“He’s bitten me,” the blue-eyed young lady said in amazement.
“I told you not to touch him,” Charles shot back. “If you’d listened—”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” her tall friend interjected. “Can you not see that she’s hurt?”
The first woman the dog had accosted caught up with them through the growing crowd, her footman close at her heels. She waved her umbrella about like an angry queen brandishing her scepter. “Summon the constable! That dog is a menace.”
“He may have hydrophobia,” her footman volunteered unhelpfully. “And now he’s bitten this poor lady.”
“An unprovoked attack,” the older woman said. “A sure sign the beast is rabid!”
Charles muttered an oath under his breath. “He doesn’t have hydrophobia,” he said, holding tight to the still growling dog. “And if he does and she’s contracted it, she’d have no one to blame but herself.”
“She isn’t afraid of dogs,” the blue-eyed young lady retorted tartly. “Nor of trifling scratches.”
“Oh, Kate!” The taller young lady’s eyes welled with tears. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s nothing,” the blue-eyed young lady said. Kate, presumably.
Charles’s heart gave a peculiar thump. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, he withdrew a linen handkerchief. It was clean and pressed, thank heaven. He offered it to her, his voice gone gruff. “It is only a scratch, but perchance you should bind it.”
She accepted his handkerchief, using it to stop the trickle of blood. “You’re very obliging,” she remarked dryly.
“So he should be, if it’s his dog,” the taller young lady said.
Kate’s gaze met his in challenge. “Is that your dog?”
“That creature belongs to no one,” the older woman declared. “It’s a mongrel. A street dog. Anyone can see.”
“He’s filthy,” the taller young lady said. “And he smells dreadfully.”
Charles couldn’t disagree. The stench from the dog’s muddy fur was emanating all the way through the folds of his greatcoat. No doubt he’d have to burn the garment. As for the dog himself…
“He’s somewhat worse for wear, I grant you,” Charles said. “He’s only recently arrived on a ship from Spain. The sailors should have taken better care of him.”
“From Spain?” the older woman repeated scornfully. “This dog?”
“He is, ma’am. A rare breed. One of the only of his kind. Why do you think I was pursuing him?” Charles inwardly grimaced at so blatant a lie. But it was in a good cause. Given the chaos the dog had wrought, the interfering busybody was five seconds away from calling for the poor creature’s destruction.
“He is yours, then?” Kate asked.
“Yes,” Charles answered emphatically. “He is. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must get him home.”
She continued to look at him, as though he’d said something that both bewildered and intrigued her. “You better had, sir,” she said at last, “before the constable arrives.”
Charles didn’t have to be told twice. Offering the three ladies a rigid bow, he strode away through the growing throng, the snarling dog still cradled in his arms.
This wasn’t going to go over well at Grillon’s Hotel.
But no matter.
In twenty-four hours, Charles would be home. Once there, his mother and sister would take charge.
A half-starving London street dog wasn’t the Christmas present he’d envisioned for them, but knowing their feelings toward the canine race, the matted stray might yet prove to be the perfect gift.
Lady Katherine Beresford stared after the tall, raven-haired gentleman as he stalked off down Bond Street, disappearing into the crowd of Christmas shoppers.
His greatcoat had made him seem impossibly large and imposing. Without it, he somehow appeared even more so.
He was clad all in black—black wool trousers, coat, and waistcoat, with a stiffly knotted black cravat. His skin was bronzed from the sun. An oddity at this time of year. They’d had nothing but rain for weeks. This gentleman, however, must have recently returned from a more pleasant clime. He had the look of a man who spent most of his time out of doors. One who enjoyed a bit of sport—riding, fencing, and boxing. The cut of his coat set off his broad shoulders to magnificent effect.
“What a rude fellow,” Christine remarked. She stood beside Kate, her narrow face the picture of ladylike outrage.
The eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Mattingly, Christine was as sensible as Kate was reckless. Her betrothal to an older baronet had been announced just last month. He was a dull sort of gentleman, but Christine was happy with him. She prided herself on being pragmatic about the future. It was a quality she’d inherited from her equally pragmatic mother, Jane.
Aunt Jane, as Kate was accustomed to calling Lady Mattingly, was Kate’s mother’s oldest friend. It was she who had brought them shopping today. They’d separated from her only briefly so she could purchase a new hat while they finished a fitting at the modiste. Kate and Christine had been on their way to join her at the milliner’s when the little dog had appeared.
Deprived of their spectacle, the gaggle of onlookers slowly dispersed. The umbrella-wielding busybody departed along with them, uttering one final huff of complaint as she went.
“Yes, he was,” Kate agreed when she and Christine were alone again. “But a handsome one.”
To be sure, Kate couldn’t recall when she’d seen any male so darkly attractive. Not during her season, anyway. And certainly not back home in the country, where she lived surrounded by her strapping older brothers, all of them golden-locked and ice-gray-eyed like her formidable father.
Papa was presently with Kate’s mother and brothers at Beasley Park, their family estate in Somersetshire. A beautiful property. Kate had spent a great deal of her childhood there, gamboling over the forget-me-not–covered grounds. It was where her parents had met and fallen in love when they were children themselves. A special place they returned to often, bringing Kate and her brothers with them.
Their visits had become less frequent of late, with good reason. On her great-grandfather’s death last year, Kate’s father had lost his courtesy title. No longer Viscount St. Clare, he had become the Earl of Allendale. As a consequence, the family now resided almost exclusively at Worth House, the seat of the earldom in Hertfordshire.
They were a close-knit bunch, albeit a slightly ramshackle one as far as society was concerned. Rumors still managed to cling from the past. Whispers that Papa was illegitimate and that the title he’d inherited wasn’t truly his but instead belonged to some odious distant cousin.
It was why Kate was in London alone instead of in company with her parents. Mama had thought it preferable for Aunt Jane to bring Kate out. And Aunt Jane had done so, to miserable effect. Six months later, her season at an end, Kate was still unmarried.
Still ungovernable.
Tomorrow she would be traveling down to Somersetshire to join her family for Christmas, having achieved none of the things her parents had wished for her.
Kate tied the gentleman’s handkerchief tighter around her throbbing finger. Her mouth settled into a pensive frown.