was Tom’s only parting gift from his time with the woman he loved. Still loved. That was the way of the heart. It did not cease feeling merely because the love consuming it was unrequited. Of course it didn’t. That would be far too easy. Otherwise, the poets would have nothing to write about, would they?
Himself included, for he had a journal in his chamber laden with the mawkish frustrations of a man who would never find his own happiness.
Tom drank again. This time, he coughed up nary a drop. At least something was finally going in his favor. The promise of being sotted was more alluring than slumber. A raucous cackle from next door—presumably through an open window—underscored his grim musings.
That was when he heard the panting. Good God, what a time for an overzealous couple from the party next door to spill into the gardens for a frantic fuck. Should he listen? Give them their privacy and return to the dark confines of the townhome he had imagined Nell presiding over as his wife on so many occasions?
The last thought rather made his decision for him. Confronting the ghosts of his recent, hideous routing was far safer from the garden bench, a convenient bottle of spirits in hand.
A sudden rustling seemed to be coming from the massive rosebushes in the neighboring garden. Who the devil wanted to toss up a lady’s skirts in the midst of thorns? It seemed improbable. Untenable at best. Tom’s eyes had adjusted to the moonlight by now, and he could make out the glossy leaves and fat pink blossoms shaking. There was a bit of sniffing, unless he was mistaken, and a pathetic cry that sounded quite inhuman.
Indeed, it sounded as if it had been made by a creature of some sort.
A…canine?
That would certainly explain the panting. In truth, Tom was relieved no gentleman had been the source of the noise. How utterly mortifying. He took another lengthy draught of his whisky and waited for oblivion.
All that reached him was more pathetic whining.
He was certain the creature in question was a dog now, and he was also equally sure the poor fellow was in distress. The rosebushes—once Lady Allesford’s crowning horticultural achievement—shook some more.
A slight yip sounded, then a cry.
Tom sighed.
The poor devil was likely caught up in the roses. He flicked a glance toward the former Allesford townhome. Music, laughter, chattering, and clinking. No aid appeared to be forthcoming for the pup.
Another sad little cry broke open the night.
“Devil take it,” Tom growled.
How was he supposed to harden his heart to the plight of a pathetic-sounding dog who was likely ensnared in a thicket of roses? All the more reason to detest the dog’s cruel mistress, who was no doubt dallying, dancing, and drinking to her heart’s content within, not sparing a thought for her poor mutt.
Fortunately for the creature, Tom also knew the location of the hidden gate adjoining his small garden to the former Allesford garden. Just behind a row of hedges, the lock broken on both sides. Lord knew the coquette next door would not have bothered to notice or repair the thing.
One more sigh, and Tom abandoned his bottle, leaving his whisky to stand as a silent sentinel on the garden bench while he went off to rescue the poor wretch. He hoped some of the whisky would soon begin doing its job. But perhaps the lancing of hundreds of thorns in his flesh would distract him from the hollowness in his heart.
Tom made his way down the gravel walk to the hedges, slipped between the prickly holly and the stone wall, and was promptly poked in the eye by a branch.
Yes, that was about the way of it for him.
Biting back another curse, he felt his way to the bloody gate.
Hyacinth was on her second bottle of champagne. At least, she thought she was, when she realized her beloved puppy was no longer at her side.
“Has anyone seen Adelaide?” she asked the ballroom at large.
No one seemed to notice she had spoken.
Lady Esterly was kissing a…footman? Lord Villiers had dipped his head to Lady Covington’s throat. Someone—she could not make out the gentleman’s face—was playing a violin, and quite beautifully, too. Had she hired musicians again this evening?
Dear me, I do not recall.
Her vision was beginning to get fuzzy about the edges. She probably required spectacles even when she had not indulged herself to the point of Bacchanalian bliss. Now that she was thoroughly in her cups,