A Gentleman Never Tells

chapter Twelve

The intelligent man finds almost everything ridiculous, the sensible man almost nothing.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Brent jumped up and then helped Gabrielle rise. “I don’t know if it’s Prissy, but that is a small dog we hear. Let’s go.”

Gabrielle quickly turned to Brutus, who was struggling to rise. She pointed her finger at him and said, “Stay. Stay.”

“He won’t, you know,” Brent said and took hold of her hand.

She threw Brent a worried glance. “But he can’t run anymore. He can’t keep up.”

“No, but he can catch up with us, and he will. Let’s go.”

They took off toward the barking. After they passed the stand of trees that had been their shelter, in the distance they saw an old woman pushing a small cart that was covered by a lumpy canvas. They headed in her direction. The woman must have heard them running toward her, but she paid them no mind and kept walking.

As they approached her, Brent could see that her dark gray coat was soiled and worn. A frayed woolen scarf was wrapped around her head, covering her neck and chin. The dog, hidden by the canvas, continued to yelp and scratch, but she made no attempt to stop and see about it.

Brent and Gabrielle slowed their steps a few yards from the woman. “Don’t be frightened, madame,” Brent said, breathing hard as they walked alongside her. “We mean you no harm.”

The woman kept walking and didn’t bother to even glance his way as she said, “Didn’t think ye did. Not done nothing to ye. Got no reason to think ye’d ’arm me, ’ave I?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “Do you mind if we have a moment of your time.”

At that, she looked over at them and stopped. “Don’t mind at all.”

Brent saw that her gaze suddenly sailed past them and froze on something behind them. Concern etched its way into her lined face. Brent knew she must have caught site of Brutus. He glanced back and confirmed his suspicion. The large old dog was slowly lumbering toward his mistress.

“Don’t worry, madame,” Gabrielle said in a friendly voice as Brutus came up beside her, panting heavily from trying to keep up with them. “He’s big, but he won’t hurt you.”

“’E’s old,” the woman said as the dog under the canvas continued to bark and scratch, clearly wanting to be free.

“Yes.” Gabrielle reached down and patted Brutus’s shoulder. “He doesn’t see or hear as well as he used to, but age has given him a quiet and gentle nature.”

The woman wasn’t convinced. Apprehension about the dog didn’t leave her face. She said, “What can I do for ye? I don’t ’ave a thing a fine fella like you or a fancy-dressed lady like her would want.”

Brent smiled and nodded once. “I understand that. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind telling me what you have under that canvas in your cart?”

At first she looked at him as if he was daft, and then she gave him a happy, toothless smile. “I ’ave me dog under there. Can’t you ’ear?”

Brent gave Gabrielle a hopeful glance and then turned back to the woman. “Why do you have her covered up?”

“It’s a ’e, not a she.”

At hearing the dog was male, Brent’s anticipation faded and disillusionment flared.

Stepping closer to the woman, Gabrielle asked, “Do you mind if we ask why you have him covered in your cart?”

The old woman looked at Gabrielle as if she didn’t have a brain in her head. “Don’t mind at all. It’s cold today if ye ’adn’t noticed. I’m trying to keep Sir William warm.”

“I’m sure he likes the kind treatment,” Gabrielle said. “I adore little dogs. Do you mind if I see him?”

She looked at the mastiff again. “I guess it will be all right. ’E’s not going to stop barking ’til ’e sees who you are, anyway.” The woman reached down and peeled back the canvas, revealing a covered basket. She took the lid off, and a small black-and-white dog of undetermined breed jumped out and into the cart, barking like a banshee at the mastiff. Brutus never uttered a woof.

“Sir William is a fine-looking animal,” Brent said. “Thank you for showing him to us.”

“Yes, thank you,” Gabrielle said, and then she, Brutus, and Brent turned and headed back in the direction of the curricle.

As they walked in silence, Brent knew it was time he stopped searching for Prissy. He didn’t want to, but it was ridiculous for him to take off running every time he heard a small dog bark. It was time to accept that Priss was gone and not coming back. He had to put her memory to rest.

Halfway to the carriage, Gabrielle touched his arm, and they stopped. Her eyes were soft and full of compassion. It was as if she knew what he’d been thinking. When she looked at him with so much concern, Brent’s stomach tightened with desire. The strong wind had blown strands of her golden blonde hair from the chignon at her nape, and they caressed her cheeks. Her lips were moist and inviting. All he could think was he wanted to pull her to him and kiss her again, but they were no longer shielded by trees, and it would be too risky. Besides, Brutus stood between them, too. He couldn’t help but think maybe the mastiff was a good watchdog after all.

“I’m sorry the dog wasn’t Prissy,” Gabrielle said.

“So am I,” he said, not wanting to share with her that he’d come to the conclusion Prissy wasn’t going to be found.

“Do you think there is any connection to Prissy’s disappearance and Lord Snellingly’s dog?”

“I do not believe in ghosts, Gabrielle.”

Her eyes brightened as if she’d just had an amazing thought. “Oh, I do. They are real.”

He laughed. “And I’m sure one or two of them visit you from time to time, and yes, after we are married, your ghosts can continue to visit you.”

She folded her arms across her chest and gave him an annoyed look. “You are laughing at me.”

“Yes,” he said, and with great effort he wiped the smile off his lips. He cleared his throat, and they started walking again. “I don’t see how there could be a connection between our two dogs. Snellingly’s dog ran away from him at his house in Mayfair, not here in Hyde. If there is a large wild animal roaming the park, as some believe, I’m sure someone would have spotted him by now, especially if he was roaming the streets of Mayfair, too.”

