A Gentleman Never Tells(30)
Gabrielle inhaled deeply and then said, “Definitely Staunton is out of my life, and yes, Lord Brentwood is in it—for now.”
“And that means?”
“That right now, Papa and the viscount want us to marry, but I’m trying to find a way to keep that from happening.”
Her aunt frowned. “Why don’t you want to marry him? You met him in the park.”
Gabrielle didn’t want to go over all that again, so she said, “I don’t want another arranged marriage, Auntie. And I certainly don’t want Lord Brentwood to marry me because he’s forced to.”
Her aunt gave her a naughty smile. “You could always find another handsome gentleman to kiss in the park. Dare I say that would be an easy way to get rid of the viscount?”
“Oh, no, Auntie,” Gabrielle said, shaking her head as she wrapped the shawl tighter about her. “I’ve learned my lesson about that. Once was enough for me. I must find a way out of this situation without creating another scandal. And I will.”
Six
A certain amount of opposition is a great help to man. Kites rise against, not with, the wind.
—John Neal
It was blasted cold.
Brent muttered more than one curse to himself as he drove his curricle along London’s quiet streets at the break of dawn. The nippy wind dried out his eyes, and his warm breath stirred the frosty air. Most of the streetlights had been extinguished with the coming light, but there were very little stirrings of life moving along the boardwalks or in the shops he passed. He seemed to be one of the few people insane enough to be on the streets at this ungodly hour.
After leaving the duke and Lady Gabrielle last evening, he’d come home to find that neither his servants nor his brothers had had any better luck finding Prissy yesterday than he’d had. But he wasn’t ready to give her up as lost. He probably could have covered more ground in the park on horseback than on foot or in the curricle, except for the fact that he wanted to carry food and water for her. Besides, if—no, when he found her, should she be hurt, it would be better to have a carriage for her to ride in. For some reason, the idea had come to him that he would have a better chance of finding Prissy at about the same time he’d lost her yesterday.
Brent gently tugged on the right ribbon, turning the horse and entering the park as a pinkish gray lightened the dark sky. The fog had lifted, which was a good sign that there might actually be a few hours of sunshine at some point during the day. He immediately left the well-worn path the carriages usually took around the park and cut across the expansive, uneven ground that led to the center. He traveled a short distance and then stopped.
He gave as loud a whistle as his swollen lip would allow, and then called, “Pris! Here, girl. Come on; let me hear your bark.”
He listened but heard nothing other than the bone-chilling quietness of early morn. He slapped the ribbons on the horse’s rump and continued deeper into the park before stopping and calling for Prissy again. The mare shuddered, snorted, and shook her head, rattling the harness, but there was no other sound to break the silence. Brent repeated this routine again and again until he heard sounds of another vehicle coming toward him. He set the brake and laid the ribbons aside. He tightened the collar of his greatcoat around his neck and blew his breath into his gloved hands to warm them while he waited to see who would emerge out of the stand of trees.
It wasn’t long before he recognized the rattle of milk containers and saw the robust lad and two young women he’d seen with their milk cart yesterday. When the youngster noticed him, he automatically slowed his steps, and the two women cautiously moved closer together.
“Hello there,” Brent said, jumping down from the curricle.
As he walked closer, Brent saw the lad looked to be around twelve or thirteen, and on closer scrutiny, Brent could see the females were not as old as he’d thought yesterday. They were more the age of schoolgirls than young women. One appeared to be maybe sixteen or seventeen, and the other a year or two younger.
“Do you remember me from yesterday?” Brent asked.
The lad stopped the cart, let go of the handles, and straightened to his full height. His gaze remained steadfastly on Brent’s face, clearly distrusting him. Brent couldn’t blame him. With a black eye and busted lip, Brent knew he looked like a ruffian who’d been in a tavern brawl.
“Yes, sir,” the young man said quietly and moved slightly to stand between Brent and the lasses. “I remember you.”