Page 38 of A Cinderella to Redeem the Earl

‘Good boy,’ Pamela said.

The dog gave a half-hearted tail-wag, but its gaze was firmly fixed on Damian.

Damian shouldered his gun.

The dog looked puzzled.

‘We only need one,’ Damian said to it. ‘You will get your share. Now we have to find a chestnut tree, I believe.

Damian was enjoying himself, he realised to his great surprise as they wound their way back through the woods. He had forgotten that he had hunted in these woods with his father. The longer he had lived in France, bearing the responsibility for feeding his family, by fair means or foul, his life before Marseilles had begun to seem like a dream or one of those interminable stories his father used to tell about the good old days.

Providing for your household by hunting was somehow a great deal more satisfying than he expected. Far more satisfying than some of his nefarious activities.

He pushed the thought aside. That part of his life was behind him. Stealing scraps of food and robbing the poor box was something he would never have to do again.

He was sorry that his mother and father had not lived long enough to see how successful he had become, how he was restoring the family fortunes. And, in the process, exacting a fitting revenge.

The dog had wandered off for a few minutes, but returned as if to check on their welfare. Heaven help him, the last thing he needed was to be adopted by a dog.

‘What will you do if you can’t find its owner?’ she asked.

Like some sort of mind reader.

‘Find someone who will take him, I suppose.’

‘He seems like such a good dog. Why would anyone abandon him?’

In other words, why would he not want to keep him? If she thought she could pull on his heart strings, she was in for a disappointment. He did not have a heart.

‘Do you recall exactly where this chestnut tree is located?’ he asked.

‘Somewhere up ahead, I think.’

How did she even know one tree from another? He preferred the bustle of city streets. Trees he could do without. ‘What sort of trees are these?’

‘Beech.’

‘How do you know?’

The look she gave him was one of astonishment, mingled with pity. ‘By the shape of the leaves, the ridges on the trunk. All sorts of things.’ She chuckled. ‘And by all these little nuts underfoot.’

Oh. That’s what those were. ‘Are they edible?’

‘Somewhat. Not really a delicacy.’

‘The only thing I can recognise with any certainty is an oak tree.’

‘That is something, I suppose, since you are an English nobleman and there are oak leaves decorating your coat of arms.’

He laughed at her wry tone.

He looked around, to see if he could spot anything that might be a chestnut tree.

‘There it is,’ she said.

He glanced back and she was pointing off to his right.

And then he saw it. A tree of larger girth than the others around it and with golden leaves still clinging to its branches along with clusters of green fruit.