A Timeless Romance Anthology: All Regency Collection Read online

  “You think I ought to get him a dog for a wedding gift?” I asked.

  I liked the idea at once— very much indeed. A dog is a far warmer and more personal gift than a snuff box or a watch fob. And seems as though it ought to be less expensive, besides. Though actually, I am not sure of how much a well-bred hunting dog may cost.

  “What sort of a dog was Nero?” I asked Georgiana.

  “Oh. A greyhound. His coat was white and tan.”

  “A greyhound” I nodded decidedly. “Very well. I believe that I may have to credit you with being a genius. Although you would secure your status of being my own personal deus ex machina completely if you could tell me where in London I may go about procuring such an animal.”

  Georgiana, however, proved to have no more idea than I did of where we might find a breeder of greyhound puppies.

  “I suppose I could ask my uncle,” I said, frowning. “Or— wait a moment. Edward is still in town, is he not?”

  Properly speaking, I ought to call him Colonel Fitzwilliam, still, since Darcy and I are not yet married. But neither of us is particularly good at standing on ceremony.

  Georgiana nodded. “Yes. He is staying with us, at Darcy House. He has leave from his regiment until the wedding.”

  “Do you think that you could ask him whether he knows of any reputable greyhound breeders?” I could not be sure that Edward would be able to locate one for us, but he seemed our most likely resource.

  “Of course,” Georgiana said slowly. “I mean, I will directly return to Darcy House.” She seemed to hesitate a long moment. When she spoke again, the words came all in a rush. “You do not… I do not mean to be impertinent, but… that is to say, if you will forgive my asking such a personal question—”

  She stopped again, her cheeks flaming.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Goodness. After that sort of beginning, you absolutely must ask your question, impertinent or no. I am quite agog with curiosity to hear whatever it may be.” I stopped, smiling, and added in a different tone, “Truly, you may ask me anything. I will not be offended, I promise. We are to be sisters in a fortnight’s time, after all. There is no such thing as an overly personal question between sisters. Just ask my sisters Lydia or Kitty— or even Jane.”

  Georgiana’s cheeks were still flushed, but she dropped her eyes to the fringe on the shawl again, and said, in a low, hurried voice, “I was wondering whether you ever wish… whether you ever regret that you are marrying my brother instead of Edward.”

  I felt my jaw drop open slightly as I stared at her. Whatever I had been expecting, it was not that. “Good heavens, no. Whatever put such an idea into your head?”

  Edward and I were good friends when we met at his aunt’s estate a few months ago. He is charming, intelligent, well mannered, and altogether a delightful young man.

  “I do not—,” I began. I could feel the blood rushing up to colour my own face. “I suppose that I sometimes find it difficult to express my sincerest feelings. It is one of the defects in my character, I’m afraid. I like to hide behind humour and banter and wit. But if you doubt that my affections for your brother are sincere—”

  “Oh, I do not!” Georgiana broke in quickly, looking distressed. “Not really. I mean… it is just that Edward admired you a great deal. I know he still does. But being a younger son, he cannot marry without his father’s approval, and—”

  “And I am too poor to be a suitable bride for the younger son of an earl?” I finished for her. I shook my head. “Georgiana, you know Edward. If he had truly fallen in love with me, do you think that the lack of his father’s approval would have stopped him? I like him— I esteem him very much, and I hope he feels the same liking and esteem for me. But that is all.”

  A wash of relief seemed to cross Georgiana’s face, and I had a sudden suspicion that it was not worry over my feelings that had led her to begin this conversation.

  I did not like to embarrass her by asking, though, or to strain our newly begun friendship by pushing her to confide more than she might wish.

  Besides, she is very young. Only sixteen. And it was not so long ago that she was nearly seduced into an elopement by George Wickham, who is unworthy of her in every way.

  She has plenty of time to make a suitable match with the right sort of gentleman, one who truly deserves her. Whether that may be Edward, I suppose, only time will show.

