The Spring Bride (10 page)

She didn't respond. She gently scratched the dog behind the ears. “Look at you, so dirty. I'm going to give you a bath when we get home, will you like that?”

“Which reminds me, I got you these.” Zach took from his pocket the bundle of dried herbs wrapped in newspaper and the small stoppered pot he'd bought at the market.

She made no move to accept them. “What are they?”

“The packet contains some herbs that are good for healing. Steep them in hot water and use the water to rinse the dog after you bathe him. Then apply the ointment to his injuries. It will hasten the healing process.”

Still she hesitated.

“They're old gypsy remedies. Very reliable.”

She took the newspaper packet and sniffed it cautiously. “Is that lavender I can smell?”

“Yes, lavender is cleansing. And calendula and comfrey and various other herbs. Nothing harmful, I assure you.”

“My sister Damaris knows about herbs too.” She removed the stopper from the little pot and sniffed the ointment within. “A little pungent, but rather nice. There's lavender in this too, I think.”

“Yes, a bit extra in the ointment. I thought you'd appreciate a sweeter smell”—he glanced down at the dog—“to counteract the rather powerful
eau-de-dog
.”

She laughed then, and the sound was like sunlight on diamonds. Her eyes sparkled and Zach felt his breath catch. He stood there, staring down at her, unable to think of a thing. She gazed back at him. The silence stretched.

“Miss Jane?” It was the footman.

She started, blushed and turned around. “Yes, William?”

“It's time for you to be getting back.” He sent Zach a gimlet glare.

“Oh, that's right, my lesson, I almost forgot.” Still blushing, she turned to Zach. “We're practicing the waltz,” she confided. “I'd better go. Thank you so much for bringing my dog, Mr. Black.”

“My absolute pleasure,” Zach murmured. She gave him a warm look, her blush deepened and Zach's brain seized up again.

“Here y'are, gypsy.” William stepped between them, thrusting a coin at Zach. “I trust that'll be the last we see of you.”

Zach had forgotten her promise of payment when he delivered the dog. He accepted the shilling with a grin. “You never know, William, fate is such an unpredictable mistress, is she not?” William scowled.

He turned to Jane and gave her a raffish bow. “I shan't say good-bye, Miss Chance, but
adieu
. Perhaps, if you happen to walk your dog in the mornings, say around ten, we might happen to meet.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I'm sorry. Good-bye, Mr. Black, and thank you again for your assistance.” She turned away, leading the dog, the footman and maid bringing up the rear.

Zach watched her crossing the square, and smiled to himself. A lady of virtue indeed. She'd given him his marching orders, no doubt about it.

Trouble was, he'd never much liked orders.

Where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal.

—JANE AUSTEN,
EMMA

“W
ell,” Lady Beatrice said after dinner. “Let's see this dog, then.” They were all gathered together—Abby and Max, Damaris and Freddy, Daisy and Jane—in the smaller, cozier drawing room. Lady Beatrice had even invited Flynn for the first family “at home” dinner since Freddy and Damaris had returned from Italy, which said a lot for her affection for him, but Flynn had already commenced his hunt for “the finest young lady in London” and was engaged for the evening.

“Now? But the dog hasn't had time to settle in yet,” Jane said. It was too soon. She'd bathed him and anointed his injuries, but he still looked very much the worse for wear. Besides, she hadn't yet discovered the extent of his house training—if any—and more to the point, his attitude toward cats.

All three of the half-grown cats were present: Snowflake lay, as usual, curled in Lady Beatrice's lap, Marmaduke was stretched out along the back of the sofa, while Max-the-cat dangled bonelessly over the knees of his namesake, Max-the-man.

“Is the animal clean?” the old lady asked.

“Yes.” She'd bathed him three times, using lavender soap—lavender having healing properties as well as smelling lovely—and in the last rinse she'd used a decoction Damaris had made of
the herbs Mr. Black had given her. The dog was as clean as she could possibly make him, and smelled pleasantly herbal, though still a bit doggy underneath. Which was only to be expected.

“Well, bring it up, then. No time like the present, especially since all the family is here. We'll see how this creature from the streets conducts itself in polite company.” She stroked Snowflake in a meaningful manner.

Praying silently that the dog would rise to the occasion, Jane went to fetch him.

He was currently confined to the lower regions of the house, partly because Daisy refused to allow him in the bedroom she shared with Jane, and partly because the status of his house-trained-ness—or otherwise—was as yet not established.

She found him asleep on a pile of old rags in the scullery. To Jane's delight, he greeted her ecstatically, writhing in joy, grinning his endearing, ugly grin and making happy doggy sounds. He really was a darling.

