Chapter Two #2
She’d glare at him as though he were the worst person on earth, then retreat to her family’s modest house behind their garden wall and never speak to him again. When they encountered each other on the Heath’s pathways, she’d turn aside in coldness, no more nodding, no more smiles.
The wind howled again, its mournful note as keening as the dog’s.
“Damnation.”
Alden threw back the covers. The room was freezing, the October cold barely cut by the smoldering fire Milford had banked when Alden went to bed.
Alden’s language became more unfortunate as he groped for clothes and dragged them on. He didn’t want to wake Milford, who deserved a few hours of sleep after putting up with Alden and his toadies all day.
Stockings. Where the devil had Milford hidden his stockings?
Alden found them by tripping on the carpet and putting his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself. Clean stockings hung there, airing, and his hand slipped on them.
He kept himself from tumbling to the floor by grabbing a nearby table and snarling as he shoved his body upright. One would think he’d drunk as much as his colleagues, but he’d had only one glass of wine while they’d finished off two decanters of brandy.
After too long a struggle, Alden had himself dressed and then tugged on his recalcitrant boots.
This had to stop. He’d gone soft in the last year, allowing Milford to wait on him hand and foot while Alden convinced himself he was not giving the man too much trouble. Alden ate little and drank only wine and brandy—how difficult was he to care for?
But, Alden realized as he skimmed quietly down the stairs and made for the garden door, he’d wallowed in self-pity while Milford maintained the house, instructed the other servants in their duties, made decisions on all the meals, and ensured that Alden’s horse or other transport was ready whenever he wanted to venture down the hill into Town.
Milford kept Alden’s clothes in good repair or ordered new suits that the tailor delivered without Alden having to bother with a fitting.
In short, Milford had been living Alden’s life for him.
Most gentlemen’s valets did quite a lot of work for them, it was true, but in the past, Alden had at least decided what he’d wear, eat, and do.
Now he lounged about indolently with inane friends to distract him, or tramped around the Heath when he couldn’t stand being indoors any longer.
His father, the Marquess of Ravensmoor, had gently hinted that Alden should find something to turn his hand to, probably afraid his son was turning into a wastrel.
He was likely right.
Alden pushed these morose thoughts aside as he stepped into the garden and pulled his coat closer around him. He’d chosen a woolen hat to keep his head warm and dry, instead of the ridiculous toppers that grew higher every year.
Rain lashed at him as he slipped through the garden’s gate and out to the narrow road that would take him to Highgate. He’d begin in the cemetery’s grounds, which was possibly where the dog was trying to eke out an existence.
The darkness was complete, but Alden had been roaming this area for most of his life and knew his way about. His family’s summer home, before Alden’s father had come into his title, where he’d been happy as a boy, had become his retreat.
The cemetery’s gates would be locked, Alden reasoned before he reached them. The caretakers wouldn’t want looters to tramp in during the night and relieve any tombs of trinkets the occupants might have been buried with. Some quite wealthy people had chosen to make their final rests here.
He found, to his surprise, that the gate he’d used earlier today was unlocked and unchained. He’d worry about why later, but for now, Alden opened it and hastened inside.
Even the ghosts would stay in on such a foul night, Alden grumbled to himself as he sloshed through puddles along the path toward the largest tombs. He reasoned that the dog, not being a fool, would try to find shelter from the rain.
Around the bend of the row of tombs, he saw a light, a ghostly light …
Don’t be an idiot, he chided himself. It must be the caretaker.
He sped around the corner and nearly collided with a dark figure, a bright light emanating from its hand.
Alden drew back, startled rage rushing to the surface. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he all but shouted.
Clara yanked the scarf from her mouth and nose and glared back with equal fury. “What are you? I know you didn’t find the dog, and thinking of him out here on such a night—”
“Why do you think I am here?” Alden snapped. “I’ll never sleep until he’s found.”
“Good.” Clara sounded happy for his discomfort. “Let us search, then.”
“How did you know I hadn’t found him?” he demanded.
She sent a disparaging look over her shoulder as she turned away. “You would have sent word. Even you have that many manners.” She swung her lantern. “Harvey!” she called. “Where are you, lad?”
“Harvey?” Alden sped his steps to keep up with her. “Why is that his name?”
“He looks like he should be called Harvey,” Clara answered, as though this was perfectly reasonable. “Here, lad! Harveeeey!”
They wound through the paths from tombs to the flatter ground where markers and tombstones glistened with rain.
“This is impossible,” Alden snarled after a time. His boots were soaked, water seeping into the trousers he’d tucked into them.
“Nothing is impossible.” Clara shined her lantern around as though the tiny light would cut through the rain.
“I used to believe that.” Alden felt his moroseness returning. Being wet and cold in the middle of a burial ground did that to a man.
“Perhaps you ought to believe it again.” She continued across the green and around trees, never minding the rain pelting her. “Or take more walks. You’ll feel better for them.”
“I take too blasted many walks, including this one.” He pushed aside a low-hanging branch that tried to slap him.
“It was not I who bade you leave your warm bed to search for an unfortunate dog.”
She had a point. Alden could have remained tucked up and rung for Milford to build up the fire.
Then Clara would be out here, in the night, alone, searching for the confounded beast. Alden could never let her do that. He strode after her.
“Stop!” Clara swung around. Alden nearly ran into her again, and slipped on the mud as he halted. “Do you hear?”
“No.” Nothing came to him but the rush of the wind and the rain pattering around them.
“Harvey?” She peered into the gloom. “Is that you, lad?”
As though a dog would answer, Alden thought impatiently.
Then he did hear it, a short, high-pitched bark, one of a large dog in sudden gladness.
“Ah!” Clara spun again, racing off along the path, heading for deeper darkness and who knew what danger.