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polite, twenty-minute calls with his mother. He never asked for more than
one dance at any of the balls, and he never held her hand longer than
necessary. He no longer ordered her about, threatened her, or shouted at
her. He did not curse or call her names, and he never, ever made her
indecent proposals.
Sydney did not really expect Forrest to continue his atrocious behavior,
not with all the maids and chaperones the duchess stacked like a fence
around her and Winnie's virtue. And she did not really expect him to
repeat his outrageous offer, not with his mother in town.
Well, yes, she did. He was a rake, and no rake would let a few old
aunties or abigails get in his way. He'd never been bothered about
speaking his mind in front of Willy or Wally. And no rake in any of the
Minerva Press romances ever even had a mother, much less pussyfooted
around her feelings. The duchess said he was dull and always had been.
Sydney knew better. He just didn't care anymore.
So Sydney wouldn't care either, so there. It did not matter anyway, she
told herself; her dog loved her. Princess Pennyfleur was a delight. Sydney
called her Puff for short, since all of the Duchess's Princess dogs answered
to Penny, and Puff was so special she deserved a name of her own. The
little dog was always happy, wearing that silly Pekingese grin that made
Sydney smile. She was always ready to romp and play or go for a walk, or
just sit quietly next to Sydney while she read. Puff wasn't like any
unreliable male, blowing hot, then cold.
Even the general enjoyed the little dog. He held her in his lap, stroking
her silky head for hours when Sydney was out in the evenings. Griffith
thought the general's hand was growing stronger from all the exercise.
Puff was wise enough to jump down if the general grew agitated, before he
started pounding on anything.
They made quite a stir in the park, too, just as the duchess predicted.
Traffic at the fashionable hour came to a halt when Sydney walked by with
her coppery curls and her matching dog curled like a muff in her arms or
trotting at her heels. It was a picture for Lawrence or Reynolds, or Bella
Bumpers.
"We gotta nab her in the park. It's the only place she ain't
cheek-to-jowls with an army of flunkies. She don't have time for me no
more, and they've got a carriage of their own now, not that she would get
back into the carriage after that time with you at the reins, Fido."
Randy had a new set of teeth. Actually, he had half of a new set, the
bottoms. These ivories, from a blacksmith who had been kicked in the
mouth once too often, were again too big for Randy, so his lower jaw
jutted out over the upper, giving him the appearance of a bulldog. He
blamed the viscount for that, too, setting Bow Street on their tail. Now
neither of the brothers dared show his own face outdoors long enough for
Randy to visit a real denture-maker. He never admitted to Bella that the
footmen smashed the first set, not the viscount, so the grudge was a
heavier weight on her back, too.
They were holding their latest planning session in the basement at their
house in Chelsea, the only place Chester felt secure.
"I'm not going to do it, Mama," he whimpered now. "It's not safe. We've
got to get out of London. To hell with the money, I say."
"You'd say you were mad King George if you thought it would save your
skin, pigeon-heart. 'Sides, we're all packed. We just have to snag the gel
and catch the packet at Dover. We'll have it all. First he'll pay, then we give
out her suicide note saying he ruined her. He'll be finished. It's perfect."
Chester lost what color he had. "We're not going to kill the girl, Mama.
You promised."
"Nah, Chester, we're going to let the wench swim back to England and
fit us for hemp neckties." Randy was practicing his knife-throwing. One
landed a shiver's distance from Chester's foot.
"I'm not going, then. I'm not having anything to do with murder. Mayne
would find us at the ends of the earth. Besides, she's seen me too many
times. The footman, then that fellow Chesterton. She'll recognize me for
sure. It won't work. I won't yeow!"
Chester was going, only now he'd limp.
Leaves crunching under her feet, not even Sydney could be in the
doldrums on such a pretty fall day. She had on a forest-green pelisse with
the hood up, with Puff on a green ribbon leash scampering at her side.
Brennan and Winnie walked just ahead, since there was room for only two
abreast on this less frequented path they chose. Sydney slowed her steps to
give them some quiet time alone. They must be feeling the lack of privacy
even more than she was.
Wally and Annemarie followed after, but they were discussing their own
futures. If the Minch brothers stayed with Sydney and the general, how
could Annemarie go off to Hampshire with Winifred? But it was a better
position, and Wally might never be able to afford that inn, or a wife. No
one would arm-wrestle with him anymore, and he'd promised his mother,
Sydney, and Annemarie not to enter another prize-fight. So involved were
they in their conversation, and the pretty maid's anguish which needed to
be assuaged behind a concealing tree, that they did not notice Sydney was
no longer with her sister and Lord Mainwaring. She could have been
beaten, drugged, and stuffed in a sack before they noticed she was gone,
which was Bella's intention, except for the sack.
"Help, miss, oh, help!" the bent old woman cried as she used her cane to
clear a way through some bushes to the path where Sydney walked. "We've
been set on by footpads! My little girl is hurt! Oh, help!" She grabbed on to
Sydney's arm with a surprisingly strong grip for one so ancient and frail,
and tried to drag her back off the path with her. "My Chessie, my baby.
Oh, please come help, kind lady."
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