The Widow and the Rogue Page 6

  * * *

  It was as they were entering the salon a loud commotion was heard outside. The sounds of an angry man yelling and the loud barking of a dog penetrated the stone walls of the townhouse.

  Curious, Kathleen opened the front door.

  Barking, while trying to escape the man chasing after him, was a large black beast that bounded past the front door. Two paws the size of large saucers planted themselves on Kathleen’s shoulders. A long, rough tongue proceeded to joyfully lick her face.

  “Down,” commanded a stern voice from nearby.

  Beau pulled off her what now appeared to be a large puppy. The animal obediently complied, his long tail wagging.

  “Ye damnable son of Lucifer!” yelled a man in an oily cap coming up the portico steps. “Get out of there. I’m gonna whip your black hide until you’re dead this time. That’ll be the last time you run away from me—you worthless bit of flea-bitten fur!”

  The animal, upon seeing the angry man, growled. The hair on the back of its thick neck bristled. His large puppy eyes squinted in anger.

  Compassionately, Kathleen bent down and put her arms around the animal’s neck, trying to soothe him.

  “It’s all right, boy, no one is going to harm you,” she said reassuringly, looking up at Beau for agreement.

  “Here, give me back m’ dog,” demanded the man gruffly.

  “How much?” said Beau, crisply.

  “How much for what?” repeated the stranger.

  He reached his hand out to grab the dog, but the animal bared its fangs at him. Cautiously, he drew back.

  “The dog—I wish to purchase him from you,” Beau reiterated.

  “Now see here, Gov’—that animal belongs t’ me. I can do with him what I likes.”

  “I did not say otherwise,” Beau said, removing a few shillings from his waist pocket. “I wish to purchase him from you.”

  “He’s been nothing but trouble. Eating me out of house and home, running off every chance he gets . . .” the man said.

  His thunder slowed as Beau placed coin after coin into his outstretched hand. When five shillings were placed into his palm, the man stopped his mutterings.

  He counted the coins out one by one and said, not giving the animal a second glance, “But seeing as your lady here seems taken with him . . . well, for sure now, I suppose I could part with the troublesome beast.”

  As if sensing his change in fortune, the dog began to once again vigorously wag his tail. He rubbed his large black head up against her hand.

  She stroked him. She’d always liked animals. They were never greedy and never betrayed you. They simply wanted to be fed and taken care of.

  After the oily man had parted, Beau asked her, “What name shall you give him, Lady Langtry? He’s yours now.”

  This announcement was a surprise. She had not expected him to give her the dog. She had thought he would have wanted to keep the animal for himself, since he had paid for him. But from the broad smile he’d bestowed upon her, she could see that he was pleased to do so.

  She smiled her thanks, and petting the animal gave its name some thought. She said, “I shall call him Tim . . . after Saint Timothy.”

  “A good name. I hope he is as devoted to you as his namesake was to his master.”

  Smiling at the young dog, she said with confidence, “He will be.”

  “Master Powers,” said Lady Fitzpatrick, warily eyeing the puppy, which stood as tall as her shoulders. “I do hope you have a barn attached to this domicile.”

  “I do. Why, Lady Fitzpatrick?”

  “Because this creature you think is a dog, by the looks of him, might turn out to be a horse.”

  “Then I shall buy a saddle and you will have to ride him if he is,” put in Kathleen with a hint of a laugh.

  “Hmm . . .” The tiny lady nodded, eyeing the puppy up and down. “We shall have to check it for fleas.” With a decisive nod, she walked into the parlor. They followed her in, the expected tea waiting for them on a serving tray.

  * * *

  Days at St. Stephen’s Green passed pleasantly with visits to art galleries, concert halls, and excursions to the center of Dublin, as well as to places of note, such as Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It was that pulpit Jonathan Swift, the author of Gulliver’s Travels, had once served as dean and was now entombed in.

