Jane Feather - Vixen

She continued to look at him in the mirror, assessing the strength of his determination as she had in the stable the previous night. But this time she had no master card up her sleeve.

"I am resolved, lass," he said softly. "Looking daggers at me isn't going to change anything."

He turned to the gowns over the chair, sorting swiftly through them. "This one goes with your eyes," he cajoled, holding up a sprigged muslin gown with a cornflower-blue sash and blue ribbons.

"It's so demure," Chloe muttered.

"It's so suitable," he retorted, and called the modiste. "Miss Gresham will try this gown."

With as good a grace as she could muster, Chloe submitted to being divested of the peacock-blue taffeta and buttoned into the muslin. Madame Letty tied the sash around the slender waist and stood back with a smile.

"Beautiful," she said. "Mary, fetch that chip straw hat, the one with the matching ribbons. It will look exquisite."

Chloe was unconvinced and rather glumly stepped out of the dressing room to show her guardian.

A slow smile spread across Hugo's face as he examined her. "Come here." He beckoned her and turned her to face the mirror again. "Now, that, lass, is a vision to delight the most jaded eye."

"Is it?" Chloe looked longingly toward the glitter of the discarded taffeta.

"Trust me."

When they left Madame Letty's an hour later, Chloe possessed three gowns, a velvet cloak, the chip straw hat and a well-cut but unexciting riding habit of dark blue broadcloth. Hugo had allowed her a tricorn hat with a silver plume to go with the habit, but otherwise had ruled the selection with an iron hand. Chloe was quiet as they walked back to the George and Dragon, and Hugo tried to think of something to make up for her disappointment.

Suddenly, Chloe was gone from his side. With a shout of outrage she darted into the road, dodging in front of a curricle driven tandem by a young blood in a caped driving coat with a dozen whip points thrust into the buttonholes.

His leader reared, snorting, as Chloe ducked, jumped sideways, and plunged into the center of the traffic-filled thoroughfare.

Hugo, without looking at the driver, seized the leader's harness, holding his thrashing head as he stared across the street anxiously for some sign of Chloe. The young man filled the air with profanity.

"For God's sake, man, stop swearing and look to your horses," Hugo said impatiently, his eyes still searching the gathering throng for Chloe, even as he continued to hold the horse.

Without responding, the driver cracked his whip, catching the leader's ear. The horse leapt forward and Hugo jumped aside just in time. At the same instant he recognized the stolid features and flat brown eyes of the curricle's driver. Chloe had run in front of Crispin Bel-mont's horses.

He watched the curricle's plunging progress up the steep street at the behest of its evil-tempered driver. Maybe not Jasper's son by birth, but certainly by temperament. A small crowd had gathered on the opposite side of the road, voices raised in fervent argument. With considerable foreboding Hugo crossed the street and pushed through the crowd.

Foreboding was justified. Chloe bore no resemblance to the disconsolate girl of the dress shop. A diminutive firebrand, she was violently berating a large man sitting on the driver's seat of a cart filled with turnips.

Hugo took one look at the horse between the shafts and understood. The sorry-looking animal hung its head, its hide ridged with scars from old weals, blood streaking from fresh whip cuts, its ribs painfully visible, its chest heaving as it struggled to gather strength for the rest of its uphill journey.

"Brute! I'll have you taken up by the magistrates," Chloe yelled. Her hands, unbuckling the animal's harness, were deftly efficient despite her fury. "You should be pilloried!" She released the bit and launched a new tirade at the condition of the animal's mouth, cut by the cruel curb.

The turnip seller jumped from his cart with surprising agility for such a large man. "What the 'ell d'ye think you're doin?" He grabbed Chloe's arm. She spun around like a top and kicked him in the groin.

The crowd gasped as the man doubled over as if the air had been punched from his body. Chloe turned back to the horse, unbuckling the girth.

"Chloe!" Hugo called out sharply.

She looked up impatiently, and he could see that nothing concerned her at the moment but the horse. She was oblivious of herself, of the impression she might be making, of the gawking crowd. "Give this man some money," she said. "I'm taking his horse. Even though he's used the poor beast so dreadfully, it wouldn't be just to take it without compensation."

"You expect me-"

"Yes, I do," she fired back. "Not your money-mine!" She had finally released the animal and now led him out of the shafts, her hand stroking the hollow neck. The crowd fell back as the animal's owner tried to straighten from his agonized crouch.

"You take my 'orse and I'll-" He gave up, gasping. The crowd began to mutter, sympathy for one of their own replacing curiosity.

Swiftly, Hugo dug into his pocket and tossed two gold sovereigns to the ground between the man's feet. The decrepit animal didn't look as if it would last the night, but the crowd would be on the side of the horse's owner and he had to get Chloe away in one piece.

"Move!" he commanded under his breath.

Chloe seemed to take the point and hauled her pitiable prize through the crowd while they were still reacting to the sovereigns.

"Thank you," she said somewhat belatedly as they reached the far side of the street.

"Oh, don't thank me," he responded with an ironical quirk of an eyebrow. "As I recall, it was your money."

"What's the point of having it if you can't use it for what you want?" she demanded, one hand gently stroking the horse's neck.

like taffeta gowns and tulle hats, Hugo thought. The pathetic, maltreated beast seemed a fair exchange for the whore's dress. However, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to spend another such day. His zealously unpredictable ward was an exhausting companion. And he still hadn't made contact with a decent drink.

However, he was not prepared to linger in the George and Dragon while she found something else to engage her attention in this city full of unrest and potential victims. Unrefreshed, he hurried Chloe and the turnip seller's liberated nag homeward.

