a large man sitting on the driver’s seat of a cart filled with turnips.
Hugo took one look at the horse between the shafts and understood. The sorry-looking animal hung its head, its hide ridged with scars from old weals, blood streaking from fresh whip cuts, its ribs painfully visible, its chest heaving as it struggled to gather strength for the rest of its uphill journey.
“Brute! I’ll have you taken up by the magistrates,” Chloe yelled. Her hands, unbuckling the animal’s harness, were deftly efficient despite her fury. “You should be pilloried!” She released the bit and launched a new tirade at the condition of the animal’s mouth, cut by the cruel curb.
The turnip seller jumped from his cart with surprising agility for such a large man. “What the ’ell d’ye think you’re doin?” He grabbed Chloe’s arm. She spun around like a top and kicked him in the groin.
The crowd gasped as the man doubled over as if the air had been punched from his body. Chloe turned back to the horse, unbuckling the girth.
“Chloe!” Hugo called out sharply.
She looked up impatiently, and he could see that nothing concerned her at the moment but the horse. She was oblivious of herself, of the impression she might be making, of the gawking crowd. “Give this man some money,” she said, “I’m taking his horse. Even though he’s used the poor beast so dreadfully, it wouldn’t be just to take it without compensation.”
“You expect me—”
“Yes, I do,” she fired back. “Not your money—mine!” She had finally released the animal and now led him out of the shafts, her hand stroking the hollow neck. The crowd fell back as the animal’s owner tried to straighten from his agonized crouch.
“You take my ’orse and I’ll—” He gave up, gasping. The crowd began to mutter, sympathy for one of their own replacing curiosity.
Swiftly, Hugo dug into his pocket and tossed two gold sovereigns to the ground between the man’s feet. The decrepit animal didn’t look as if it would last the night, but the crowd would be on the side of the horse’s owner and he had to get Chloe away in one piece.
“Move!” he commanded under his breath.
Chloe seemed to take the point and hauled her pitiable prize through the crowd while they were still reacting to the sovereigns.
“Thank you,” she said somewhat belatedly as they reached the far side of the street.
“Oh, don’t thank me,” he responded with an ironical quirk of an eyebrow. “As I recall, it was your money.”
“What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it for what you want?” she demanded, one hand gently stroking the horse’s neck.
Like taffeta gowns and tulle hats, Hugo thought. The pathetic, maltreated beast seemed a fair exchange for the whore’s dress. However, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to spend another such day. His zealously unpredictable ward was an exhausting companion. And he still hadn’t made contact with a decent drink.
However, he was not prepared to linger in the George and Dragon while she found something else to engage her attention in this city full of unrest and potential victims. Unrefreshed, he hurried Chloe and the turnip seller’s liberated nag homeward.
Chapter 6
“WHERE’S DANTE?” Chloe slipped from her pony in the courtyard and looked around, frowning. The dog’s absence was conspicuous. It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t have come rushing to greet her.
Hugo dismounted and yelled for Billy. The lad appeared from the direction of the kennels, swinging an empty pail. He set the pail down and came toward them, rather less lethargically than usual.
“I was feedin’ the dogs, sir.” He tugged a forelock and then stared in unabashed disgust at the turnip seller’s nag. “What’s that?”
“You may well ask,” Hugo said. “Where’s Miss Gresham’s dog?”
Billy scratched his head. “Well, I don’t rightly know.” He gestured to the pump. “I ’ad ’im fastened over yonder. But ’e up an’ went when I went for me dinner.”
“Did he break the rope?”
Billy shook his head. “Don’t look like it, sir. Rope looks like it’s gone an’ untied itself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Chloe stalked across to the pump. The rope was not frayed or broken. “You must have tied him insecurely.”
“He’ll be back, lass,” Hugo said, seeing her expression. “How long’s he been gone, Billy?”
“ ’Bout an hour, I reckon, sir.”
“He’s chasing rabbits in the wood, I’ll lay odds,” Hugo reassured her. “He’ll be back covered in mud and starving as soon as it gets dark.”
Chloe frowned unhappily. Til look for him when I’ve seen to Rosinante.”
“You’ve christened that sorry beast Rosinante?” Hugo gave a shout of laughter. “You absurd creature.”