  Kathleen had begun to take early morning promenades on the green with Tim loping along beside her on his large clumsy paws. Her chaperone, Lady Agnes, on occasion, would absent herself in order to help Lady Beatrice, her niece, with buying items for her upcoming nuptials. She carried around in her reticule a long list containing items her niece requested. The bride was about to become mistress of the newly renovated Drennan Castle and needed to replace many outdated household items.

  Master Powers would spend most of his day in court. He worked at helping sort out matters at the partnership, meeting clients, and other members of chambers. His expertise was invaluable to the solicitors. As a result, she seldom saw him until evening.

  “Come on, boy,” she called to Tim, who stood on the green, gazing at the waterfowl. The birds were floating in the duck pond connected to the River Liffey. “No swimming today.”

  She’d been teaching him to come and to fetch with an old croquet ball. The large square in front of the townhouse had proved to be the perfect patch of wide lawn for letting the young animal frolic. When Beau had a moment to spare, he would help her train him.

  They had come to the conclusion that Tim was a mixed breed. He was part Labrador with a smattering of Irish setter. His large paws and black head bespoke of his parentage. He proved at first to be an unruly creature, tearing into bedchamber slippers and sneaking food off the kitchen table. However, with consistent and stern disciplining, he was turning into a well-behaved pet.

  She admired the firm voice Beau used in telling the dog to “stay.”

  Tim obediently did not budge. His tail wagged happily while he sat, not moving, knowing his master would soon release him to run across the green.

  “I wonder,” she offhandedly remarked, “if children can be as easily trained.”

  Beau gave a small laugh at the thought.

  “I rather doubt it. If I recall, my poor nurse often told me that she was at wit’s end as to what to do with me,” he confessed. “I am afraid I was a little demon. I often caused trouble. And no amount of threats or reprimands had any effect on me.”

  “So what changed you?” she asked, trying to picture this disciplined gentleman as an impish boy looking for a mischievous lark.

  “School,” he said with a sigh. “The discipline of an all boys’ parochial school should never be dismissed.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said with a nod of understanding. For it was well-known how rigid such institutions of conservative education could be.

  “I suppose it is why I am overly indulgent with my sister,” he confessed, sheepishly. “I was like her when I was a lad.”

  In that moment she could picture him as a father. He would laugh and play with his children, and when needed, discipline them. She imagined he would be a very fair-minded parent, having once been a little troublemaker himself. At that thought she unknowingly gave him a smile of approval, causing his heart to skip a beat.

  She tried to copy Beau’s disciplinary manner, but to no avail. The pup had cast her in the role of adopted mother. She was there to pet, feed, and take him for his daily walks, not to discipline him.

  Once, when she was angry at Tim for chasing one of the green’s geese, instead of coming when called, she used a harsh tone with him. The dog reluctantly came, giving her a brown-eyed look of reproach.

  He seemed to silently say, “How can you yell at me for doing my duty of chasing off that nasty bird? Didn’t you hear it honk insults at me?” And for the remainder of the day, he sulked under his favorite chair.

  Today, the puppy was behaving perfectly. He came obediently to her side when she called, his tail happily waggi
ng.

  They crossed Carlisle Bridge, the stone footpath traversing the River Liffey, which connected to a small lake. It was unusually empty. The pedestrians who routinely used the green had stayed indoors as a cool morning haze enveloped it.

  A mallard squawked and took flight, off the water to their right. Its green wings fluttered as it changed position. Tim began to growl.

  “I’ll have none of that,” she said to him firmly, gripping his leash more tightly. “We are not chasing birds today. After this walk you shall have a biscuit with a bit of gravy and I shall have a warming cup of tea.”

  But the young dog did not appear to pay attention. He continued to give a throaty murmur of discontent.

  They walked across the stone bridge. The occasional sound of quacking ducks and fluttering wings could be heard below.

  Tim’s growl grew louder. It was not directed at her or the waterfowl below, but at a group of trees off in the near distance. He refused to move. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. His large paws dug stubbornly into the stone.

