His profound instinct for self-preservation had gotten him through a war. He was satisfied it would get him through Lady Lillias Vaughn, too.
Happily fed, the guests convened in the drawing room and claimed chairs and settees. St. John leaned against the mantel. A lively discussion was immediately underway about whether a game of Faro—so daring!—or spillikins ought to be got upor whether they ought to launch into reading about Odysseus or some other story. Delacorte suddenly said, “I’ve an idea—Cassidy should tell the story of his hound and the bear.”
“Oh, are these more friends of yours, Mr. Cassidy?” the countess wanted to know. “I’m jesting,” she added at once.
She was catching on.
He smiled at her.
“Oh, go on, do it, Cassidy,” Delacorte insisted. “We need a little violence and heroism now and then to offset all the embroidery and knitting and whatnot.”
The women scoffed good-naturedly at him, but this was undoubtedly true. And Hugh knew it. Toomuchcivilization wasn’t good for a man.
“Very well.” Hugh leaned back in his chair. “I’ll do my masculine duty. Gather round, ladies and gentlemen.”
Chairs, and bright, expectant expressions, were turned toward Hugh.
He gave a dramatic throat clear. “I once had a fine bloodhound named Tuesday, for the day of the week she was born. My Uncle Liam gave her to me for my sixteenth birthday—he traded furs to get her for me, because a hound was what I wanted more than anything else in the world. That dog was the best gift and the best friend I ever had. She was smarter than most humans and more loyal to boot, and was sheevera character, just like my Uncle Liam.”
“Dogs make me sneeze,” Lady Claire said sadly.
“That is a tragedy, indeed,” Hugh said somberly. “Well, Tuesday and I were out walking throughthe woods on a beautiful day, tracking deer. And for dogs, you know, smells are a whole other world and language. Through smell, they learn and understand and communicate things that we just can’t. Walking in the woods for them is like walking into a whole library of books. I loved watching her just . . . savor the world . . . when were out together.”
He realized that he’d inadvertently said this almost directly to Lillias. He’d sought her out, as if she was the light he was reading by.
Who was listening, as raptly as she’d gazed across London last night.
“I lost sight of Tuesday briefly that day, but usually she always ran back to me every minute or so. Then... then I heard her barking. A different bark. She sounded... terrified and furious. And, well, I went running.” He paused. His voice went somber. “And that bear was going for her.”
He didn’t actually like to recount the story, but then again he did: it was an instant where everything could have gone terribly wrong. And yet it was proof that he could navigate chaos and violence and emerge triumphant.
The room was very quiet.
“I screamed and roared at that bear like I was the devil himself. But I couldn’t get off a shot because it was happening so fast, and they were tussling. There was an equal chance I’d shoot Tuesday. So I just went in there and with every ounce of strength I had, I kicked that bear. It was like kicking a wall.”
He paused.
“And then the bear came for me.”
Not a person in the room was breathing.
“Before I knew it I was on my back and I could see her jaws and feel her breath and see the shine on her teeth and the rage in her eyes. She was going in for the kill.”
Dot made a whimpering sound and bit her knuckles.
“I don’t know where I got the strength. Or the knowledge. I wasn’t going to die that day and neither was Tuesday. I remember hurling my fist like a madman into that bear’s eyes and twisting so that I could fling her off and somehow... I did. I saw sky again and in two seconds I was able to stand and grab my gun.”
He paused again. Mr. Cassidy did indeed have a flair for storytelling.
“I hope that bear is a rug on your floor now, Mr. Cassidy,” the earl said. Sounding subdued, almost tentative. And very impressed.
“Well, the thing is... bears don’t attack unless they’re threatened. She had cubs and she was protecting her own. Baby bears. You all can understand that, yes? I wasn’t after bear meat that day and there was no reason for her cubs to die.
“I was able to fire a shot in the air to get that bear off running. And that gave me enough time to get out of there with Tuesday in my arms. We were both bleeding and battered. I didn’t feel a thing until we were back at the house. We took a few weeks to recuperate. Tuesday had some gashes. And I sport a couple of scars from that encounter. I think her tooth might have grazed me. I don’t remember. But this is a memento.”
He pointed to the crescent-shaped scar below his lip.
Everyone gave him the tribute of a moment of dumbstruck, starry-eyed, reflective silence.