  “I ought to be getting back” —Georgiana rose to her feet— “if I am to beg Edward for any intelligence he may give about possible suppliers of greyhounds.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. “Truly.”

  I got up too and hugged her quickly. “I may joke and laugh and talk a great deal of nonsense at times. But I do love your brother— more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone. If you can help me towards finding him a wedding gift, I will be forever in your debt.”

  Wednesday 4 November 1812

  Samson?

  King?

  Midas?

  I am trying to think of a suitable name for the puppy currently lying at my feet and gnawing one of my slippers with a look of the fiercest concentration. But so far, every name I try out seems more preposterous than the last. More preposterous even than his appearance— and that is saying a great deal.

  I could not have done anything else. I have told myself as much, at a rough estimate, approximately four hundred and thirty-two times since I purchased the small creature and brought him home to my aunt and uncle’s. I could not.

  However, I am as much at a loss to imagine what Darcy will say when he sees the puppy as I am to think of a good name. I vacillate between picturing Darcy dissolving into fits of mirth, and feeling sure that he will decide he must have been mad to ask me to marry him at all.

  Edward did, in fact, know of a breeder of greyhounds. The man has an establishment in the Seven Dials district— a not terribly salubrious neighbourhood near to Covent Garden. I am not normally nervous going about in London, even in the poorer streets— of which there are many, not too distant from my aunt and uncle’s home in Cheapside.

  However, I was glad today that Edward had offered to escort Georgiana and me to the dog breeder’s— and not only because I am unsure whether we could have found the place without his assistance. We took the carriage as far as we could. But the streets soon became too narrow, and Georgiana had to ask her coachman to wait for us while we proceeded on foot.

  We made our way through a series of narrow, crooked streets— some barely more than alleyways— with tumbledown-looking tenement houses, and lines of washing strung overhead, nearly blotting out the view of the sky. Drunken men in labourer’s garb came lurching at us out of the doors of seedy-looking gin shops and taverns. Despite winter’s chill coming on, the children playing in the streets had no coats and very often not even shoes.

  All the time we were walking, I had the oddest feeling of being followed. But when I looked round, there was no one behind us whom I recognised, so I supposed the feeling must have been only nerves.

  We finally reached the breeder’s house. It stood next to a cow house— a rather miserable place where the poor cows who provide milk for London markets are housed. It is no wonder to me my aunt insists on buying her milk from country farmers, now that I have seen the way their city counterparts live.

  However, the dog breeder’s home was quite clean and well kept— and on knocking, we were welcomed inside by a rotund, cheerful little man who introduced himself as Mr. Meakes.

  Edward explained what was required and asked whether Mr. Meakes might have any puppies that would suit our purpose.

  Indeed, Mr. Meakes had. One of his best dogs had whelped some six weeks ago, and her puppies would be ready for sale quite soon.

  He brought us through the house and out into the rear yard to see the litter. There were six of them, all wriggling and tumbling about their mother in a pen as clean and well kept as the house.

  Georgiana and I admired them for a time, while Edward and Mr. Mea
kes spoke of breeding and bloodlines. And then I heard a high-pitched yipping coming from a shed at the back of the yard, and wandered over to investigate.

  I found a puppy. Quite the most ridiculous-looking one I had ever seen in my life. It looked rather as though someone had taken bits from various wildly disparate breeds and glued them together into a single animal.

  The head— or rather, the face— had the sleek, thin, and elongated muzzle of a greyhound or whippet. But the ears were enormous, drooping like a basset hound’s. Its coat was curly— like a poodle’s— but with the brown and white spots of a spaniel. Its basset hound ancestry was visible once more, though, in a long body— rather sausage-like, truth be told— and preposterously short legs. When it tried to walk— or rather, when it waddled— it kept tripping over its absurdly long ears and winding up sprawled on the ground.

