Plenty of people milled about on the road that led more or less straight for the Heath, heading home for an evening meal or hurrying on last errands before nightfall.
Clara joined them, becoming one with the throng. She turned back for a last wave to Mr. Forsythe, but he’d gone.
*
Alden woke inthe night to wind howling under the eaves and ratting the windows of his brick house. The brief hours of finer weather had vanished.
His friends were finally quiet downstairs, likely having drunk themselves into stupors and fallen asleep on various chairs, perhaps even the floor. Milford would have much to say about that.
The only person who’d ever been worth anything in Alden’s circle was Piers Forsythe, and even he’d sometimes made Alden’s life hell.
Alden hadn’t been able to find the dog. Colliver and Featherstone, who’d joined in, had been useless. They’d probably frightened him away for good, a fact Alden would have to explain to Clara.
Clara.Why the devil hadn’t he noticed her living three houses away, strolling on the Heath with her sisters, nodding politely whenever she passed?
Of course he’d noticed her, he told himself, even if he hadn’t acknowledged it. Took in her soft face, her blue eyes, her smile that was a little bit lopsided.
Fashion these days hid women under full skirts and many fabrics, and Clara’s gowns were buttoned to her chin. Only a bitof lace at her throat suggested the sweetness inside. When she’d run into him at Highgate, he’d felt enticing curves and pliant limbs under her heavy frock and coat.
Her spirited arguments had roused something in Alden he’d thought long buried. His interest in life had been rekindled, if only for the space of the afternoon.
Alden imagined Clara’s expression when he confessed to her that he’d not located the dog, didn’t know whether it was alive or had been crushed beneath carriage wheels on a nearby busy road.
She’d glare at him as though he were the worst person on earth, then retreat to her family’s modest house behind their garden wall and never speak to him again. When they encountered each other on the Heath’s pathways, she’d turn aside in coldness, no more nodding, no more smiles.
The wind howled again, its mournful note as keening as the dog’s.
“Damnation.”
Alden threw back the covers. The room was freezing, the October cold barely cut by the smoldering fire Milford had banked when Alden went to bed.
Alden’s language became more unfortunate as he groped for clothes and dragged them on. He didn’t want to wake Milford, who deserved a few hours of sleep after putting up with Alden and his toadies all day.
Stockings. Where the devil had Milford hidden his stockings?
Alden found them by tripping on the carpet and putting his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself. Clean stockings hung there, airing, and his hand slipped on them.
He kept himself from tumbling to the floor by grabbing a nearby table and snarling as he shoved his body upright. One would think he’d drunk as much as his colleagues, but he’d hadonly one glass of wine while they’d finished off two decanters of brandy.
After too long a struggle, Alden had himself dressed and then tugged on his recalcitrant boots.
This had to stop. He’d gone soft in the last year, allowing Milford to wait on him hand and foot while Alden convinced himself he was not giving the man too much trouble. Alden ate little and drank only wine and brandy—how difficult was he to care for?
But, Alden realized as he skimmed quietly down the stairs and made for the garden door, he’d wallowed in self-pity while Milford maintained the house, instructed the other servants in their duties, made decisions on all the meals, and ensured that Alden’s horse or other transport was ready whenever he wanted to venture down the hill into Town. Milford kept Alden’s clothes in good repair or ordered new suits that the tailor delivered without Alden having to bother with a fitting.
In short, Milford had been living Alden’s life for him. Most gentlemen’s valets did quite a lot of work for them, it was true, but in the past, Alden had at least decided what he’d wear, eat, and do. Now he lounged about indolently with inane friends to distract him, or tramped around the Heath when he couldn’t stand being indoors any longer.
His father, the Marquess of Ravensmoor, had gently hinted that Alden should find something to turn his hand to, probably afraid his son was turning into a wastrel.
He was likely right.
Alden pushed these morose thoughts aside as he stepped into the garden and pulled his coat closer around him. He’d chosen a woolen hat to keep his head warm and dry, instead of the ridiculous toppers that grew higher every year.
Rain lashed at him as he slipped through the garden’s gate and out to the narrow road that would take him to Highgate.He’d begin in the cemetery’s grounds, which was possibly where the dog was trying to eke out an existence.
The darkness was complete, but Alden had been roaming this area for most of his life and knew his way about. His family’s summer home, before Alden’s father had come into his title, where he’d been happy as a boy, had become his retreat.
The cemetery’s gates would be locked, Alden reasoned before he reached them. The caretakers wouldn’t want looters to tramp in during the night and relieve any tombs of trinkets the occupants might have been buried with. Some quite wealthy people had chosen to make their final rests here.
