Page 80 of His Spirited Lady
The gurgle and hiss of the stills, the warmth of the fire, the sputter of the lantern, all coaxed Amelia to keep her eyes closed. No dreams rose up to meet her; her worries subsided.
An unholy screech split the night, jolting her out of her chair. She was still running for the door when a shot rang out.
“Miss,” Ben called. “I’ve found Caspar. Come quickly.”
She pulled a towel from the bottling room and ran into the yard. Caspar lay in a bloody orange pile next to a very dead wolf.
“It looks worse than it is.” Ben took the towel and swaddled the cat. “I think his drinking thins his blood.”
Once inside, Amelia retrieved her meager medical supplies. She and Ben went to work cleaning and bandaging the shivering animal, though Caspar wasn’t injured enough to cease hissing and swatting them. Afterward, despite his protests, he leaned his face into her chest. Tears sprang to her eyes as she cuddled him close and let his wheezy purr rattle over her fingers.
This was her fault. If she’d supervised her employees better, there wouldn’t be whiskey puddles on the floor, or roast beef temptations. There wouldn’t be open doors and missing money. If she wasn’t trying to do everything at the same time, be everywhere she was needed, fulfill everyone’s expectations, her cat wouldn’t have been lonely enough to go in search of a new home. He wouldn’t have been hurt.
If she hadn’t come tonight, he’d likely be dead.
“It’s going to be okay, Cas.” Tears fell from her eyes as she stroked orange fur and imagined inky curls. “I promise.”
*
A large orangecat darted across the street, dodging cart wheels and horse’s hooves, and finally Richard’s shins, before reaching the alley. Richard looked after it, expecting to see it bathing while perched on refuse or sunning itself on secluded back stairs. It had vanished.
Perhaps it was wishful thinking. More likely it was a result of being drunk for three days.
Maybe it hadn’t been here at all. Richard had encountered familiar faces every day in London, only to blink and have them be strangers. Many children in London resembled Simon, and Oliver’s gray top hat was apparently in vogue. Richard had even seen Mrs. Bell, the swineherd, and he could’ve sworn Thea worked at the shipyard ticket office. He’d changed directions more than once to avoid Fletcher look-a-likes.
Amelia was everywhere.
Today was the day he reclaimed his sanity. He had breakfasted on tea and toast, cleaned up after himself, and met Rory Bolding to finalize their deal. He’d exercised with a walk to the shipyard, and a new ticket for Canada was tucked into his breast pocket. He sailed for home tomorrow. He’d go back to the townhouse and write a few letters before—
“Rich—Mr. Ferrand!” Fiona Allen was already crossing the street in his direction. There was no escape.
“Miss Allen.” He forced a smile and remembered to lift his hat in greeting. It had still been in the carriage after Amelia had traveled home. “What brings you to London?”
“I believe the better question is what bringsyouhere?” She paused midway to touching his forearm, reversed course, and clasped her parasol. The two-handed grasp made it appear she feared flying away on this non-windy day. “Aren’t you to be married at the end of the week?”
“Ah, yes.” Because if Amelia had cried off, he would have heard by now. Oliver would have kicked the door in. Surely she wasn’t planning to show up at the church and stand at the altar alone. She wouldn’t paint him as the cad he actually was. “Business with the Earl of Althorne kept me in town.”
It wasn’t a lie. He and Rory Bolding had brokered an agreement to export lumber, either from Quebec or Thetford, in exchange for French silk. Richard was sure certain Thea knew a dressmaker who could make use of it.
But they had signed the contract before luncheon the morning after Jasper’s party. Richard could have been back in Thetford two days ago.
“I never thanked you.” Fiona lowered her voice, but kept to her side of the pavement. “You have always been a gentleman, despite my outlandish behavior.”
The young lady in front of him bore little resemblance to the one he’d met aboard ship. “Gentleman is a bit of a stretch.”
“Put cheese in front of a mouse and he’ll try to eat it, according to my chaperone.” Fiona turned to walk, tilting her head in a silent invitation.
Richard went to her side, but left a wide space between them and his hands behind his back, bumping against his waist with each step along the busy path. The chaperone fell into step behind them, making him breathe easier.
“I should explain,” Fiona said. “At the beginning of the Season, I met a charming man who said all the right things and promised me the moon.” Her smile was sad. “Until he found a larger purse.”
“Warren,” Richard breathed. Not for the first time since the party, he’d wished he’d just agreed to take Oakdale and worked out the details later.
Fiona shook her head. “Jasper loves nothing more than a good intrigue, especially at house parties. I played along because I enjoyed flaunting an almost marquess in front of the man who ruined my chances.”
And though he didtry,
His plans wentawry.
