Chapter Two
Clara scrambled out after Alden, keeping a reassuring hand on the dog, who was whimpering again. She nearly ran into Mr. Forsythe, who gallantly moved aside as Alden set the dog down.
“You emerge victorious,” he said to Clara with a grin. “I tried to help, but Alden’s confounded bulk was in the way.”
Lord Alden scowled, but he was gentleness itself when he righted the dog on its feet. The dog stood up by himself now, though he continued to shake.
“You should get home, Clara,” Alden said, ignoring Mr. Forsythe. “The night will be icy.”
A brisk wind had parted much of the fog, making for a brilliant sunset, and yes, it was cold, but Clara eyed Alden in annoyance.
“I’m certain it will be. But we can’t leave the dog out here to freeze, can we?”
Alden frowned back at her. “Where do you propose taking him, then? His owners have obviously given up looking for him, if they ever intended to.”
“It’s sad,” Mr. Forsythe put in. “So many simply abandon a dog if it’s too difficult to look after.”
“Exactly,” Clara agreed. “He’ll come home with me, of course. He can stay in our back garden. We’ll build a shelter …”
Alden’s frown became a scowl. “For heaven’s sake. He’s feral dog, not a pet. You have two younger sisters. What if he bites them?”
“He obviously is not dangerous, or else he’d have tried to attack us both,” she returned. “He let us help him without becoming savage.”
Mr. Forsythe brushed a patch of mud from the back of his friend’s coat. “She has you there, Carlisle.”
Alden shrugged him off. “I’ll take him to my back garden. There’s plenty of room for him to run around, and he won’t tear into your mother’s famous rosebushes and get himself evicted. My gardener keeps things plain, and there’s a large wall to prevent him running off again.”
“It’s barren, you mean,” Clara said. “I’ve seen your garden. A flower bed or two wouldn’t hurt you.”
“An ideal place for a dog, then, isn’t it?” Alden growled. “The gardener can help clean him up, and I’ll give him a decent meal. Then we can decide what’s to be done with him.”
“Find him a good home, that’s what,” Clara said with conviction. “With people who will be delighted to look after him.”
Alden shook his head. “You are optimistic. He’s a sorry specimen.”
The dog, whose down-hanging ears had pricked while they’d spoken, drooped again. Clara didn’t believe dogs understood every word of English, but they could sense meaning in conversations, she was certain.
“That is not his fault,” she declared. “Once he has a bath and a good brushing, I’m certain he’ll be perfectly—”
A shout interrupted her. It was followed by another, gentlemen bellowing heartily to each other in the distance, a sound incongruous with this somber place.
Mr. Forsythe made a face. “Hell, it’s the dunces. Ah, beg pardon for my language, Lady Clara.”
Whoever he indicated shouted again, the men growing nearer.
The dog’s head jerked up, his body shook, and then he leapt away from Alden. Alden lunged for him, and in alarm, the dog took to his heels, dashing along the walkway with renewed vigor. He limped on his right foreleg but did not slow down.
“Damnation,” Aldan roared.
“Beg pardon for his language too,” Mr. Forsythe murmured.
Clara glared at them both and ran after the dog, calling to him, “Good lad. It’s all right. Come back to me, sweetheart.”
She rounded the bend in the path, but she saw no dog. She could hear him huffing and scrabbling in the distance, but mists were closing in again, as well as darkness.
Clara heard Mr. Forsythe behind her, cursing at the gentlemen he apparently knew, but he didn’t catch up to her. Alden did, seizing her by the arm and yanking her around.
“What the devil are you doing?”
“Going after the dog, of course.” Clara wrenched herself from him and righted her hat, which had sagged as she’d run. “You just agreed we needed to take him home.”
“Well, the dog obviously didn’t.”
“Your friends frightened him. They are your friends, aren’t they? More of the reprobates we observe swanning up to your house at all hours.”
Even in the gathering darkness, Clara saw Alden flush. “They are my guests, yes. Let the dog go, Clara. He’s gotten along by himself thus far.”
She jammed her hands to her hips, skirts swaying. “I am not going to let that poor dog freeze out here or be tormented by who knows what sort of people he’ll encounter.”
“You’d freeze yourself, then? That coat and hat are for an afternoon stroll, not an Arctic expedition.”
“London is hardly Arctic,” Clara said loftily. “That is a weak argument. I will be fine. Now, help me search.”
Mr. Forsythe hurried up to them, then leaned over, hands on his knees. “Jove, it’s been a while since I sprinted anywhere. The idiots are coming. Perhaps you should go, Lady Clara,” he said, straightening up. “They aren’t necessarily well behaved.”
