“Bunny’s not in the least hopeless, except as a hunting dog. And no, the others aren’t necessarily here because they failed to meet someone’s standards. There’s Pug, for instance, whose mistress died. Her heirs sold the house and were ready to toss out poor Pug, who’d been fed kidneys and cakes his whole life, to fend for himself.”
Corin hated pugs, with their protuberant eyes like nearsighted dowagers. Still, ladies seemed fond of them, so he’d have no trouble reducing the canine population at the cottage by at least one. He could send Pug to his mother in Bath. Which left ... “Precisely how many dogs are there, anyway, ma’am?”
Angelina whistled, two short birdlike notes. Suddenly the room was swarming with animals, big, small, recognizable breeds and mixtures unrecognizable for ten generations back. Most were barking or jumping about for attention until Angelina managed to greet each one and pet each head. “These are the public rooms dogs,” she informed the viscount, who’d managed to shut his mouth before it got filled with flying dog hair. “Then there are the upstairs dogs, the kitchen dogs, the servants’ dogs, and the outdoor dogs. In all, I would guess—”
Corin held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me. Let me have one more night’s decent sleep. But I would appreciate a list of the animals, their breeds and so on, so I can ask around if anyone is interested in acquiring a new pet.”
“Not without my approval, my lord,” she reminded him.
“What, do you think I am going to send Pug off to the coal mines to detect poison gases?”
“I think that Lady Sophie entrusted me with her dogs’ welfare. I shall not shirk that responsibility.”
“Unlike some others you could mention if you weren’t such a lady? I wrote to my man in London yesterday, about hiring a schoolteacher.”
“And a doctor, my lord?” Angelina was shooing most of the dogs out of the room or onto cushions placed in various corners. She stopped to rub an ear here, scratch a chin there.
Corin was watching her, appreciating her graceful movements, when her words sank in. “What, never tell me we don’t have a doctor, either?”
“We have a physician, my lord, but he won’t come out from Ashford to tend the farm laborers or the poor. Knowlton Heights should have a medical practitioner of its own.” Angelina thought it would be nice to have a doctor who was familiar with veterinary medicine, too, but she believed she’d gone far enough in prodding the prickly peer.
Corin nodded curtly, thinking she’d stuck her busybody’s nose far enough into his business. “About the dogs, Miss Armstead. What’s to keep you from rescuing another reject? Another runt? Another mistreated mongrel?” He brushed at the dog hairs on his sleeve. “You could make sure your position lasts indefinitely, and your salary, of course.”
Angelina crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the viscount. How could she have thought him attractive? His eyes were a common gray and his hair an undistinguished blond. Why, his broad shoulders might be stuffed with sawdust or buckram wadding for all Angelina knew. And how could she have feared being affected by his practiced charm? The man had none. He was a boor and a cad and a popinjay more concerned with his clothes than with the plight of Lady Sophie’s pets. She would
not
allow her feelings to be hurt that he still thought her a grasping, greedy female.
“My honor, Lord Knowle, will keep me from abusing your aunt’s generosity, just as your honor will keep you from abusing my hospitality,” she stated, reminding the viscount of his gaucherie and her possession of the cottage in one breath. “I will not, could not, sit back and let an animal suffer, but any new arrivals will go to the charity home in the village as soon as it is finished. At that time you may check the dogs remaining here against the list that shall be in your hands at the castle by tomorrow morning.”
He noted that the list was to be delivered, not held for his next visit. Being cordially hinted away by the finicky female did not sit well with him for some reason. “I did not mean to disparage your honor. Miss Armstead. I have seen your gentle heart and tender sensibilities.” Always directed toward the dogs, he recalled with a tad of jealousy. “I do not want you to be overwhelmed, is all.”
Her icy glare of disbelief could have cooled the Sahara. Corin scrambled for a change of topic. “And what about babies? I mean puppies, of course. You’ll be overrun soon if you keep all of these animals together like this.” Corin prayed she wasn’t such an uninformed virgin that he’d have to explain why one shouldn’t keep the dogs and the bitches in the same room. He needn’t have worried.
“Lady Sophie was very careful about not adding to the numbers of unwanted pets, my lord. Females in season are kept secluded, of course. As for the males, the butcher comes.”
He sat up straighter. “The butcher? You slaughter them for being males?”