She clipped on his lead, sending a silent thanks to Zachary Black for thinking of it. The dog—she had a name for him already, but didn't want to tempt fate by using it before she'd been given permission to keep him—looked so much more civilized in the smart red collar and lead. She prayed Lady Bea would let him stay.

One day she'd have a home of her own and be able to keep whatever animals she wanted to. But that day was yet to come.

She took him upstairs, pausing outside the drawing room to give him a last pat and to whisper, “On your best behavior, please.”

She led him into the middle of the drawing room. There was a moment's silence, then,
Mrrrow! Hisss! Spit!

Three half-grown cats shot into action. Snowflake shot off Lady Bea's lap and leapt onto the dresser behind, skidding across the polished surface and sending a china ornament flying to its doom. Marmaduke leapt vertically in the air and came back down on the top of the sofa. Hissing, he backed away along the length of it, poised to flee, his fur all on end.

Max—the man—gasped as his feline namesake dug claws into his thighs, arched his back and hissed at the canine intruder. Max, swearing under his breath, pushed the cat off. He landed on the floor, and stood facing the dog, stiff-legged, ears flattened, alternately growling and hissing.

“Good God,” Max said, rubbing his thigh and staring at the dog. “Could you have found a sorrier-looking mutt?” Jane didn't answer. She and everybody else were watching to see what the dog would do.

She tightened her grip on the leash, but he made no move to attack the cats. His ragged tail waved gently. That was a good sign, she thought. Unless he thought the cats were dinner.

Max-the-cat approached warily, just a few steps, stiff-legged, claws out, ready to attack . . . or flee.

The dog watched the cat, but didn't move. His tail continued to wag.

Jane prayed.

Max-the-cat arched his back,
mrrowled
malevolently and hissed.

The dog sat down. His tail went
thump thump thump
on the floor. Then he scratched behind his ear. Vigorously.

“I hope that's not a flea,” Lady Beatrice said.

“It's not,” Jane assured her.

Slowly the cat's fur unstiffened. His ears rose a little, setting more to curious and wary, rather than attack. He crouched down, watching the dog with baleful yellow eyes,
mrrowling
occasionally under his breath, but without the same vicious tone—more of a warning sound. Jane started to breathe.

“Undo the chain.” Max's voice made her jump.

“But—”

“They've met each other now. Might as well see how they behave while we're here to prevent any carnage.”

“No,” Jane said. “Not yet. He's not ready.”

Max raised a brow.

“It's my dog,” she told him.

“That's yet to be decided,” Lady Beatrice said.

“Oh, but—”

“Look,” Damaris said softly.

While they'd been talking, Max-the-cat had edged closer and closer. As they watched, he leaned forward tentatively and gave the dog a cautious sniff, then drew back, ready to pounce or flee. The dog, panting gently, gave an amiable grin—at least Jane thought it was amiable. To everybody else, she was sure it looked horrific. His tail went
thump thump thump
.

Again the cat drew cautiously near, one paw raised in
warning. He smacked the dog, once, twice. Everyone held their collective breath.

The dog eyed the cat, yawned hugely, then flopped over on his side and . . . went to sleep.

“Well, I think that answers the question,” Freddy's voice said into the silence. “He's quite clearly a Menace to Cats.” Everybody laughed.

“So may I keep him?” Jane asked breathlessly. “Please?”

Lady Beatrice eyed the dog with a pained expression. “It's a demmed ugly creature. Are you sure you don't want something . . . prettier?”

“No, I want this dog. He needs me.” Jane knelt and stroked the dog's head. He opened one eye, licked her hand and went back to sleep.

Lady Beatrice made a helpless gesture with her hand. “Very well, if you must.”

Jane jumped up and hugged her. “Oh, thank you, Lady Beatrice. You'll see, he'll be the best-behaved dog, I'll make sure of it.”

Lady Beatrice waved her away. “Take the animal back downstairs, gel. It looks as fatigued by all this as I am.”

“Do you have a name picked out for him yet?” Abby asked as Jane led the dog toward the door.

“Yes, of course,” Jane told her. “Almost from the first moment I met him.”

“Well, don't keep us in suspense,” Freddy said.

“It's Caesar,” Jane told him. “Because I'm certain he has a truly noble nature. And he's just proved it.”

As she closed the door behind her, the room exploded into laughter.

“Never mind,” she told Caesar. “They will come to love you eventually.”

*   *   *

“N
ow you look like a down-on-his-luck clerk,” Gil said in disgust. Deeming Zach's appearance too appalling to take him to dine at his club, Gil had sent his manservant out to fetch steak and kidney pudding from the inn around the corner. “Dashed shabby. It's almost as bad as that gypsy outfit.”