Alden’s mouth set. “Please, do go home, Clara. My friends can be ill-mannered, and I do not want them to force me into defending your honor. Dueling is for fools—”
He broke off, his voice going hoarse, and turned abruptly away.
“He lost a friend to a duel,” Mr. Forsythe whispered to Clara. “It was his grave he was visiting today.”
“Oh.” Clara swore she’d seen Alden’s eyes mist over before he’d swung from her. “Alden, I am sorry. I didn’t realize.”
Alden faced her again, quickly swiping his eyes. His soiled gloves left streaks on his cheeks, which for some reason Clara wanted to reach up and brush away.
“There’s nothing to realize. I do not want you to meet them, because I will break their necks if they say anything disrespectful to you. I will stay and hunt for the blasted dog.”
Clara hesitated. Alden was trying to protect her, which both made her impatient and put a warm glow in her heart.
She also realized it wouldn’t be prudent for her to race around Highgate Cemetery in the dark on her own, searching for a dog who’d probably dashed out the gates to places unknown.
Alden’s offer to keep searching made the glow increase. “Very well,” Clara said. “If you promise.”
“Yes, yes.” Alden waved her off. “Go. The gate closest to the Heath is there.” He pointed along a path that intersected the one on which they stood.
“As I have lived here all my life, I know that.” Clara curbed her brusque words. “But thank you.”
“Good night, Lady Clara.” Alden tipped his hat, then firmly planted himself on the path, preventing her from going any direction but home.
“Good night, Lord Alden.”
Before she could express the same to Mr. Forsythe, he stepped next to her. “I’ll see you to the gate, my lady. Then return and help in the search.”
Clara gave Mr. Forsythe a grateful nod and a final one to Alden and turned to seek the path, Mr. Forsythe at her side.
“He doesn’t mean to be rude,” he said as they made their way beyond the line of tombs and out across an open patch of ground.
“Yes, he does,” Clara said with a wry laugh. “I’ve known Lord Alden for many years. At least, we’ve been nodding acquaintances for that long. Occasionally my family is invited to a garden party that his mother insists he put on. She comes up from Mayfair to host it.”
Mr. Forsythe laughed. “Ah, yes, those very respectable gatherings he never allows me to attend. Poor Alden. He explained to me once that it was hell to be an heir. He’ll be one day granted the title of marquess and vast wealth, and all he has to do for that is lose someone he loves.”
Something tightened in Clara’s chest. She could imagine Alden saying this, a bleak light in his eyes.
“You do have a pointed way of putting things, Mr. Forsythe,” she said. “Very well, I will try to be kind to him.”
“Good.” Mr. Forsythe halted as they reached a gate. “He needs kindness. Good night, Lady Clara.” He tipped his hat, his manners perfect.
“Good night, Mr. Forsythe. And thank you.”
He only smiled. Clara quickly opened the gate and slid through to the lane beyond, the gate clanging behind her in the chilly air.
Plenty of people milled about on the road that led more or less straight for the Heath, heading home for an evening meal or hurrying on last errands before nightfall.
Clara joined them, becoming one with the throng. She turned back for a last wave to Mr. Forsythe, but he’d gone.
*
Alden woke in the night to wind howling under the eaves and ratting the windows of his brick house. The brief hours of finer weather had vanished.
His friends were finally quiet downstairs, likely having drunk themselves into stupors and fallen asleep on various chairs, perhaps even the floor. Milford would have much to say about that.
The only person who’d ever been worth anything in Alden’s circle was Piers Forsythe, and even he’d sometimes made Alden’s life hell.
Alden hadn’t been able to find the dog. Colliver and Featherstone, who’d joined in, had been useless. They’d probably frightened him away for good, a fact Alden would have to explain to Clara.
Clara. Why the devil hadn’t he noticed her living three houses away, strolling on the Heath with her sisters, nodding politely whenever she passed?
Of course he’d noticed her, he told himself, even if he hadn’t acknowledged it. Took in her soft face, her blue eyes, her smile that was a little bit lopsided.
Fashion these days hid women under full skirts and many fabrics, and Clara’s gowns were buttoned to her chin. Only a bit of lace at her throat suggested the sweetness inside. When she’d run into him at Highgate, he’d felt enticing curves and pliant limbs under her heavy frock and coat.
Her spirited arguments had roused something in Alden he’d thought long buried. His interest in life had been rekindled, if only for the space of the afternoon.
Alden imagined Clara’s expression when he confessed to her that he’d not located the dog, didn’t know whether it was alive or had been crushed beneath carriage wheels on a nearby busy road.