“Don’t be absurd. The butcher comes and ... and ...” She made a snipping motion with her first two fingers.
“You have them gelded?” Corin crossed his legs, then tried not to look under Ajax, the poor wretch. No wonder that other dog hated men.
“Stallions and steers are, ah, gelded, all the time. Why not dogs if it keeps them from quarreling or straying or propagating litter upon litter?”
“That’s very progressive of you, I’m sure. I am relieved.” He was also relieved he wasn’t a dog. That bit of jealousy over Miss Armstead’s affection toward her pets died aborning, along with any attraction he might have harbored for the frowsy female. “My word, look at the time. I have outstayed my fifteen minutes.” Angelina smiled, satisfied with her day’s work.
Chapter Seven
A Knowlton never backed down from a challenge. Usually they were wise enough to avoid lost causes and rarely bet on long odds, hence the family’s political and financial success throughout England’s varied history. Corin wasn’t ready to concede, but he was deuced glad he didn’t have money riding on his chances of dislodging Miss Armstead and her army. No, he only had his career at stake, that and his future engagement. Let Papa Wyte hear a word of Miss Armstead’s living unchaperoned on the viscount’s property, Corin knew, and he could kiss the heiress good-bye. No, he wouldn’t be allowed near enough to Lord Wyte’s daughter to shake her hand, much less ask for it. No matter that the companion dressed like a crow and had a tongue like an adder. Lord Wyte would not tolerate the least hint of impropriety to sully his chick’s innocence.
Midas Micah’s wealth came from trade, was why. There was no higher stickler than a man trying to prove himself and his offspring worthy of social acceptance. Wyte’s birth was respectable enough, if one respected genteel poverty. A third son of a cadet branch of an impoverished duchy, Wyte had married a mine owner’s daughter. Instead of living on his father-in-law’s largesse, however, Wyte took himself, his bride, and her settlements to India, to speculate and invest. He’d come home a widower with a purchased title, a fortune, and a stunningly beautiful daughter—and a set of morals that were as strong as his desire to see her accepted in Polite Society. Wyte wouldn’t entertain an offer from a fortune hunter, a wastrel, or a libertine. At least Corin would still have his wealth when his reputation was gone.
Gone. Corin was going to see some of those outcasts out of his cottage or die trying. While his aunt’s old groom, Jed, now turned dog walker, went to fetch his horse, the viscount surveyed the dogs in the yard. Some were behind fences, some tied to trees and stakes. Why the devil couldn’t his aunt have collected pressed flowers?
“I’m taking another of the dogs back with me, Jed,” he told the grizzled servant, and added at the other’s doubtful look, “Miss Armstead approves. Why don’t you untie that spotted chap’s lead for me? I’ll take him back to the castle at a walk, so you can tell Miss Armstead the dog won’t get tired.”
Jed spit tobacco juice through the gap in his front teeth as he handed the viscount his reins and watched him effortlessly mount the chestnut gelding. “Domino could run for miles without slowin’ to catch his breath, cap’n, but you hadn’t ought be takin’ him.”
“Nonsense, he’s the perfect coach dog. It’s all the fashion nowadays for aspiring young whips to set a spotted dog on the seat next to them. Just hand me his rope like a good fellow.”
Jed hooked his thumb in his belt. “Nay, I won’t be doing that, cap’n.”
Corin supposed such insolence came when the servants had no proper hand at the reins. “What, are you afraid for your pension, too, old man?” He waved his hand at the crowded yard. “There are enough animals here to keep you in ale for the rest of your days. Botheration, I’ve never seen a group of people so goosish over a bunch of dogs.” With that the viscount dismounted and tossed the reins over the gelding’s head, knowing his well-trained hunter would stand. He stomped over to the black-and-white dog and untied the dog’s tether from its stake. Domino wagged his tail and licked Corin’s hand. “At least you show some sense,” Corin said, patting the dog as they walked back to the patient horse and the grinning groom, “and respect.”
Gathering the reins and remounting in one fluid movement, Corin nudged the gelding with his heel. As they set out, he held Domino’s long rope to the side. Nothing happened until the dog felt the slack tighten on his rope, then the pull on his collar. Go with a horse? Never! Domino turned into a frantic, flying dervish, snapping at the gelding’s legs, growling and lunging for its vulnerable underside. The hunter was used to noisy hounds milling beneath its feet, not ferocious creatures biting at its belly. The gelding was up on two legs, then the other two legs. Then it was on its way back to the safety of the Knoll’s stables.