  Mr. Meakes came up behind me, eyeing the puppy with a mixture of resignation and dislike. “You don’t want to be botherin’ yourself with that ’un, miss.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Mr. Meakes sighed. “That there? That’s a bit of a mistake, like.”

  He gave me the story— an expurgated version, to be suitable for a lady’s ears. Apparently, some three months ago, one of his breeding females broke free of her pen and escaped for a wild, solitary adventure on the London streets.

  Just how wild, Mr. Meakes only discovered some weeks after she had returned. Apparently in addition to being an adventurer, his dog proved to be a shameless light-skirt, having returned carrying a litter of puppies “of uncertain paternity.”

  Mr. Meakes spoke the last words with a pronounced shudder.

  Luckily— luckily according to Mr. Meakes, that is— the rest of the litter of ill-bred puppies did not survive. There were four, but the little fellow before me was the only one to live. Mr. Meakes had allowed the mother dog to nurse it for a time, for the mother’s sake. According to his theories of dog raising, that is somehow vital for the breeding dog’s health. But now the rogue puppy was ready to be weaned, and his mother was to be bred again— with a suitably chosen mate this time.

  The puppy was rolling on the ground, pouncing on little scraps of straw and making tiny, high-pitched growling sounds— apparently trying to frighten the straw into submission. I would have defied even Lady Catherine de Bourgh not to smile.

  “What are you going to do with him?” I asked.

  Mr. Meakes shrugged, unconcerned. “Drown him, most like. Haven’t got around to it yet, but I don’t see as how there’s anything else to be done with the little wretch.”

  “Drown him!” I looked from the pouncing, tumbling puppy to Mr. Meakes, appalled. “Oh no. But you cannot.”

  Mr. Meakes shrugged again, looking entirely unmoved. “Who’s going to want him?”

  The words were out before I could stop to think. But even if I had paused for consideration, I would have said the same thing. “I do! I want him.”

  And that is how, instead of the handsome greyhound puppy I had intended to buy Darcy for a wedding gift, I found myself carrying my preposterous little bundle of curly brown and white fur back to our waiting carriage.

  Georgiana smiled every time she looked at him, and Edward’s mouth was twitching suspiciously.

  “I could not have done anything else!” I said, before either of them could say anything. That was the first time I made the above-mentioned assertion.

  “No, certainly you could not.” Georgiana’s voice still held an undercurrent of laughter, but she caressed the puppy’s soft little head. “You could not possibly have allowed this sweet love to be drowned.”

  “Certainly,” Edward agreed. His lips were still twitching. “Not to mention that had you not rescued this fine fellow, I would have been deprived of the pleasure of one day witnessing Darcy striding onto the hunting field with his loyal… what breed would you say the animal is?”

  Georgiana said, very straight-faced, “A greyhound-spaniel-basset-hound-poodle, perhaps? Would that make him a… groodle? A boodle?”

  Edward made some choking sounds. “I vow there is some pug in his ancestry somewhere as well. Perhaps you might tell Darcy that he is a grug.”

  I cuddled the puppy more closely against my shoulder. “Pay no mind to these philistines,” I told him. “It will not be long before greyhound-spaniel-pug-poodle mixes are the height of fashion. The Duchess of Devonshire herself will feel sadly behind the times and lacking in sophistication without her faithful groodle trotting at her side.”

  Now that I have the puppy home at my aunt and uncle’s, however, I begin to have misgivings. Darcy will not be angry with me; I am not worried about that. Nor, I am certain, will Darcy declare, as hateful Mr. Meakes did, that my small rescuee ought to be drowned. I would not be marrying him if he were that sort of man.

  It is just that I set out to find a gift that would demonstrate how utterly and completely I love him. And instead, I seem to have ended up procuring for him the world’s most ridiculous-looking dog.

  Thursday 5 November 1812

  I am going to be very calm and not panic.

