Page 26

The mother gasped again. “Come. We are leaving, boys.”

The two lads standing on the bench groaned. “Mama, we want to finish the show!”

“We shall find another amusement elsewhere. Come along.”

The older daughter followed as their mother grabbed hold of her boys’ hands and led them away. The girl looked back as they walked away, peeking at Gwen in something akin to awe.

“Cor! You be brave, miss. That man is huge!”

Gwen smiled in acknowledgment before returning her attention to the showman.

He had moved closer, towering over her in a menacing fashion. “Now, lookie here! See wha’ ye done? That be me audience. Ye done lost me money.”

A stockinged calf swept at the mongrel, which had come forward during the disturbance to sniff at Gwen’s slippers. The dog whimpered, backing up to avoid the club-like appendage. Gwen noted that the little thing was gaunt. Clearly, the brute was not feeding his animal enough.

Gwen stared down at the dog who suffered at the feet of the bully who had him tied to a dirty string, and she could not walk away. Having confronted the man, and subsequently losing him business, Gwen knew precisely who would bear the brunt of his frustrations. She might have made matters worse for the poor mongrel.

Octavia shifted from foot to foot by her side. “Do not you do it, Gwendolyn Smythe. Do not you do it!” she muttered just loud enough for Gwen to hear.

The showman leaned closer, his fetid breath causing Gwen to bend away in disgust. “Wha’s that?”

Gwen raised her head to stare him in the eye. “She asked how much for the pup?”

“Tarnation!” Octavia sounded peeved, probably contemplating the fact that the dog would be the cause of untold troubles once Gwen took him home.

But the mongrel, which must have had the blood of North Country Beagle coursing through its thready veins, was staring up at her with big brown eyes and floppy chestnut ears. All she could think of was how the filthy little animal needed her help.

The showman straightened up in surprise. “Me dog?”

“Aye, how much for the dog?”

He shook his head, his hair lank over his collar. “The dog’s a pest, inna ’e? No good to ye.”

“How much?” Gwen stared at him, unwavering in her resolve to remove the little pest as far from the tinker as she could take him.

He grunted, shrugging. “A shilling.”

Gwen fumbled through her reticule, feeling about her coins until her fingers measured out one the size of a shilling. She yanked it out and presented it triumphantly.

The halfpenny showman took it from her with large blunt fingers. His long, grimy fingernails made her nauseous at the sight, but she released the shilling and took the string from his opposite hand.

He shook his head in dazed amazement. “The dog a cur, ain’t ’e?”

Gwen raised herself to her full height, squaring her shoulders. “But now, sir, he is my cur.”

With that, she turned and led the dog away. Octavia groaned, catching up to her side and mumbling beneath her breath the entire length of their walk.

When they reached the carriage, Gwen leaned down to pick the dog up and place it inside, wondering if her gloves would survive the contact with so much filth.

“Faugh! He reeks something fierce.” Octavia’s exclamation barely registered as Gwen fought back the impulse to gag, almost dizzy from the pungency of such a little animal. “He is a right skunk!”

“She. She is a right skunk. And a good wash will do her wonders.” Gwen had checked when she had picked the animal up, an action that she was sure had cost her a favorite pair of gloves. Surely, such a depth of odor could not simply be washed away?

Octavia mumbled as she followed Gwen back into the interior of the carriage, quickly cranking the windows open to let in fresh air. “It better wash away, or that beast will be living in the stables.”

Gwen looked down into the big brown eyes staring at her from the shadow of the bench. “She will be fine.”

Octavia settled in next to the pile of books, shaking her head in perplexment. “I shall never understand why you are so quick to defend others, but not yourself, Gwendolyn Smythe.”

Gwen stared back at the dog, whose snout was quivering with interest, sniffing the air of the carriage. How it did not gag on its own smell was a mystery. “I do not know. It is easier when it is not me.”

“You have a fire in your belly, girl. You need to use it against your adversaries, or you shall never claim your rightful place in society.”

Sighing, Gwen leaned back into the puffy squabs to catch a breath of fresh air from the open window before the impulse to cast up her accounts could best her. The little hound’s stench had a life and will of its own, which permeated the entire carriage with its power. “I do not need the approval of others. I shall find my own way.”

Octavia shook her large head again, her bulbous eyes sympathetic in the dim light. “We all need connections. You must allow your new betrothed a chance to bring you happiness and status within that high society. You deserve it more than anyone I know.”

Gwen nodded, but she did not know what she was agreeing to. It was merely a signal she had heard what Octavia had to say. It still seemed an impossibility that she was to marry a man like Lord Abbott.

When she had learned this morning that Lord Abbott, his father, and their solicitor would be meeting with Papa in his study, Gwen had hurriedly made plans to depart their home for the day. She was not ready to meet Viscount Moreland after being caught with his heir and forcing a marriage.

For her cowardice, she had acquired a malodorous little dog to care for and had only postponed the inevitable meeting with Lord Abbott’s presumably disappointed parents.