Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(7)

The crowd parted. Cleared.

Julian saw Remy had managed to climb up on the box. His extra weight slowed the animal. The horse whinnied, changed direction and headed into the alley between two buildings.

Julian ran alongside him, pleased when he realized the alley was blind. This horse had cornered himself.

“All right, all right, old man.” He soothed the animal, one hand out to ward him off in case he’d take an idea to rear up in the air. The alley was narrow and if the animal decided to attack him, he’d not survive. “You’ve nowhere to go. Honestly. Nowhere. Look what you did here. Made a scene. What will all the lovely mademoiselles think of you, eh? And your master here, what will he do without you? You must settle. Must settle.”

As he spoke, the horse snorted and thrashed his head to and fro. But he gave up the crazed prancing and slowed.

Julian shrugged out of his coat, spread it between his hands then glanced at the box.

Remy who sat beside the driver had somehow caught up the second rein. Squashed together on the tiny perch, the cabby and the burly Frenchmen were a sight. One tiny, one huge. One blubbering, one tranquil.

“Come here, my boy,” Julian cooed to the fine French workhorse. “I’m here to help you. Feed you. I’ll find something from these merchants, don’t worry. For now, let’s get acquainted.” Continuing in a low voice, he appealed to the animal with his tone and casual demeanor. The horse looked about, stomped a bit and stopped. Julian nodded to him to approach. “That’s right. No need to run like a bedlamite.”

A few minutes more while the horse snorted—and he stood, unhappy and unbowed. But peaceful.

Julian ventured to touch his nose. Pet him. Stroke him. “You are capable of this. I know it. And when you are quite calm, we’ll see if we can find a carrot or an apple. Something wonderful. A reward.”

Remy chuckled from his seat. “Talk to him like a lover and you’ll have a new friend to follow you home.”

Julian stroked the animal’s nose. “I have too many high-tempered creatures at my house already. I’m sure monsieur has a better idea for him.”

Remy arched a brow. “You’d better give the withers a good look before you make assumptions.”

Julian turned to the side and saw the marks. The lash of a whip never did look good on any creature, man or animal. “Ask him what happened in the street.”

The two bantered back and forth. Remy at first inquisitive. The cabby, defensive. Then Remy annoyed, angry. The cabby, blustering.

“A dog ran between the hooves,” Remy told him.

“What the hell is a dog doing in the Rue de la Paix? It’s fine, boy. Fine.” Julian grabbed the horse’s straps. “I’m mad, but not at you.”

“The pet of a grand duchesse, he says.” Remy jumped down from the box.

“Well, she should’ve tethered him.”

“He escaped her,” Remy said as he headed for the door of the hackney and pulled it wide. “Mademoiselle? Ah, ah. Madame le Comtesse. Are you well? Can you move?”

Julian peered around to catch sight of Remy reaching inside the cab to offer his hand.

“Can you walk?” he asked her in French. “Shall I assist you?”

“Oui, oui, merci. Oh, Monsieur le Duc, it is you. An honor to have you help me. An honor,” the lady ran on in French, her tone that of a frightened bird. Julian recognized her as the Comtesse de Chaumont, a young impoverished widow who befriended rich Americans to pay her way in Parisian society.

She put one long gloved hand in Remy’s and stepped gingerly from the interior, her chestnut hair hanging in clumps in total disarray, her elaborate gown torn at the hem, a hank of lace dangling from her generous bosom.

“Madame! Oh, my dear lady!” One woman ran toward Chaumont.

“Madame!” called another.

Two ladies—one blonde, one dark—sailed down the alley toward them. Both held on to their hats and lifted their skirts well above the dirty cobbles as they approached.

“Merci, Monsieur le Duc,” the Countess de Chaumont said with a watery smile at Remy. “I fear I am quite weak.”

Remy offered his arm. “Lean on me, madame.”

“I will.” She took a step and crumbled.

Remy caught her up just in time and led her to rest against the side of the carriage.

“Are you in pain?” the young woman with ink-black hair asked the injured Frenchwoman. “If she’s hurt her neck or back, she must not stand.”

Her voice struck Julian, a low contralto, seductive as good, warm scotch. As he beheld her, two long waves of hair escaped her little red hat. And he killed the urge to reach out and rub the strands beneath his fingers.

“Do you have pain, madame?” Remy asked Chaumont.

“Pain?” The comtesse offered a small smile to the lady, a hand going to the crown of her head. She patted her lank curls, her eyes dazed. “I-I don’t think so. My hat? My hat is gone. My hair’s a fright. We will be late for our appointment. We mustn’t. Monsieur Worth will be angry.” She went on into laments in French.

“Do not worry, madame,” the dark-haired girl told her, focusing on the older woman with fierce concern. As she spoke to the comtesse, she took the woman’s hand, wrapped her fingers around her wrist, her lips moving and counting. Meanwhile, her companion bent to lift the comtesse’s skirts above her ankles.