He grinned, as he always did now when he met her. He was an ass, to be sure, but a happy ass. “I have something for you,” he said.
She laughed giddily when she opened the small wrapped package to reveal a still-warm pork bun. “Now I truly have seen everything. Dare I guess you pillaged every last flower from your greenhouse yesterday?”
She glanced about them in the mischievous way she had, signaling to him that she was about to come forward and kiss him, the public nature of her front lawn be damned. He stopped her, holding her forearms with his hands, so that she couldn't get any closer.
“I have something else for you.”
“I know what you have for me,” she said saucily. “You wouldn't let me touch it yesterday.”
“You can touch it today,” he whispered.
“What?!” She was still a virgin, after all. “Out here, where everyone can see us?”
“Oh, yes.” He laughed at her expression of shock and mortified interest.
“No!”
“All right, then, I'll take the puppy and go home.”
“A puppy?” she squealed, like the nineteen-year-old she was. “A puppy! Where is it? Where is it?”
He lifted the basket out of the carriage, but swung it away from her eager hands just as she reached for it. “I understand you don't wish to touch it in public.”
She grabbed the other end of the basket. “Oh, give me, give me! Pleeeease. I'll do anything.”
He laughed and relented. She fumbled open the lid of the basket and out poked the brown-and-white head of a corgi puppy, wearing behind its neck a slightly lopsided blue bow made from ribbons Camden had pilfered from Claudia. Gigi squealed again and lifted the puppy. It regarded her with serious, intelligent eyes, not quite as thrilled as she was at their meeting but pleased and well-behaved nevertheless.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” she inquired breathlessly, offering it pieces of the pork bun. “How old is it? Does it have a name?”
Camden cast a glance at the puppy's rather obvious testicles. Perhaps she wasn't as knowledgeable as he'd thought. “He's a boy. Ten weeks old. And I've decided to call him Croesus in honor of you.”
“Croesus, my love.” She touched her cheek to the puppy's nose. “I shall get you a grand gilded water bowl, Croesus. And we will be the best of friends forever and ever.”
At last she looked back at Camden. “But how did you know I've always wanted a puppy?”
“Your mother told me. She said she preferred cats and you pined for a dog.”
“When?”
“The day we met. After dinner. You were there. Don't you remember?”
She shook her head. “No, I don't.”
“No doubt you were too busy looking at me.”
Her hand came up to her mouth. But then a slow smile spread across her face. “You noticed?”
He was tempted to tell her that not even at a memorably farcical soirée in St. Petersburg, during which both the hostess and the host attempted to seduce him, had he been ogled that much. “I noticed.”
“Oh, dear.”
She buried her face against the puppy's neck. She was blushing and, God help him, he had an erection the size of Bedfordshire.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled by Croesus's coat. “It's the best present anyone has ever given me.”
He was touched and humbled. “It makes me happy to see you happy.”
“Until tomorrow, then.” She leaned in and kissed him, a sweet, lingering kiss. “I can't wait.”
“It will be the longest twenty-four hours of my life,” he said, kissing her one last time on the tip of her nose. “An eternity.”
The next twenty-four hours turned out to be exactly that: an eternity, a hellish eternity.
Chapter Nine
14 May 1893
The music did not register at first. Gigi was not accustomed to hearing music in her own house when she hadn't paid for it. She dropped the report in her hand and listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of a piano being assaulted.
In his basket next to the bed, Croesus whimpered, snorted, and opened his eyes. Poor thing wasn't able to sleep well at night, perhaps because of all the naps he now took during the day. He shook his neck, rose on his short legs, and began his laborious ascent up the steps made especially for him after he could no longer bound up on her bed with only the aid of the bed stool.
She flung aside the counterpane and scooped him up. “It's that stupid husband of mine,” she said to the old pup. “Instead of banging me, he's banging the damned piano. Let's go and tell him to shut up.”
Her husband started something dramatic and harsh as she descended the staircase—bong bong bong bong, bing bing bing bing—a piece composed by the overly somber Herr Beethoven, no doubt. With a sigh, Gigi threw open the door of the music room.
He had changed into a silk dressing gown, as sleek and dark as the piano itself. His hair was rumpled, but otherwise he looked serious, intent, a man with a purpose. An excellent man, the consensus had always been: a most dutiful son, a caring brother, a faithful friend—all that and social graces too.