Indulgence 2: One Glimpse by Lydia Gastrell Read Free Book Online Page B

its tail. The dog had managed to hide himself behind some rubbish bins outside a tavern where Sam currently knelt, no doubt ruining his trousers. Boys could he cruel, a fact Sam knew firsthand.
    He smiled without showing his teeth and leaned down farther. It would be best to put his face at level with the skinny hound, but he wasn’t willing to go that far with the gaggle of snickering people behind him. The mutton seller from whom he had purchased his bait was among them.
    “Never be understandin’ the Quality,” the seller declared, “gettin’ down in the muck for a scraggly hound.” A few of the other men laughed and added their agreement. Surely it wasn’t manly for a gentleman to be cooing soft words in public like that, and to some dirty animal.
    One of the tavern wenches thought differently. “Shut yer gob, Tom! You be more like to put a little beast in the muck than to help ‘em. That’s why Father Mick says ye ain’t gettin’ into heaven.”
    “He don’t even,” the mutton seller objected.
    “Oh, that ain’t why Father Mick says that,” some other man added, sending the crowd into further laughter.
    Sam was hardly aware of any of it, being too focused on his goal. Still, some of the words made it to his ears. Unmanly, strange, soft. Sam cringed as his thoughts went to last night and the other unmanly thing he had been caught doing. The mournful sounds of that beautiful sonata had reached into his heart enough to make him forget himself, and look what had happened. Darnish of all people. What must he think of Sam now? Probably what many before him had thought. Sam remembered the words of his father and uncles and the various teachers at school when he would hide birds with broken wings or kittens whose mothers had vanished. To hell with them. He had his title, and he was no longer in school. He would do whatever he bloody well pleased.
    “That’s it. Come along,” he whispered, laying his hand on the ground with the chunk of meat resting on his open palm. “You must be hungry, little fellow.”
    The dog whimpered once more, a last plea to not be harmed, then took the meat. Sam opened his other hand and presented more mutton before the dog could decide to flee. Seeing the increase in the bounty, the dog moved to the second meal. After taking it, he sniffed at the bandage still wrapped around Sam’s hand. It had only been two days since the wedding breakfast, and the wound still throbbed.
    “There you go. That’s better, huh? I’m glad you like it. Smells like rot to me.”
    “Oi!” the mutton seller cried.
    “Aye, the gent’s got it,” someone shouted. “Rot and swill.”
    The crowd, deciding that their entertainment was over now that Sam had the dog in his control, broke up to go back to their occupations. Sam stroked a gentle hand over the dog’s greasy, smelly fur. Poor, filthy beast. He appeared to be a mongrel hound of some kind, his long ears telling at least that much. The wretch had obviously lived with people at some point, perhaps even been a cherished pet, for it nuzzled into Sam’s hand as if the affection fed him far more than the mutton. He whimpered again and stepped closer, pressing his muzzle against Sam’s thigh.
    Sam smiled stupidly and scooped his arms under the pathetic thing. He was not even a block from home, and it was that time of day when there were few people out. He could even go around to the next block and go in through the kitchen door. That would certainly give his poor cook something to complain about. He cradled the surprisingly compliant dog against his chest, ruining his coat in the process, and turned.
    His heart stuttered.
    Standing on the other side of the street, one fine booted leg on the step of his carriage, was John Darnish. He appeared to be just leaving the solicitor’s office across the way. He stared at Sam and the dog in his arms. Making eye contact, Darnish tipped his hat in greeting and smiled.
    Smiled.
    He’s laughing at me, Sam