His old companions were marrying, having families, and being respected. Many drank his wine while making snide comments behind his back. They saw him as that wild, fatherless youth who had come into his title way too young.
But he was changing. He felt it deep inside. He just didn’t know what he was changing into. Or whathewanted.
His thoughts fell on Lady Celeste. Her zeal for her cause had shone in her eyes. She had risked her reputation to approach him... because she had been right. There weren’t many ways a single woman could publicly seek him out.
Of course, if he did support this charity of hers, he could become the laughingstock of London. A charity for wounded soldiers and their pets. Pets? It was silly. The sort of thing a woman would dream up.
Still, he envied her passion?—
A dog’s snarl was his first warning. He heard the sound and stopped. He was unarmed and had a healthy respect for angry dogs.
Oliver looked around. He was not far from Covent Garden but on the poorer side of this section of the city. The hour was late. No lights shone from windows. All was quiet save the dog’s low growl.
Then, to Oliver’s alarm, one of the shadows seemed to rise and take the shape of a man. He had apparently been asleep, huddled against a building’s brick facade. The dog began barking.
“Here now, Pistol. Quiet now.” The raspy-voiced man leaned against the wall. “Sorry, sir. He’s a protective one.”
A coach turned a corner and passed by. Light from the vehicle’s lanterns fell upon them. The man was a beggar who had apparently made his bed for the night on the street. The pup, a dirty, white, matted terrier, had been standing guard.
Oliver’s attention landed on the man’s crutch. He was missing a leg.
“How did you lose your limb?” Oliver demanded.
“King’s Service, if it matters to you.”
This was one of the men Lady Celeste wished to help.
Pistol growled as if warning Oliver to ask no more questions. “Don’t mind him, sir. Pistol looks out for me. Or so he thinks.”The man had a Northern accent. He was of slight build but wiry and tough.
Oliver’s boot pushed a plate on the ground. There were a few coins on it. He reached into his waistcoat pocket where he kept money for vails. He dropped coins on the plate.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
“Are you always here?”
“Most times, unless we get run off.”
“Don’t you have any lodgings?”
“Lodgings?” The man laughed. “Aye, lodgings. Because I like living on the street, eh?”
“But you are a Northerner. Why are you in London?”
There was long pause. Then, the man said, “I’d be a burden to them up there. I was a woodsman. Can’t travel the forest on one leg. Can’t swing an axe when I need at least one arm to hold me crutch.”
“Don’t you receive a pension?”
The man spit his opinion of the king’s pension. “Barely enough to matter. I see that it goes to me daughter and her family. My wife left me a long time ago. Didn’t want to wait for a soldier. Doubt if she would want a cripple for a husband. Has a new man now.”
Oliver was humbled by how completely this man had been shut out of his old life. In that moment, he even understood the importance of a loyal little dog, one who didn’t appear to be any better fed than his master. “What is your name?”
“William Dryer, sir.”
“If I told you to come with me, William Dryer, would you leave your dog behind?”
“Absolutely not. He is faithful to me, and I to him.”
“Then bring your dog. Let’s go.”