  Witness how nicely and legibly I have written the date at the top of this page. I am not precisely sure whether it is the fifth of November, or still the fourth, since what with being bound and gagged and blindfolded and then driven to an unknown location, I seem to have lost track of the time.

  But the point is that I could not be giving way to abject panic and still have laid this out like any ordinary diary entry. Clearly. Therefore, I must be remaining calm— and it is only my imagination that pictures a thread of terror pulling tight under my ribcage right now.

  What happened is this:

  Just as I was folding up the sheets of paper containing my last diary entry— preparatory to shutting up the writing desk for the night— the puppy (groodle?) made it known to me that he needed to go out. Immediately.

  Since he had already misbehaved himself twice on poor Aunt Gardiner’s nice floral carpet, I scooped him up and fairly ran with him down the stairs. I was in such a rush that without thinking, I simply thrust these sheets of paper into the pocket of my dressing gown.

  I flung open the front door and charged out, puppy in hand. It was, of course, improper in the highest degree for me to be outside in nothing but my nightdress and dressing gown. But it was an emergency. Aunt Gardiner is the best-humoured and kindest woman imaginable, but even she has a limit on how many puppy-related stains she can be expected to tolerate on her best rug.

  However, the dog— who apparently also has a sense of humour, and not entirely a benevolent one, at that— refused to…

  I have been sitting here for what must be a solid minute thinking of more delicate ways of phrasing this. Which, considering the circumstances I am currently facing, is patently absurd. I suppose the effort is not entirely wasted, though; it has at least distracted me from listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  At any rate, I will go on by simply stating that the puppy refused to do as he ought. Had he been capable of folding his tiny paws across his chest and looking at me with lowered brows and stubbornly outthrust lip, he would have done it, I feel sure.

  I waited. What else could I do?

  I was certain that the moment I took him back upstairs, my aunt’s carpet would once more be in mortal peril.

  The street was silent and utterly deserted. My aunt and uncle’s street is a quiet one. At eleven o’clock at night, their neighbours were all fast asleep in their beds rather than driving to or from dinner parties or theatre performances, as would be the case in Hanover Square or one of the more fashionable London neighbourhoods.

  There was only one carriage in sight— a hansom cab— parked near the end of the street, as though waiting for someone. When the driver picked up the reins and urged the horses into motion, I was surprised, but not alarmed. It never occurred to me that there would be any danger.

  The carriage came towards me, and I saw that the driver was muffled up t
o the eyes with woolly scarves, a greatcoat round his shoulders, and a broad-brimmed hat pulled down low over his forehead. But that did not seem unusual, either. The night was cold. I was already regretting that I had not thought to catch up a shawl before coming out.

  Then—

  I have replayed what happened next in my mind a hundred times or more. My insides still clench and my heart hammers with remembrance every time.

  As the carriage rolled past me, the door opened, and a man leapt out. Likewise cloaked and muffled, he was little more than a shadowed shape in the dark. But big— I could see that much. A veritable giant of a man, and tremendously strong.

  He seized hold of me, threw a thick layer of scratchy woollen blanket over my head, then picked me up like a bundle of washing.

  At first I was too utterly stunned to react. It felt so unreal, as though I must be having a nightmare. Then I heard the sound of the puppy’s frantic yipping, followed by a high-pitched yelp of pain. I suppose my abductor must have kicked him.

  That snapped me free of my temporary paralysis. Rage swept through me, and I fought him— as well as I could fight, bundled as I was like a baby in swaddling. My attacker had a wad of the blanket clamped over my mouth so I could not bite or even scream, and he had my arms pinned at my sides. But I kicked and thrashed and tried with all my strength to wrench myself away.

  I might as well have tried to kick a stone statue. His grip on me did not relax or even falter. Hauling me with him back to the carriage, he flung me roughly inside.

  My head struck the hard edge of one of the seats, and my shoulder struck the floor. It aches yet, even now. I lay there, momentarily stunned, trying to breathe through the smothering layers of blanket. Trying above all to think.