“Rosinante was a fairly sorry animal,” Chloe retorted. “Anyway, I’ve always liked the nam
e. And hell grow into it, won’t you?” She scratched between the ears of the nag’s hanging head. “Billy, I want you to make up a bran mash. I’m going to do something about his cuts.”
Hugo turned toward the house, inquiring with a degree of curiosity, “By the by, what name does the parrot rejoice in?”
“Falstaff,” she said promptly. “I’m sure he’s had a thoroughly dissolute life.”
Chuckling, Hugo went inside.
Chloe bathed Rosinante’s wounds, fed him warm bran mash, and installed him in a stable with a lavish supply of hay.
“I’m going to look for Dante,” she said, entering the kitchen. “It’s getting dark.”
Hugo, gratefully ensconced before a bottle of burgundy, squashed the uncomfortable conviction that he ought to abandon his wine and accompany her himself.
“Take Billy with you, since it’s largely his responsibility.”
“What if I don’t find him?” Her eyes were purple.
“I’ll go out with you after dinner,” he promised. “But be back here in half an hour.”
Chloe returned punctually but empty-handed and sat miserably at the table, picking at the laden plate Samuel put in front of her.
“Summat wrong wi’ it?” he demanded roughly.
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry … I’m not hungry.”
“That’s a first,” Samuel remarked to no one in particular.
“Have some wine.” Hugo filled her glass. “And eat your dinner. You only think you’re not hungry.”
Chloe chewed a mouthful of chicken. It tasted like sawdust. She drank her wine with rather more enthusiasm and by the second glass was beginning to feel more cheerful. Dante was a young, healthy dog who hadn’t had too many opportunities to roam the countryside, chasing up scents.
“Wretched animal!” she exclaimed crossly, and attacked her dinner. There was no point going hungry because the exasperating creature was doing what dogs, given half a chance, did.
“That’s better,” Hugo approved. “What are you going to do with him when he does decide to return?”
“Nothing,” Chloe said. “What could I do? He doesn’t know he’s doing anything wrong … in fact, he’s not. He’s just being a dog.”
But the knowledge that Dante would never choose to spend this amount of time away from her obtruded through wine-induced buoyancy.
By midnight she was distraught and Hugo at point non plus. All three of them had stumbled across fields by the light of an oil lantern, trod cautiously through the tinder-dry wood, and called until they were hoarse.
“Go to bed, lass.” Hugo leaned wearily against the kitchen door to close it. “He’ll be outside in the morning, a picture of penitence.”
“You don’t know him,” she said, the catch in her voice accentuated by unshed tears.
But Hugo had formed a pretty fair impression of Dante and didn’t believe for one minute that his continued absence from his beloved owner’s side was voluntary. However, he strove to keep that from Chloe.
“It’s time you were in bed,” he said again. “There’s nothing more to be done tonight.”
“But how can I sleep?” she cried, pacing the kitchen. “Supposing he’s hurt … in a trap …” She covered her face with her hands as if to block out the images of Dante in agony.
“ ’Ot milk and brandy,” Samuel declared, setting the oil lamp on the table. “That’ll send ’er off like a babby.”
“Heat some milk, then,” Hugo said. He took Chloe’s shoulders and spoke with calm authority. “Go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll bring you up something to help you sleep in a minute. Go on.” He turned her with a brisk pat on the behind. “You can do Dante no good by pacing the floor all night.”
There was sense in that, and she was bone-weary. It had been a long and exhausting day after a disturbed night. Chloe dragged herself upstairs. She put on her nightgown and sat beside the hat box, trying to take comfort from the contentment of Beatrice and her now-much-prettier offspring.
Downstairs, Hugo contemplated lacing the milk with laudanum rather than brandy. But then he thought of Elizabeth, slipping into addiction. Maybe such tendencies could be passed on. He slurped a liberal dose of brandy into the beaker Samuel filled with milk and took it upstairs.
He tapped lightly on the door to the corner room and went in. Chloe was sitting on the floor. She looked up as he entered, her eyes huge in her white face. He remembered how young she was, but he also remembered fourteen-year-old midshipmen who’d witnessed death and suffered agonizing deaths of their own under his command. Seventeen was mature enough to handle the emotional stresses of a missing dog.
“Into bed, lass.” He put the beaker on the table beside the bed. “In the morning, you’ll be able to deal with it.”