“Flatterer.” Zach examined his reflection in the looking glass. He was delighted with the new clothes. The gypsy look
had outlived its usefulness. It had helped him cross countless borders virtually unnoticed, but now that he was in London—and frequenting fashionable areas—it would draw the wrong kind of attention.

Besides, the cat-skin waistcoat would not, he was sure, be approved by a young lady who was fond of animals.

When he'd left the lawyer's office, he'd had every intention of heading for Wales to fetch Cecily. Why kick his heels waiting around in London when he could do the job perfectly well himself? The lawyer was being ridiculously overcautious, prosing of substitutes and coaching them. Cecily was herself not a substitute.

But then he'd met Miss Jane . . . And he was . . . intrigued.

On the way back from Berkeley Square, he'd found a secondhand clothes market and selected a plain dark blue coat, a gray waistcoat, a couple of white shirts and a plain black hat. Nothing too fashionable—he rather thought he'd like to continue in his anonymity, see what happened.

Gil's valet had taken one discreetly horrified look and whisked the clothing away to be cleaned and thoroughly pressed with a hot iron, as much, he said with dark disapproval, to remove any lurking livestock as for the appearance of the garments. For they were, he'd murmured to his master, distressingly lower class.

Zach had smiled. You could tell a lot about people from the way they treated those who were beneath them on the social scale.

“It's the perfect degree of shabbiness,” Zach explained to Gil. “I don't want to be mistaken for a gentleman, but neither do I want to be denied entrance at your lodgings.” He'd kept his own buff breeches and his boots, which were comfortable and well worn. Gil's valet had cleaned and polished them to a brilliant shine, but Zach had dusted them up a little, saying such a shine was above his touch.

Gil rolled his eyes. “Believe me, no gentleman would be seen dead in that outfit. But for a clerk who's down on his luck, or a seedy debt collector, it's perfect.”

Zach frowned. “Seedy?”

“The bristles. A respectable clerk would shave.”

“Ah.” He ran a hand over his bristly chin. The bristles might need to go in that case. He was sure Miss Jane Chance wouldn't want to be seen with a seedy-looking character. “I thought it more . . . piratical?”

“Oh, of course, piratical. Definitely. What was I thinking?” Gil said dryly. “Tell me, do you intend to keep the earring?”

Zach fingered his earring. “I did wonder if it might be fashionable. Saw a chap with an earring on the stairs earlier.”

“Big, dark-haired fellow? Dressed as a gentleman, apart from an eye-blinding waistcoat?”

“That's the one.”

“Flynn, an Irishman. Took over Freddy Monkton-Coombes's rooms and his valet when Monkton-Coombes got married a couple of months ago. You know Monkton-Coombes, don't you? A Cambridge man.”

“Never went to university, remember?” By the time Gil and his other school friends had gone to university, Zach had been living by his wits, more or less, on the Continent for several years.

“Of course. Forgot for a minute. Well, Flynn's the only chap I know who wears an earring. Apart from sailors—you sure you don't wish to dance a hornpipe?”

“Mockery does not become you, Gilbert.” Zach removed his earring.

Over dinner, Zach explained what he'd learned from the lawyer.

When he'd finished, Gil signaled for his manservant to clear the table, then he poured them both a brandy. “So, a murder charge. That complicates things.”

“Nonsense, it's just a misunderstanding. Cecily is alive and living in Wales, as you well know, having forwarded her letters over the years.”

Gil nodded. “Still, since your cousin has moved to have you declared dead, it could stir the murder thing up. So it's wise to do as the lawyer says and lie low.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “The fellow's ridiculously overcautious. I could easily fetch Cecily myself from Wales, but he insists on sending his own man. Had some crazy notion that I'd be accused of coaching a woman to impersonate her.”

“Ah, he'd be thinking of the Breckenridge affair.”

“The what?”

“Case last year. Duke of Breckenridge's long-lost heir turned up after being missing for twenty years. Old man in tears of joy, fatted calf killed—you can imagine the fuss.” He gave Zach a shrewd look. “Turned out to be a fraud. Left a nasty taste in everyone's mouth. As well to err on the cautious side.”

“It's ludicrous. Cecily is alive, she isn't a fraud, so there's no case. I was intending to go and fetch her anyway—damn sight more efficient to do it myself rather than hang around here kicking my heels and
lying low
.” Zach snorted. “Skulking around, hiding, more like.”

“How shocking,” Gil said. “How anyone could expect you to skulk, or hide, or lie low?
Tsk tsk tsk!
”

His words forced a reluctant grin from Zach. “That was different. It was my job. There was a worthwhile purpose to it.”

“And keeping your neck from getting stretched is not a worthwhile purpose?”

“There's no question of my neck getting stretched,” Zach said irritably. “Cecily's alive.”