Chapter 4
Oliver let himself out through a back gate. He strode down the passageway and out onto a side street. He didn’t bother fetching his hat. It was more important that he moved.
This had been a devil of a night—from his dismissal by Liverpool and Robinson, to Lady Redhill’s spitefulness, to Lady Celeste’s request for him to be the lead patron of her non-existent charity. It galled him that Lady Celeste might be the only person to take him seriously.
His mind churned with angry thoughts. He wasn’t heading home. He didn’t care where he went or that the streets were growing darker. After all, he was the Dragon, a bit of silliness that had once made him feel—what? Accepted? Safe? That was a laugh.
His old companions were marrying, having families, and being respected. Many drank his wine while making snide comments behind his back. They saw him as that wild, fatherless youth who had come into his title way too young.
But he was changing. He felt it deep inside. He just didn’t know what he was changing into. Or what he wanted.
His thoughts fell on Lady Celeste. Her zeal for her cause had shone in her eyes. She had risked her reputation to approach him... because she had been right. There weren’t many ways a single woman could publicly seek him out.
Of course, if he did support this charity of hers, he could become the laughingstock of London. A charity for wounded soldiers and their pets. Pets? It was silly. The sort of thing a woman would dream up.
Still, he envied her passion—
A dog’s snarl was his first warning. He heard the sound and stopped. He was unarmed and had a healthy respect for angry dogs.
Oliver looked around. He was not far from Covent Garden but on the poorer side of this section of the city. The hour was late. No lights shone from windows. All was quiet save the dog’s low growl.
Then, to Oliver’s alarm, one of the shadows seemed to rise and take the shape of a man. He had apparently been asleep, huddled against a building’s brick facade. The dog began barking.
“Here now, Pistol. Quiet now.” The raspy-voiced man leaned against the wall. “Sorry, sir. He’s a protective one.”
A coach turned a corner and passed by. Light from the vehicle’s lanterns fell upon them. The man was a beggar who had apparently made his bed for the night on the street. The pup, a dirty, white, matted terrier, had been standing guard.
Oliver’s attention landed on the man’s crutch. He was missing a leg.
“How did you lose your limb?” Oliver demanded.
“King’s Service, if it matters to you.”
This was one of the men Lady Celeste wished to help.
Pistol growled as if warning Oliver to ask no more questions. “Don’t mind him, sir. Pistol looks out for me. Or so he thinks.” The man had a Northern accent. He was of slight build but wiry and tough.
Oliver’s boot pushed a plate on the ground. There were a few coins on it. He reached into his waistcoat pocket where he kept money for vails. He dropped coins on the plate.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
“Are you always here?”
“Most times, unless we get run off.”
“Don’t you have any lodgings?”
“Lodgings?” The man laughed. “Aye, lodgings. Because I like living on the street, eh?”
“But you are a Northerner. Why are you in London?”
There was long pause. Then, the man said, “I’d be a burden to them up there. I was a woodsman. Can’t travel the forest on one leg. Can’t swing an axe when I need at least one arm to hold me crutch.”
“Don’t you receive a pension?”
The man spit his opinion of the king’s pension. “Barely enough to matter. I see that it goes to me daughter and her family. My wife left me a long time ago. Didn’t want to wait for a soldier. Doubt if she would want a cripple for a husband. Has a new man now.”
Oliver was humbled by how completely this man had been shut out of his old life. In that moment, he even understood the importance of a loyal little dog, one who didn’t appear to be any better fed than his master. “What is your name?”
“William Dryer, sir.”
“If I told you to come with me, William Dryer, would you leave your dog behind?”
“Absolutely not. He is faithful to me, and I to him.”
“Then bring your dog. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” William asked suspiciously.
“Someplace with a roof and off the street. There will be food, too. Good food.”
“I don’t take charity.”
Oliver studied the man leaning against the wall on one leg, all of his worldly possessions in a ragged bundle on the ground.
Lady Celeste had been correct. William Dryer and all the others like him needed to feel whole and as if they paid their own way.
They were proud men who had served their country.
“I’m not offering charity, but work.” He had no idea what the man could do—but he’d wager Lady Celeste might. “Do you come, or not?”
“Why would you do this, sir? Look at me.”
“I see you. Come, or not. The choice is yours.” Oliver began walking. A beat later, he slowed his step as he heard Dryer moving behind him. The soldier used his crutch with one hand and carried his meager possessions in the other.
Oliver soon learned that traveling with a cripple was slow going. He held out his hand as an offer to help Dryer carry his bundle, but the man proudly ignored it.
Pistol didn’t seem to mind the slow pace. He marched beside his master, even pausing when Dryer had to readjust his crutch under his arm. The animal’s devotion and awareness surprised Oliver.
His family had never had pets. His mother hadn’t liked them.
They’d had hunting hounds. Packs of them at his various estates.
They were wild, mad, howling dogs that were more interested in scaring up pheasants than in what their humans were doing.
He doubted if even one of them would worry about his well-being.
Eventually, they reached Oliver’s stables, where he tasked the night groom with seeing to Dryer’s comfort. As Oliver was leaving, he overheard Dryer ask the groom who he was. “That is His Grace, the Duke of Salcombe.”
“Bloody hell,” Dryer whispered, and Oliver could not help but smile.
Bloody hell was right. He’d just done something positive, something that might change another man’s life.
His view of the world shifted inside him, a change of attitude. In the silence of the night, he realized he felt good about himself. He could barely remember a time when he’d been proud of who he was.
And he owed this change to Lady Celeste Harrington, who had chosen him to lead her charity. To lead. He could be the leader.
He went to bed filled with new purpose. Lady Celeste would be very pleased with his decision.
She’d looked so worried when he’d left her in the garden, and it made him rather happy that he could alleviate her fears regarding her charity.
He wasn’t certain what he would do with Dryer and Pistol, but she would know.
He’d discuss the matter with her in the morning.
When Oliver woke, his new sense of purpose was stronger than ever.
He sat with his secretary, Peters, a man who always had good ideas. He told him about the charity and his decision to become its Lead Patron.
“I believe, Your Grace, that a notice in the papers of your patronage would not be out of order.”
“Yes, good idea. See to it.”
“What is the name of the charity, Your Grace?”
Oliver searched his memory. Had Lady Celeste told him the name of the charity? If she had, he didn’t remember. Very well, he would create one.
He thought a moment. “Legless Soldiers” would be a terrible name. “For King and Country” sounded important, but what did it mean?
Then, an idea hit him. “The charity is called ‘Our Brave Soldiers.’” He liked the sound of it.
He thought men like Dryer would as well.
No talk of cripples. Lady Celeste would probably want to add “and Pets,” but that didn’t matter.
Once it was printed in all the papers, the title would be as he deemed fit.
Nor did he anticipate a problem. He was making the right decisions. Unfortunately, he and Peters became so busy with the planning, he lost track of time. He had promised to help his friend Haskell look at a horse. Later, they’d had indulged in a good dinner at an inn with an excellent cellar.
Tomorrow. He would call on Lady Celeste first thing, and she’d be pleased with all he had accomplished.
However, as he fell asleep, he was surprised that his last thought wasn’t of plans and charities, or even the excellent horseflesh he had convinced Haskell to purchase.
No, he found himself recalling the feel of Lady Celeste in his arms, of fully feminine curves pressed snugly against him, and of lips that not only yielded to him, but made demands of their own.
And though he reminded himself—one more time—that Lady Celeste was not the sort of female who attracted him, that he liked statuesque, willowy women, the memory of the passion for her cause in her almond-shaped eyes wound their way through his dreams.