Page 19 of A Devious Secret

“That won’t be necessary. I could find Hyde Park in my sleep.”

As Gemma departed the townhouse, she saw the sun was sitting low in the sky and it was casting orange light and long shadows down the street. She tended to prefer mornings because it reminded her that every dark night eventually ends.

A footman assisted her onto her white gelding and she took a moment to adjust her skirt. Once she was situated, she turned her horse towards Hyde Park and proceeded down the cobblestone street. It wasn’t long before she arrived at the east entrance, and she led her horse off the well-worn path. There were many places to explore in Hyde Park and she didn’t care a whit about being seen.

She kicked her horse into a run and enjoyed the feeling of the wind on her face. How she missed this. Henry had always chided her on riding too fast. He was worried that she would break her neck and he even went so far as to cut down all of the hedges near the Dowager House to prevent her from jumping them.

The farther she headed into Hyde Park, the more free she felt. In this precise moment, she did not have to dwell onanything other than remaining in the saddle. All of the raw pain that she felt from Baldwin’s death slipped away and she found that she was enjoying herself.

Up ahead, she saw the Serpentine River and she slowed her horse’s gait. A man was standing on the edge of the river, looking out, and his back was facing her. He was dressed in a blue jacket, buff trousers and a black top hat sat atop his head. A dog was running around him in a playful manner, and she couldn’t help but smile at the scene in front of her.

She had no desire to disturb the man so she began to turn her horse around. Unfortunately, her horse whinnied at that precise moment, drawing attention towards her.

The man turned around and she recognized him at once. Mr. Wycomb. As much as she wanted to kick her horse into a run, she knew it would be unfathomably rude to just ignore him. Furthermore, he was Marielle’s brother, someone who had shown her nothing but kindness. It would be best if she remained and at least spoke to the man.

Mr. Wycomb bowed at his waist and tipped his top hat. “Lady Hawkinge,” he greeted.

She tipped her head. “Mr. Wycomb.”

A brown puppy ran up to Mr. Wycomb and tried to bite the stick that was in his hand. In a swift motion, Mr. Wycomb reared his hand back and tossed the stick farther down the bank. The puppy happily chased after it.

Gemma and Mr. Wycomb stared awkwardly at one another. She wasn’t quite sure what to say so she settled on, “I see that you have a dog.” What a dumb thing to say. Of course, he had a dog. It was obvious to everyone that had eyes. What he must think of her?

Mr. Wycomb nodded. “I acquired the dog a few weeks ago and I have become quite fond of Bandit.”

“Bandit?” Gemma repeated back. “What did the dog do to earn such a name?”

“I named my dog after my cabin boy’s dog,” Mr. Wycomb explained. “He snuck a dog onto our ship and proceeded to hide it from the officers.”

“How did you discover the dog?”

Mr. Wycomb looked amused. “A ship is not large enough to keep a dog hidden for long, but we pretended for the boy’s sake. At least until it became too obvious to avoid any longer.”

“You must have held your cabin boy in high regard then.”

A pained look came to Mr. Wycomb’s eyes. “I did,” he replied. “His name was Johnny and he was like a son to me.”

Gemma adjusted the reins in her hands as she asked, “May I ask what happened to him?”

“He died, as did his dog,” Mr. Wycomb replied, his voice curt. It was evident that there was a story behind his words, but she didn’t dare prod.

“Oh,” Gemma murmured. “My condolences for your loss.”

Mr. Wycomb shifted his gaze back towards the river and Gemma knew she should go. But something propelled her to stay and dismount her horse.

As she held the reins in her hand, she asked, “Will you tell me about him?” Why had she just asked that? Hadn’t she just decided that she wouldn’t prod?

Mr. Wycomb turned back to face her. His expression was unreadable. “What do you wish to know?” His words were cordial enough but there was an underlying terseness to them.

“How long was Johnny your cabin boy?”

“Two years,” he said. “He was twelve years old when he died.”

“Isn’t that a little young for a cabin boy?”

“It was, but there were some extenuating circumstances.” Mr. Wycomb crouched down and removed the stick fromBandit’s mouth before he tossed it again. “Johnny was the son of one of my seamen.”

Gemma watched as the puppy rushed over to the stick and picked it up. Then he shook it and returned it to Mr. Wycomb.