"Where's Dante?" Chloe slipped from her pony in the courtyard and looked around, frowning.

v v The dog's absence was conspicuous. It was inconceivable that he wouldn't have come rushing to greet her.

Hugo dismounted and yelled for Billy. The lad appeared from the direction of the kennels, swinging an empty pail. He set the pail down and came toward them, rather less lethargically than usual.

"I was feedin' the dogs, sir." He tugged a forelock and then stared in unabashed disgust at the turnip seller's nag. "What's that?"

"You may well ask," Hugo said. "Where's Miss Gresham's dog?"

Billy scratched his head. "Well, I don't rightly know." He gestured to the pump. "I 'ad 'im fastened over yonder. But 'e up an' went when I went for me dinner."

"Did he break the rope?"

Billy shook his head. "Don't look like it, sir. Rope looks like it's gone an' untied itself."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Chloe stalked across to the pump. The rope was not frayed or broken. "You must have tied him insecurely."

"He'll be back, lass," Hugo said, seeing her expression. "How long's he been gone, Billy?"

" 'Bout an hour, I reckon, sir."

"He's chasing rabbits in the wood, I'll lay odds," Hugo reassured her. "He'll be back covered in mud and starving as soon as it gets dark."

Chloe frowned unhappily. "I'll look for him when I've seen to Rosinante."

"You've christened that sorry beast Rosinante?" Hugo gave a shout of laughter. "You absurd creature."

"Rosinante was a fairly sorry animal," Chloe retorted. "Anyway, I've always liked the name. And he'll grow into it, won't you?" She scratched between the ears of the nag's hanging head. "Billy, I want you to make up a bran mash. I'm going to do something about his cuts."

Hugo turned toward the house, inquiring with a degree of curiosity, "By the by, what name does the parrot rejoice in?"

"Falstaff," she said promptly. "I'm sure he's had a thoroughly dissolute life."

Chuckling, Hugo went inside.

Chloe bathed Rosinante's wounds, fed him warm bran mash, and installed him in a stable with a lavish supply of hay.

"I'm going to look for Dante," she said, entering the kitchen. "It's getting dark."

Hugo, gratefully ensconced before a bottle of burgundy, squashed the uncomfortable conviction that he ought to abandon his wine and accompany her himself.

"Take Billy with you, since it's largely his responsibility."

"What if I don't find him?" Her eyes were purple.

"I'll go out with you after dinner," he promised. "But be back here in half an hour."

Chloe returned punctually but empty-handed and sat miserably at the table, picking at the laden plate Samuel put in front of her.

"Summat wrong wi' it?" he demanded roughly.

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry… I'm not hungry"

"That's a first," Samuel remarked to no one in particular.

"Have some wine." Hugo filled her glass. "And eat your dinner. You only think you're not hungry."

Chloe chewed a mouthful of chicken. It tasted like sawdust. She drank her wine with rather more enthusiasm and by the second glass was beginning to feel more cheerful. Dante was a young, healthy dog who hadn't had too many opportunities to roam the countryside, chasing up scents.

"Wretched animal!" she exclaimed crossly, and attacked her dinner. There was no point going hungry because the exasperating creature was doing what dogs, given half a chance, did.

"That's better," Hugo approved. "What are you going to do with him when he does decide to return?"

"Nothing," Chloe said. "What could I do? He doesn't know he's doing anything wrong… in fact, he's not. He's just being a dog."

But the knowledge that Dante would never choose to spend this amount of time away from her obtruded through wine-induced buoyancy.

By midnight she was distraught and Hugo at point non plus. All three of them had stumbled across fields by the light of an oil lantern, trod cautiously through the tinder-dry wood, and called until they were hoarse.

"Go to bed, lass." Hugo leaned wearily against the kitchen door to close it. "He'll be outside in the morning, a picture of penitence."

"You don't know him," she said, the catch in her voice accentuated by unshed tears.

But Hugo had formed a pretty fair impression of Dante and didn't believe for one minute that his continued absence from his beloved owner's side was voluntary. However, he strove to keep that from Chloe.

"It's time you were in bed," he said again. "There's nothing more to be done tonight."

"But how can I sleep?" she cried, pacing the kitchen.

"Supposing he's hurt… in a trap…" She covered her face with her hands as if to block out the images of Dante in agony.

" 'Ot milk and brandy," Samuel declared, setting the oil lamp on the table. "That'll send 'er off like a babby."

"Heat some milk, then," Hugo said. He took Chloe's shoulders and spoke with calm authority. "Go upstairs and get ready for bed. I'll bring you up something to help you sleep in a minute. Go on." He turned her with a brisk pat on the behind. "You can do Dante no good by pacing the floor all night."

There was sense in that, and she was bone-weary. It had been a long and exhausting day after a disturbed night. Chloe dragged herself upstairs. She put on her nightgown and sat beside the hat box, trying to take comfort from the contentment of Beatrice and her now-much-prettier offspring.

Downstairs, Hugo contemplated lacing the milk with laudanum rather than brandy. But then he thought of Elizabeth, slipping into addiction. Maybe such tendencies could be passed on. He slurped a liberal dose of brandy into the beaker Samuel filled with milk and took it upstairs.

He tapped lightly on the door to the corner room and went in. Chloe was sitting on the floor. She looked up as he entered, her eyes huge in her white face. He remembered how young she was, but he also remembered fourteen-year-old midshipmen who'd witnessed death and suffered agonizing deaths of their own under his command. Seventeen was mature enough to handle the emotional stresses of a missing dog.