“I suppose you’re right. I just don’t want you to give up hope of Prissy’s return, my lord.”

I must. Starting now.

His brows drew together as he looked down at her with an exaggerated frown. “I didn’t hear you say my lord, did I?”

She gave him an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, Brent.”

“Much better,” he said as they started down the slope toward the blanket and carriage. “I don’t want to give up hope, but it’s been almost three weeks now.”

“I don’t consider three weeks such a long time,” she argued.

Brent glanced over at her. “You don’t? What if Brutus had been missing for more than two weeks? Would you consider it a long time then?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, and it was so engaging, he laughed.

“All right, yes, I suppose I would think three weeks were forever.”

“I’ll keep the notice running in The Times for now, but other than that, I’ve done everything I know to do. It’s time.”

She kept her gaze straight ahead for a few moments and then turned to him and asked, “Will you be at the Cuddlebury’s party next week?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking perhaps I should stay out of the social scene for a while.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why? As my aunt would say, the disappearing act won’t make the rumors about us and your brothers go away.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that at all. I was thinking about Staunton. I fear if he approached me again and wanted to fight, I wouldn’t have the good sense to walk away a second time.”

“Meaning you would never let him hit you again without retaliating.”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Gabrie.” For some damn reason, Brent felt Staunton deserved throwing that one punch, even though it was never Brent’s intention to kiss another man’s fiancée.

Gabrielle gave him a nod of understanding as they made it back to the blanket. She picked up her bonnet and settled it on her head. “I’ve made up my mind.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “About what?”

“About what I would like for us to do at our next outing. Remember you said I could decide. You aren’t going back on your word, are you?”

He found it odd she thought he’d go back on his word. “No. It’s your choice. What would you like us to do?”

She buttoned her pelisse. “I think you should join me, Auntie Bethie, and Rosa for church on Sunday.”

“Church?” Brent was certain he was unable to hide his surprise. He didn’t suppose he minded going to church with her; he just hadn’t done it very often in recent years.

“Yes, Auntie adores singing in church. She has such a strong and beautiful voice.”

Gabrielle smiled so prettily at him, his stomach did a slow roll and then tightened. He picked up her short cape and settled it around her shoulders, taking his time tying the satin bow. What he really wanted to do was indulge in his desire for her and pull her to him and kiss her again.

“I don’t doubt Mrs. Potter has a beautiful voice, but it’s been a while since I’ve been to church, Gabrielle.”

“Oh, but I go to church every Sunday, Brent, and after we marry, I would expect you always to go with me.”

Something about how hard she was trying to convince him made him think the opposite of what she said was true. He was getting the same feeling he had when he realized she was only pretending not to know how to dance, fibbing about madness in her family, and that she had a nasty temper. He didn’t know why she was playing this game, but for now it seemed harmless enough.

“Church every Sunday?” he asked, playing along with her.

“Well, almost every Sunday,” she said innocently, tying the ribbon of her bonnet under her chin.

“All right, Sunday at church it is.” He bent on one knee and started putting their things in the basket. He took the leftover bread and gave it to Brutus, who finished it off in two bites.

He handed Gabrielle her gloves and reticule, and then wrapped his scarf around his neck. “I don’t see your poetry here. I think the wind must have blown it away while we were otherwise occupied.”

“No matter,” she said with a teasing smile. “I have plenty more. I try to write a few lines of poetry every day. After we’re married, I shall read poetry to you every morning when we wake and every evening when we sit before the fire.”

“Church every Sunday and poetry twice a day would make me a blessed man indeed,” Brent whispered under his breath as he closed the lid on the basket and took it to the carriage.

Gabrielle picked up the blanket and shook it. “And there’s one other thing,” she said.

He could hardly wait to hear what nonsense she was going to come up with next. “What’s that?” he said, taking the opposite ends of the blanket and helping her to fold it.

“Perhaps after church you would be kind enough to take me to the fair I’ve heard about. Papa never had the time. It’s on the south side of Town. I’ve heard they have an albino hawk, an Indian juggler, a tiger from Bengal, and all the acrobats’ feats are exceptional as well.”

Brent chuckled to himself as he laid the blanket in the carriage. She was the exceptional one, surprising him with talk of going to church one moment, madness and ghosts the next, and then reading poetry and wanting to go to exotic events at a carnival.

“I think I can manage that.”

“That would be lovely.”

He took her hand and lightly squeezed her fingers as he helped her into the carriage. “Come on, Brutus, your turn.”

It was a bit of a struggle, but with lifting the old dog’s hind legs and pushing, Brent finally got Brutus into the carriage. Brent jumped up beside Gabrielle, leaned his thigh next to hers, and then picked up the ribbons.

He looked at her, and she smiled so sweetly at him he almost dropped the ribbons and kissed her.

“Auntie Bethie absolutely adores fairs,” Gabrielle said, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “She will be thrilled to hear you are taking us.”

“So Mrs. Potter will be joining us, and I assume your sister, too, since she will be with us at church.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Brent looked at Gabrielle and suddenly it was as clear as a blue sky to him what she was doing. She was trying her best to annoy him and to make herself seem an unsuitable match for him. But what she didn’t know was the harder she tried to make herself unappealing, the more appealing she became.

He reached over and kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s your outing, Gabrie, you may invite whomever you wish.”

He released the brake handle and clicked the ribbons on the horses’ rumps. The carriage took off with a jolt and a rattle of harness.