Private Arrangements by Sherry Thomas Page B

him, had he been ogled that much. “I noticed.”
    “Oh, dear.”
    She buried her face against the puppy's neck. She was blushing and, God help him, he had an erection the size of Bedfordshire.
    “Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled by Croesus's coat. “It's the best present anyone has ever given me.”
    He was touched and humbled. “It makes me happy to see you happy.”
    “Until tomorrow, then.” She leaned in and kissed him, a sweet, lingering kiss. “I can't wait.”
    “It will be the longest twenty-four hours of my life,” he said, kissing her one last time on the tip of her nose. “An eternity.”
    The next twenty-four hours turned out to be exactly that: an eternity, a hellish eternity.
     
    Chapter Nine

    14 May 1893
    T he music did not register at first. Gigi was not accustomed to hearing music in her own house when she hadn't paid for it. She dropped the report in her hand and listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of a piano being assaulted.
    In his basket next to the bed, Croesus whimpered, snorted, and opened his eyes. Poor thing wasn't able to sleep well at night, perhaps because of all the naps he now took during the day. He shook his neck, rose on his short legs, and began his laborious ascent up the steps made especially for him after he could no longer bound up on her bed with only the aid of the bed stool.
    She flung aside the counterpane and scooped him up. “It's that stupid husband of mine,” she said to the old pup. “Instead of banging me, he's banging the damned piano. Let's go and tell him to shut up.”
    Her husband started something dramatic and harsh as she descended the staircase— bong bong bong bong, bing bing bing bing— a piece composed by the overly somber Herr Beethoven, no doubt. With a sigh, Gigi threw open the door of the music room.
    He had changed into a silk dressing gown, as sleek and dark as the piano itself. His hair was rumpled, but otherwise he looked serious, intent, a man with a purpose. An excellent man, the consensus had always been: a most dutiful son, a caring brother, a faithful friend—all that and social graces too.
    And a streak of subterranean viciousness that had to be experienced to be believed.
    “I beg your pardon,” she said. “But some of us need to sleep so that we can get up early in the morning.”
    He stopped playing and looked at her oddly. It took another moment to register that he wasn't looking at her but at Croesus.
    “Is that Croesus?” He frowned.
    “It is.”
    He left the piano bench and came next to her, studying Croesus, his frown deepening. “What's the matter with him?”
    She glanced down. Croesus seemed no different from how he usually was. “Nothing,” she said, her voice sharp with defensiveness. She liked to think that she provided Croesus a happy, comfortable life. “He's as well as an old dog can be.”
    Croesus was ten and a half years of age, his once lustrous coat now dull and gray. His eyes were rheumy. He drooped, wheezed, tired easily, and ate poorly. But when he did have an appetite, he dined on foie gras sprinkled with sautéed mushrooms. And in ill health he was attended by London's best veterinarian.
    Camden reached out toward Croesus. “Come here, old bloke.”
    Croesus regarded him with drowsy eyes. He didn't move. But neither did he protest when Camden simply took him.
    “Do you remember me?” he said.
    “I highly doubt it.”
    Camden ignored her snippy answer. “I've two pups in New York.” He spoke to Croesus. “Hannah and Bernard, a rambunctious pair. They would be pleased to meet you someday.”
    She didn't understand why information so mundane and unremarkable as his having dogs should cause her a moment of scorching pain.
    “I see you don't remember me.” He gave the fur behind Croesus's ear a wistful scratch. “I have missed you.”
    “I'd like to have him back,” Gigi said coldly.
    He complied, but not before holding Croesus close and kissing one of the old dog's ears.