She didn’t argue. “It’s not knowing, that’s all,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “I could accept his death … I just find it hard to think of him suffering alone somewhere.” She pushed her hair away from her face and regarded him seriously. “You mustn’t think that I count the suffering of a dog above the suffering of people. But I do love Dante.”
Perfectly mature enough to handle the emotional stresses of a missing dog … and some. Without conscious thought, he put his arms around her and she hugged his waist fiercely, her head resting against his chest. He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand and turned her face up, lowering his head.
He had intended an avuncular kiss on the brow, or perhaps the tip of her nose. But instead he kissed her mouth. All might still have been well if it had been a light brushing of lips. But as his lips met hers, a heady, intoxicating rush of blood surged through his veins, driving all else from his mind but the warmth of her skin through the thin shift, the delicate curve of her body in his arms, the press of her breasts against his chest. His hold tightened as he possessed her mouth with a fervent urgency and she responded, her lips opening for the probing tongue, her arms gripping his waist. Her scent of lavender and clover honey engulfed him, tinged now with the spice of arousal … and for too long he yielded to the intoxication, exploring her mouth, encouraging her own tentative exploration, his hands sliding to her bottom, kneading the firm flesh, clamping her to the rising shaft of his body.
Too long he yielded to temptation, and when reality finally broke into entrancement, he pushed her from him with a roughness that could almost have been engendered by revulsion. For a moment he took in her swollen, kiss-reddened lips, her tousled hair, the excitement in her eyes, now the color of a midnight sky. With a soft execration he turned from her and left the room.
Chloe touched her lips wonderingly. Her heart was pounding, her skin damp; her hands trembled. She could feel the imprint of his body on hers, his hands pressing her against him. And she was on fire, a surging maelstrom of emotions and sensations that as yet she had no name for.
Dazed, she picked up the beaker of cooling milk and drank it down, the brandy curling in a hot wave in the pit of her stomach, bringing insidious relaxation to her already heavy limbs. She blew out the candle and climbed into bed, pulling the sheet up to her chin, lying still and flat on her back, staring up into the moonlit dimness, waiting for the fire to die down, for some words to come to mind that would make sense of what she was feeling … of what had just happened to her.
Hugo walked slowly downstairs, cursing himself. How had he allowed himself such a piece of flagrant self-indulgence? And the memory of her eager response lashed at him even further. He was her guardian, a man she trusted. She lived under his roof, subject to his authority, and he’d taken shameless advantage of his position and her innocence.
Samuel looked up as Hugo entered the kitchen, watched as he swept up the brandy bottle from the table, and left again, the door banging shut behind him. Samuel recognized the signs, and sighed. Something had happened to send him into one of his black tempers, from which sometimes he wouldn’t emerge for days.
Music drifted in from the library. Samuel listened, recognizing Beethoven
’s strong chords. Anger was the driving force at the moment. When the bleak despair was on him, Hugo played the most desolate passages of Mozart or Haydn. Samuel preferred the anger—recovery was usually speedier.
The library was beneath Chloe’s bedchamber, and the strains of the pianoforte came clearly through her open window. She’d heard him playing the night before, a haunting melody that couldn’t drown out Dante’s howls. The power of this music would drown groans from hell. A wave of sleepiness broke over her, and she turned over, pulling the sheet over her head.
She didn’t know how long she slept, but something brought her awake and upright in the same movement. The music had stopped and the night seemed blacker. She sat unmoving, straining her ears to catch the sound that had awakened her. Then she heard it again. It was faint but unmistakable. A dog was barking frantically.
“Dante,” she whispered. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She listened, trying to pinpoint the direction of the frenzied barking. Her room faced the front of the house and the side opposite to the courtyard, but if she craned her neck she could see the gravel driveway winding down to the road. The sound was coming from somewhere along the driveway. But why? He must be hurt, or stuck.
She ran from the room, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor, down the staircase, and across the hall. She stubbed her toe on an uneven flagstone and her cry of pain, hastily bitten back, sounded loud in the creaking quiet of the house.
She listened, but to her relief it seemed that she hadn’t awakened anyone. Dante had already caused enough upheaval without dragging the two reluctant men from their beds at dead of night.
She opened the door quietly and slipped outside, pulling it to gently behind her. Clouds had come up and the stars were now mostly hidden, making the night much blacker than it had been. She wondered what time it was, wishing she’d thought to look at the clock in the hall.
