Since his return, he’d given in to the urge to check he was alone in the house, and not about to be besieged by Abigail. It was ridiculous to think she might come back. Although he hoped she would not risk her reputation again just to speak to him, a part of him looked forward to it. He would see her at dinner tonight, with actual chaperones this time, but he had no further insights to share on how to make Peter Watson—or any man—propose marriage to a woman if he didn’t want her for his wife.
He tucked away his folder of notes, the topmost of which was Miss George’s banking statement, disturbed by his lack of focus. He’d meet with Miss George and her brother tomorrow afternoon, well ahead of his departure for London, and hopefully discuss investment opportunities for the next year. Miss George should be pleased with the state of her investments. However, after the Watsons were served with their notice, he had doubts he’d remain as banker to the Georges.
However much as it tickled him to know Miss George was the celebrated and much read author, K.L. Brahms, as a customer of his bank, she surely wouldn’t remain so. A pity. Miss George’s writing really was wonderful and he enjoyed getting his hands on each new story before anyone else. Aside from him, and her editor, she demanded the matter was to be kept secret. He’d not even shared the real identity of K.L. Brahms with his business partner and he hoped whoever replaced him would share the same scruples of discretion. Society would be scandalized to know the darling of literary circles was not in fact a man but a very young spinster.
David picked up the tea tray, deposited it in the kitchen, and then strolled out of the house to look up at the sky. The day hadn’t turned out particularly pleasant. Grey clouds clustered above him so he couldn’t venture too far from home without risking becoming uncomfortably wet. The only bright spot on his horizon was tonight’s dinner.
A small whimper reached his ears and he looked about the garden for the source. Huddled by the wall of his garden, between wilted radishes and sad cabbage heads, sat a small ball of filthy brown fluff. Bedraggled, trembling, small beady black eyes stared at him and a black nose sniffed the air. A puppy? He glanced about but the poor thing was entirely alone.
He crept closer. Animals never really warmed to him, but its forlorn whimpers touched him. He leaned down to scratch its damp head. The little beast wagged its tail hesitantly. As he stroked the tips of its ears the speed of its wagging increased. Encouraged, he carefully eased his hand beneath the puppy
and lifted it away from the vegetables so he could get a better look. Four very muddy paws scrambled in the air for purchase just as the sky opened up and hard rain fell.
Startled by the rain and sudden wriggling, David drew it against his chest and hurried toward the shelter of the house before they were both drenched through to the skin. He stepped into the warm, and thankfully, empty kitchen, uncertain of what he should do with the beast. Its whimpers and struggles pulled at his heart. Cleaning and drying it off seemed a necessary first step. He dropped the pup onto the battered work table and peered at him. Or was he a she?
The little beast shivered, dropping spots of mud onto the clean surface, and made to return to him. David pushed it back to the middle, but kept a restraining hand on it this time. Poor creature. What a sorry state to be in, all mud and misery; all alone in the world, just as he was.
He dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped ineffectually at the muck and water around its dark eyes. However, the handkerchief proved no match for the mud caked to its paws. He’d barely made a dent before he realized a thorough dunking and scrub would be called for to make the beast in any way presentable.
“You, sir or madam whichever you may be, are not fit for decent company,” he said out loud as he struggled out of his coat and ruined waistcoat.
The puppy’s ears flattened at his tone and David rubbed them until the beast perked up again. He rolled up his sleeves in between petting the pup, leaving smears of mud on the white cotton shirt. Resigned to the ruin of his attire because of one small creature, he peered about the kitchen, searching for what he would need to save the rest of his wardrobe. He wrapped the animal in a rag he spied hanging from a chair and tucked the pup tight against him while he organized a bucket of warm soapy water.
He chatted to the pup as he worked and by the time he had readied the bath the animal had fallen fast asleep against his chest. He felt cruel to wake it, but it couldn’t remain as it was. Not if it wanted to enjoy more of his attention. He carefully unwrapped the rag from the animal and slowly lowered it into the bucket.
