One
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
—Shakespeare, Macbeth , (5.1)
Whorls of light gray mist hung in the damp air. His long strides scattered patches of dense fog that hovered above the ground. Hyde Park wasn’t a place anyone should be before dawn, and was the last place he wanted to be on an early Sunday morn with a stubborn female at his side.
As they entered through the west side, he shook his head over the fact that the wet chill of autumn hadn’t kept her in bed no matter how many times he’d tried to get her to stay a little longer. Viscount Brentwood chuckled ruefully at how temperamental she was when she wanted her way and couldn’t get it, and she wasn’t shy about letting him know when she was unhappy. They’d always had a love-hate relationship, and that hadn’t changed since their arrival in London a few days ago.
In the distance, he heard the rattle of what sounded like a cart or wagon approaching, so he moved to the side of the well-worn path. In this area of the wooded park, it was damn near impossible to see anyone or anything until they were almost upon you, unless it was a clear night with a bright hunter’s moon, and there were far too few of them at this time of year. He picked up his pace, wanting to get this shackling ritual behind him and get out of the park before full daybreak.
“Hurry up, now, Pris.”
All he got in answer was a disdainful sniff.
A minute or two later, a rumbling cart emerged out of the mist. It was being pulled by a strapping lad with a felt hat tugged low on his brow. Two young women wearing tattered wool coats and white mobcaps on their heads walked beside it. Over the clanging of milk cans and rattle of squeaking cart wheels, Brent heard feminine giggles as they passed him. They looked at him and laughed again behind their gloved hands. Even the youngster with them glanced back at him and grinned from ear to ear.
Not that he could blame them. It must be quite comical to see a man as tall and broad-shouldered as he walking a dog that wasn’t much bigger than some of the rats seen down at the wharf. Though the deeper into the park he walked, the fog swirled so heavily on the ground he was surprised they could even see the small dog at all. Her head was barely visible above the hovering mist.
“They’re laughing at us, Pris,” Brent murmured softly, his warm breath stirring the moist air.
Judson Allan Brentwood, seventh Viscount Brentwood, took off his hat, smiled good-naturedly, and bowed to the milkmaids who’d turned to watch him and snicker some more. He slurred his words as if a drunkard and said, “What’s da matter there, gels, haven’t ye ever seen a proper gentleman walk his dog in da park before? Come closer, I’ll let you have a pat or two.”
Brent bowed when the girls gasped and quickly turned away from him. Within moments, the trio and cart disappeared into the heavy mist. While holding the leash with one hand, he reached up and settled his hat back on his head. He then lifted the collar of his greatcoat against the chilling air seeping down his neck. He didn’t really mind the milkmaids and lad having a good laugh off his walking his mother’s cherished pet, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted anyone he knew seeing him walk the dog.
If it hadn’t been for his promise to his mother on her deathbed, he would have left the aggravating little mongrel at his estate in Brentwood. He had started to do just that, but at the last minute, his conscience had gotten the better of him, and he’d grabbed up the dog and put her in the carriage. But if she kept yelping before daybreak, the Mayfair town house might not be big enough for the both of them. If that wasn’t bad enough, whenever he was at home, she seemed to always find a way to be underfoot, or scratching on his door, whimpering to get inside and sleep on his bed.
His mother had always treated the dog as if she’d come from a Pomeranian lineage right out of the King’s kennel. Brent harrumphed at that thought. In truth, his mother had no idea of the dog’s ancestry, though it was mixed to be sure.
Oddly though, he was growing a tad fond of the little devil, though he had no idea why. He’d made a vow to his mother that he would take good care of her dog, going so far as to promise her to take the dog for an early morning walk a couple of times a week. That hadn’t been a problem at his estate in Brentwood, but now that he was in London, he could see how the oath to his dearly departed mother would be harder to keep.
Brent allowed the dog to take the lead and adjusted his pace to her stop-sniff-scratch-and-go routine. The horizon lightened from black to light purple and gray as daybreak fanned across the bottom of the sky. The trees and bushes thinned, and some of the fog dissipated the farther into the park they walked, gradually making it easier for him to see.