  “It’s all right, Tim, there’s no one here. Just us, lad,” she said reassuringly, pulling on his leash.

  But it did no good. He barked at the swaying branches ahead on the side of the path. It was then she saw the long end of a gun’s barrel aimed at her.

  She started to turn away, but it was too late. She heard the loud crack of gunfire.

  Losing her balance as Tim suddenly leaped forward, she fell roughly onto her hands and knees. She could feel the hard stones beneath. Her skin rubbed against the unforgiving surface.

  Smoke emitted into the air from the fired shot. The bullet zipped past, flying wide towards the ducks. Frightened by the loud report, the birds took flight off in a circular pattern into the hazy sky.

  The shooter fired again.

  This time, the bullet hit the stone railing above her head. A spray of shattered fragments fell. Frantic, no longer obeying commands, Tim rushed towards the trees and the hidden gunman.

  The leash slipped through her fingers.

  Lying prone, afraid of moving lest the shooter try again, she heard a man yell, “Get off me . . . damn dog!”

  Looking up, she watched a man appear from behind the screen of tree branches. He ran from the footpath. With the gray mist heavy in the air, she could not identify the man. He was a fog-blurred figure.

  Hurriedly, she arose and chased after them. Frightened, she called frantically, “Tim . . . Tim . . . come here, boy!”

  The layers of her skirts and petticoats caused her to trip and stumble as she rushed to get to Tim. Her heart pounded heavily—she worried for her pet’s safety, rightly reasoning the villain might have shot the puppy.

  She heard a loud yelp and hastened forward.

  Lying on the green was Tim. He’d been bludgeoned on the head by the end of the firing pistol. Blood trickled from his skull.

  She knelt, touching the unconscious dog. Nothing appeared to be broken. Frightened, she looked about. The gunman was nowhere to be seen. He’d run off.

  “Oh, Tim,” she whispered as she ran her hand over his black fur.

  Kneeling by the brave dog, tears of regret welled in her eyes. If only she’d held on more tightly to his leash, this would never have happened. He’d been trying to protect her.

  She took off her long gabardine cloak, realizing the animal was too heavy to carry, and covered him. She rose and ran back to the house to seek help.

  Kathleen had no idea what state she was in when she rushed into the study where Beau was quietly reading. Her hair and clothes were in complete disarray, the walking gown torn and shredded. At the sight of splattered blood on her clothes and hands, his heart nearly stopped beating.

  He hurried to her side, exclaiming, “What’s happened! Are you wounded?”

  He took her into his arms, feeling her limbs, reassuring himself that she was not physically harmed. He could feel her heart thumping loudly against his chest as her body trembled from shock.

  She tried to regain her composure to speak. She said shakily, “No-o . . . I’m fine. But Tim . . . he’s been badly hurt.” And she proceeded to explain what had occurred.

  Upon learning of the terrible events that had taken place, Beau, with a look of deadly determination, opened a locked case. Inside, neatly aligned by size, were his shooting pistols.

  Humphrey appeared by his side.

  “May I be of service, sir?”

  “Aye, load these for me,” he said, choosing two weapons.

  He kept glancing over at her, as if he was reassuring himself that she was truly alive and unharmed.

  Methodically, with the expertise of a man used to dealing with such crises, the valet chose ammunition and checked the weapons’ mechanisms. This was not the first time his master had called him into such service. Master Powers’s actions always matched his words. This was a man for whom his word was his bond. He was someone others could count upon in times of danger.

  The guns were laid on the table. Beau picked them up and holstered them beneath his cloak. He turned to her.

  “I want you to stay here. That madman may be still lurking about. He might try to harm you again.”

  ‘No,” she said, shaking her head. “I want to go with you. Tim is my dog and he was hurt trying to protect me. I want to be there for him, to help if I can.”

  “Very well,” he agreed, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

  She stood before him anxious for her pet, but she’d not gone into a fit of hysterics, or played the part of a frightened damsel in distress. She was eager, ready to brave the possibility of once again meeting the villain who tried to shoot her. She was truly a remarkable woman.