The pup did not enjoy the bath at all; especially the repeated scrubbing and dunking required for cleaning. However, the drying seemed to improve its mood as did the combing to a degree. The odd snarl had the pup nipping at his fingers and he grew more careful as he brushed through the short coat. In the process of cleaning, he discovered he held a pure white pup, a terrier of some description, and a female. “So, you are a lady, eh?” The pup burrowed under his hand in search of more attention. “How much trouble will you be for me, princess?”
By the end of the chore, David was tempted to keep her. How much trouble could a pup be? The only thing that worried him was the hours the pup could spend alone at his London apartment and the fuss that might be raised if he were to take her with him to the office. How could he possibly entertain the idea of keeping an animal that would demand all his spare time and then some? He couldn’t very well rush out into the park every hour to let it tend its business. Regretfully, he concluded that he’d have to find someone to care for it, someone living here in Brighton would be best.
He found Princess—for that’s what he decided to name her—something she seemed to enjoy eating and when she would take no more nourishment, he carried her upstairs to his bedchamber while he dressed for dinner with the Watsons. He dragged an old, sturdy traveling trunk out from under the bed and placed bed linens inside. Given the sides were quite high, the pup should be safely contained while he changed. The pup walked around in circles sniffing her new bed, curled into a ball with a whimper, and then promptly fell asleep.
Hopefully, she would sleep all night or at least until he returned from dinner.
David turned back to his wardrobe and changed as quietly as he could. When he was satisfied he was dressed well enough to call upon the Watsons, he picked up the pup, trunk and all, and quietly took her back to the kitchen being careful not to jostle her about too much.
Once he was sure Princess remained asleep he eased out of the room and let himself out the front door and locked it behind him. David took a large steadying breath. It was just a friendly dinner with the most beguiling Abigail Watson, followed by a possibly hostile interview with her brother. He patted the letter in his pocket while his heart grew heavy. The time had come. He would deliver the demand for payment at the very end of the evening. With luck, Abigail would not become distressed should her brother turn surly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Acting as hostess for Peter’s friends had never bothered Abigail very much before, but tonight her nerves were a jangled mess. She wanted everything to be perfect when David arrived. The flowers on the table were low enough to prove no barrier to conversation; the menu was simple and should prove a success.
“Abigail, if you move that accursed vase one more time I’ll toss it out the window,” Peter grumbled from the doorway. “What’s gotten into you?”
David was coming and she was anxious to see him. Her visit to his house had stirred up all sorts of mischief, especially her thoughts about the future. She liked David a great deal more than she’d first realized. She’d had a brief idea that climbing into bed with him and snuggling up against his broad bare chest would not be a very terrible thing to do before she was married. The idea was rather intriguing. That sort of thought rarely occurred to her around other men. But the memory of his bare chest, the fine hairs disappearing beneath the tumbled sheet had set her heart to racing repeatedly since that moment.
He was much more muscular and imposing without clothes than she’d imagined a man could be. In fact, she’d had to keep her hands clenched on her lap to control her curiosity.
Imogen cleared her throat, alerting Abigail that she’d been staring off into space and hadn’t answered her brother. “I want the evening to be perfect, that’s all.”
He stared at her hard. “Why is tonight different than any other? You don’t usually go to this much trouble. It’s just Hawke, not the king, coming to dine.”
“And I have never hosted a dinner for him before,” Abigail snapped. “You’ve likely forgotten, but I have behaved exactly this way before entertaining any of our friends for the first time.”
Imogen slipped into the room, her gaze darting between them anxiously. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Watson, don’t bother her. Ladies like to have everything just so. Men, however, will leave everything to chance and pot luck and let the sensible run the gauntlet of their misadventures.”
Peter’s eyes widened as he stared at Imogen. “I know that saying. Do you read K.L. Brahms?”
Imogen shrugged. “Of course, doesn’t everyone with sense?”