His lordship was on the ground, in the dust and the dirt and the mud. Domino was licking his face. Corin didn’t have the energy to push the dunderheaded dog away. He merely lay on his back, staring at the clouds overhead and swearing. Of all the ignominious scenes, this one was beyond imagining. Not only had Corin, who prided himself on his horsemanship, come unseated, but things had happened so fast, before he’d gotten settled atop the gelding, that he’d also dropped the reins like the veriest green ‘un. Lord Knowle still held the dog’s rope, though. He tossed it away in disgust. Worst of all for the viscount’s
amour-propre,
his horse had parted his company in the road, in front of Jed with his gap-toothed grin, and yes, in full view of Miss Angelina Armstead’s morning room window. Even now, from his place on the ground, he could hear the door slam, hear her asking if they should send for a doctor, who was, of course, located in the town of Ashford, not in nearby Knowlton Heights village.
Corin sat up, reassuring Lena that he still lived—much she’d care, he thought—to discover a ring of servants and dogs. More than a few of them, he estimated, wore smiling faces. He also discovered that Sadie had also joined the debacle and was even now gnawing on his boot top. All his day needed was Caesar, the one who didn’t like men.
His coat was ripped, his breeches were stained, and his boots were ready for the dustbin. His pride was in tatters—and his mood was as black as the dirt that clung to his hair despite the efforts of Aunt Sophie’s old butler, Penn. Miss Armstead wouldn’t hear of his walking home, not after such a grievous toss, so she was lending him the donkey cart. The donkey cart! He’d be tossed out of the Four-in-Hand Club next!
Before clambering aboard his humble conveyance, Corin threw open the gate of an ebony-colored spaniel’s fence. He picked up the silky-coated animal and dumped it in the back of the wagon. Ignoring Miss Armstead’s twitching lips, the viscount bowed, then stepped into the cart and flicked the whip an inch over the donkey’s left ear. The donkey was so impressed, he turned around to look at the viscount.
It was, of course, Angelina, who, biting her lip to keep from laughing aloud at the viscount’s sour expression, had to tell him, “I believe if you just say ‘Hup, Dumpling,’ you’ll get home the faster. Oh, and do enjoy Spooky’s company.”
Spooky?
Angelina shook her head at male foibles, then went inside to spend the afternoon at feminine ones. She had decided, with the urging of Mrs. Penn, the housekeeper, and Mavis, Lady Sophie’s abigail, to improve her appearance. Now that their Miss Lena was a woman of means, they had tried to convince her, she should look the part. She was the mistress of Primrose Cottage, gently born, with education and manners to prove it. She was a lady, not a scullery maid. Mavis insisted the scullery maid was better dressed and had a handsome beau to boot.
Angelina finally agreed. The constant intrusion of a certain London buck of the first stare had nothing whatsoever to do with her decision. The architect would be coming soon, and Angelina wanted to be sure he saw her as the administrator of the animal shelter, not a mere employee. He needn’t run back to Mr. Spenser for every decision; Miss Armstead was to be considered a figure of authority.
In sprigged muslin? Angelina thought she should dress in somber colors and sturdy, practical fabrics, but Mavis swore otherwise. The architect, the builders, and the tradesmen would sooner respect a woman of fashion and taste than one who looked like a governess. Besides, wasn’t there already a dress length or two gathering dust in the sewing room? And here was Mavis, with thirty years of experience dressing elegant ladies going to waste, and nothing to do but groom Lucky, Lucy, Lacy, and the other longhaired dogs to within an inch of their little lives.
As for mourning Lady Sophie, Mavis clucked her tongue. “Milady never cared for the trappings of mourning, don’t you know. It had nothing to do with what’s in the heart, she always used to say. And she made sure you’d have a new start at a better life, didn’t she? Why, ‘twould be disrespectful of her memory to go around looking like old potatoes in a sack.”
So Angelina permitted herself to be convinced into modality. The weather was turning lovely and her heavy black bombazines weren’t suitable for romping with the dogs anyway. Light, simple gowns were much more the thing. If the high waists and narrow skirts flattered her graceful, slender figure, that was merely a bonus.