  “But you are to stay behind me. You are too tempting a target for this madman to resist.”

  She quickly agreed and they hastened back to the bridge.

  Upon arriving at the spot where she’d left the dog, a constable on patrol was standing over the unconscious animal. He looked at them, noticing their winded conditions and anxious looks.

  Nodding at the pup, he asked, “This lad yours?”

  “Yes, Officer,” she answered, hurrying over to her pet.

  She was pleased to see Tim half-open his eyes. Relief flooded her. He was alive.

  Spying the large firing pistols hidden inside Beau’s overcoat, the constable’s face grew stern.

  “For sure now, you’re not thinking of putting the animal down, are ye, sir? He’s a young lad and from the looks of him, he’s been badly treated. But he’s not in such a terrible condition that ye must be rid of him. Aye, all he needs is some rest.”

  The constable drew himself up to his full height. He tapped his walking stick into his hand. “Also, I won’t let you fire off those weapons. This is a public place and you might accidentally shoot someone.”

  Beau drew back.

  The idea he would ever harm a family pet, let alone have the temerity to shoot off a weapon without due reason, was clearly an insulting suggestion.

  “I am a gentleman, sir,” he said, in a clipped tone. “I do not run around killing brave dogs who’ve been bludgeoned by a cowardly villain. Nor do I carry firearms on my person for mere sport. That would be quite beneath me. Not to mention reprehensibly caddish behavior. Now, if you don’t mind, Constable, I should like to take the dog home.”

  Without further ado, he picked up the unconscious pup and quickly walked towards the townhouse. His long legs strode across the green in record time. Kathleen and the startled constable followed at a half-trot behind.

  Humphrey promptly opened the front door when they returned. He’d dutifully stood by the front window anticipating their arrival. While they were gone, the housekeeper had placed a pile of old blankets by the hearth fire.

  One of the chambermaids cooed over the young animal as he was brought in. “Oh—you’re a wonderful brave dog, ye are, Tim.”

  Hearing his name, the dog opened his eyes. He gave a soft whimper of pain. Everyone exclaimed, telli
ng him what a brave creature he was, anxious that he be made comfortable by the hearth.

  As if sensing he was once again in a safe place, the animal went limp in his master’s arms. His eyes closed as he became unconscious.

  “To think such disturbing events should happen here,” said the constable in disbelief after being informed of what had taken place.

  Glancing about the bachelor’s townhouse, the officer gave the young woman a shrewd look. “You certain you’ll be safe here, ma’am? Do ye have any relations in town with whom you might wish to stay?”

  She thought briefly of her uncle. But the notion of contacting him would be as if she were inviting herself to relive a nightmare.

  A huff of indignation was uttered beside her.

  Lady Fitzpatrick, who’d recently returned from shopping for her niece, bristled. Her parasol’s stays quivered in her hand. She would have struck the man in front of her or anyone else who might have stood in her way, if provoked.

  “Her ladyship has her guardian to look after her, Constable,” Lady Agnes said with all the stiff indignation she could muster. “And I have many a time stared down pirates and unruly mutineers. As for Lady Langtry’s relations, I shouldn’t put it past one of the worthless cur to have tried to end her life. She is a lady of substantial means and I am quite certain not one of them would mind if she should suddenly have an untimely demise. They may have possibly arranged this cowardly ambush! If I were you, Constable, I would check into their present whereabouts.”

  “I think that would be a waste of valuable time, ma’am,” said the constable, doubtfully.

  Rather than contemplating the notion of a greedy relative with a nefarious motive, it was evident the constable thought a pistol-shooting lunatic was running around the green. The cad was having a bit of sadistic fun frightening the young lady and her pet. That he had struck the young animal had been nothing less than unfortunate.

  “I better gather up a few of my lads and make a thorough search of the green. The villain may still be lurking about. Good day, ladies,” he said.