“Of course. Gingersnap walks with me on his lead all the time.” A pinch between Miss Martin’s brows signaled a crack in her cheerful demeanor. “Bringing him during such a busy time was a miscalculation on my part, I’m afraid. He’s been stuck in the basket for his own safety ever since we entered the park.” Like storm clouds blowing by, her smile returned, and that pinch disappeared. “The rats and mice of Hyde Park are safe for today, I suppose.”
“Poor Gingersnap, no little mousey-wousey snacks for you,” Althea sang in a high-pitched voice he’d never heard her use before and would pay money to never hear from her again.
For his part, Gingersnap lounged with front paws curled over a round belly, and back legs splayed open to show male parts the size of large marbles. Only the swish of a fluffy orange tail hinted at annoyance with the situation. That, and the dead-eyed stare he fastened on Oliver.
Truly unsettling. Oliver caught himself curling his lip before he forced a bland countenance on his face. “Does he always stare like that?”
“Like what?” Miss Martin craned onto her toes to see the cat.
“Like a fish, unable to blink. Does it blink? Is there something wrong with it?”
Althea gasped, clutching the giant cat closer to her chest, thereby shoving those oversized hairy marbles closer to Oliver’s face. “Gingersnap is a handsome boy, not an ‘it.’” She cooed in that same tone, “And there’s not a thing wrong with you, is there? No there’s not. Gingersnap is perfect in every way.”
“Are you feeling all right, Lord Southwyn?” Miss Martin asked. “Do you need to sneeze, or itch at your eyes?”
Oliver shook his head, batting the cat’s tail out of his face.To his horror, his gaze landed once more on those fluffy testicles, and he had to look away. “I am perfectly fine, aside from a general feeling of annoyance and confusion. Perhaps in the future, you might consider a more logical hour during which to walk your pet.”
The women exchanged a look he’d swear held disappointment. Probably commiserating over what Althea called his “rigid disposition.”
To his relief, the carriage in front of them moved. “Off we go, then. Retrieve your cat and watch your toes, Miss Martin. We mustn’t tarry.”
The damned woman grinned too widely for his comfort. “He’s enjoying the view, I think. Why don’t you take him home with you, Althea, and I’ll call later this afternoon. His ribbon complements that bonnet to perfection.”
“Do you really think that’s a good—”
“Excellent! We will wave our paws at all our friends in the park, won’t we, pretty boy?” Althea tightened her grip on the cat, who’d settled in her arms, fully resigned to his fate. Reverting to her normal tone, Althea said, “The carriages are moving, Oliver. You’re making the Warrens wait behind us, and you know how Lord Warren yells if inconvenienced.”
Last week Lord Warren made a spectacle of himself on Bond Street when he’d ranted to the footman parked across the street over a delay in bringing his carriage around. The man could have crossed the road and climbed into his phaeton. But no. He’d opted to stand on the corner and berate a servant over a situation entirely out of their control—namely, the congestions of shoppers and traffic—until onlookers had cleared a path out of sheer pity for the footman.
That kind of man would enjoy railing at Miss Martin.
“You’re correct. If the cat is staying with us, please maintain a hold on his lead. Miss Martin, again, I must ask you tostep away from the wheels of the carriage.” Tightening his grip on the reins, Oliver surveyed the area around the horses to ensure there were no other obstacles in their path.
“I’ll take the basket with me. Be a good boy, Gingersnap! Mummy will see you soon.” And with that, Miss Martin melted into the crowd and became no more than wild curls atop a red bobbing dot in the throng. The woman was a menace. Disarmingly beautiful, but a menace nonetheless.
Oliver peered at Althea as the horses moved forward. “I didn’t know you liked cats.”
“I love them. Far more than dogs, although I tolerate them well enough too. Father never let me have a cat, so we shall own several.” She stared adoringly down at the orange lump of fur in her lap, who had rolled to a sitting position. Back legs sticking straight out, front legs supporting his impressive size into an upright stance as he surveyed the world around him, Gingersnap appeared perfectly content now that they were moving.
“How many cats are you imagining in this scenario?”
“As many as I like.” She sent him a wild grin, full of challenge.
Oliver swallowed roughly. An uncomfortable image formed in his mind of his home entirely overrun with felines. The current tidy order of his life devolving into rooms of shredded priceless tapestries. Cat hair floating in his morning tea. Malodorous stains on furniture and bedding.
Wait. Where did cats relieve themselves? Would the back garden be sufficient?
He had so many questions.
“This would have been so much easier if cats made him sneeze,” Constance grumbled, tiptoeing through wet piles ofrefuse in the alley behind a tavern. This particular alley also served as access to the back doors of a butcher shop and a number of other businesses. Chances were good she’d find the perfect candidate for their plan. Knowing that didn’t make the search any less disgusting. Her lip curled in revulsion when something squished under her walking boot.
“No,” she sneered. “His greatness, the Earl of Southwyn, couldn’t muster so much as a sniffle. A sneeze is probably entirely out of the question. Losing control long enough to sneeze would be unthinkably improper.”
She’d lost a beau once—although calling it a loss might be overstating the matter—because he’d spent the entire evening wiping red eyes as a result of the hairpiece she’d made to give her coiffeur more volume. The hairpiece in question had been a rather ingenious idea she’d had, after noticing how closely her hair matched Gingersnap’s. It had only taken a month of brushing the cat and collecting fur to create her hair pad.
She and her cousins had laughed until tears ran down their faces when she told them about the incident. Then Caro declared in no uncertain terms that a hair pad made of cat fur was disgusting and made her promise to throw it away.
Since Constance hadn’t promised not to make another, she’d created a larger pad a few months later. The first had been too small anyway.
