Chapter Nine
Harbury spent the rest of the trip back to the hall avoiding the curious wet nose at the tip of a cone-faced creature of single-minded intent. Once they arrived, he thought Cassandra would relegate Mercy to the stables, but no. She marched the animal toward the laundry room.
Metaphorically throwing up his hands, he headed toward his study. Then, a cacophony of exclamations echoed through the corridors. He pivoted, intending to put a quick stop to the madness.
Gently but firmly, he was going to insist the dog be given into the gamekeeper’s care. A gamekeeper would know best how to care for wild things, would he not?
He reached the kitchens and searched the gaggle of cooing undermaids for his wife.
“The thing must go to the stables,” he said.
“Thing?” Cassandra’s gasp seemed to pass from maid to maid.
“That, your grace, is a spaniel,” Mrs. Pratt said with a regal sweep of her hand.
“Of the King Charles variety,” Cassandra added. “Or so Mrs. Pratt tells me.”
“That’s right.” The housekeeper beamed at Cassandra as one would an excellent pupil. “Just the same breed,” she furthered, “as the dog who stood loyally by Mary Queen of Scots and refused to leave her side when she was executed.”
On this pronouncement the women all turned worshipfully admiring gazes to the dog as if he had been the creature who’d shown such unwavering devotion. Mercy, in turn, propped himself up on his tiny front legs and lifted his chin, yipping and blinking as if in confirmation of his noble descent.
“You.” Harbury set his fists on his hips. “Are just a scraggly little mutt.”
“Harbury!” Cassandra stepped in front of the dog. “No!”
The maids fawned over his majesty, soothing the puppy’s wounded pride with a flurry of towels, treats, and brushes.
“We have things well in hand here,” Mrs. Pratt told him while unceremoniously shooing him from the room. “Your Grace, I believe, will be much more comfortable in his study.”
Huh.
With an ease that left Harbury more than a little envious, Mercy had established his court. How one creature little bigger than a teacup could send an entire household into an uproar, he’d no idea.
He gave up trying to reason with the crowd and went back to his study. There, he set his mind to other pressing problems. Mercy clearly had the household in his thrall.
First, Harbury penned a note instructing Anderson to provide the footman with the rest of the account books from Rose Cottage. Then he went back to reading his father’s filed correspondence.
Of the records he had on hand, he could find no evidence Anderson had ever acted against the prior duke’s interests or intentions. In fact, one letter his father had filed away indicated the old duke had, indeed, used a prior slump to evict smaller tenants.
He sat back in his chair, rubbing his finger along his bottom lip.
He was not inclined to take as hard a line on the issue. If he delayed rent collection, the estate’s finances would suffer a hit, but not an insurmountable one.
This drivel is what you suggest? Have you no understanding of how to lead? I cannot prevent you from taking my place—God help me, I wish I could.
He sighed. Perhaps he was wrong to break with tradition, but optional expenses, since his father’s time, were down. Unlike his mother, Harbury was not fond of gambling, nor did he have his father’s profligate spending habits. But dare he implement untested methods?
What if he failed, proving his father right?
And, if he must pension Anderson, how was he going to find a steward he trusted on such short notice?
He continued to ponder the questions while dining with his wife.
Cassie brought the beast with her, of course. “Because Mercy was still unused to his surrounds.” She promised, on entering the dining hall, the pup would sit calmly in his basket.
Mercy had other ideas.
More than once, Harbury plucked the squirming thing from his lap. On the other hand, the pup had been cleaned, fed, and properly combed. Harbury had no choice but to admit Mercy’s allure.
He was soft. He absolutely reveled in affection. And he had the habit of staring up at Harbury as if he’d never seen anything so fascinating. Harbury moved his hand through Mercy’s fluffy fur, tracing a line from the pup’s tiny head down to his tail.
Hard to ignore such devotion.
Harbury grimaced as he took his port. If only his wife held him in equal esteem.
Later in the evening, Harbury found himself, once again, in his bedchamber. He’d donned a banyan over his nightshirt, and stood, barefooted and curling his toes into the carpet, in front of Cassandra’s door.
His desire for his wife had drawn him there, but a distinct scratching noise stopped him.
“For shame, Mercy!” Cassandra’s voice bled through the cracks. “You shouldn’t scratch good wood! You don’t want to get banished to the stables, do you? Because”—she lowered her voice—“if he hears of this latest travesty, he’d send you there in a thrice.”
Harbury snorted softly. Yes, he would.
At present, however, his reasons would have little to do with door scratching and more to do with a desire to be alone with his wife.
Alone and intimate.
“If you want to ingratiate yourself,” she instructed, “and clearly, you do…you must be on your very best behavior. We both do.”
Only one of those things was true. He wouldn’t mind in the least if his wife decided to be naughty. Naughty, of course, in highly specific ways.
He smothered a groan and rested his forehead against the door.
“So sweet,” she murmured. “So very sweet.”
What the devil would he have to do to make her croon at him with such tenderness?
“Must you be contrary, too?” he heard her ask.
If Cassandra opened the door, he wouldn’t be contrary at all. Like Mercy, he might do a little squirming and yipping, but he would be very content to simply snuggle at her breast.
“Very well, since you cannot be still, I will put you down.”
Mercy resumed scratching in short order. Cassandra made a sound of frustration.
“Oh, so it’s him you want? Ungrateful little thing. I was the one who extracted you from the briar patch. He doesn’t like you at all.”
Unfair.
When she’d found Mercy, the dog had been utterly disgusting, but his appearance had since improved. But for the ridiculous bow someone had tied around Mercy’s neck which, in Harbury’s opinion, proved a grave insult to the dog’s dignity, the pup was quite cute.
Not nearly as compelling as Cassandra, but—
A thud against the wood reverberated against his forehead. His breath caught as he listened for the latch’s click.
But no, the sound had not been a knock…or other request for entry but something softer. Something like her back hitting the door.
“I understand.” Rustling sounds suggested she’d just moved to pick the dog up. “Believe me, I understand. I want him, too.”
The downward rush of blood through his veins happened so fast he lost balance.
That, he decided, constituted an invitation.
He braced himself on the door handle, and, before he could talk himself out of his resolution, he unbolted and opened the door.
Then, moving quickly, he successfully rescued both dog and lady from an inadvertent tumble.
One he’d caused, but still. Heroism was heroism.
“Harbury!” she exclaimed at the same time the puppy yelped.
“I heard a scratching noise,” he said, carefully righting her.
She held the dog away from him as if he posed a threat. Meanwhile, Mercy used all seven-ish pounds of his puppy strength to repeatedly surge in Harbury’s direction.
He sighed. “Give me the mutt.”
“No!” she insisted. “I won’t have him taken to the stables!”
“I won’t take him to the stables. I’m not any danger to him, I promise.” He placed his hand over his heart for good measure.
She sent him a warning glance before reluctantly transferring the squirming mass into his arms. Once safely against his chest, the puppy stilled. Mercy was a warm little thing. And he’d just brought them together. How could Harbury not be grateful?
“There now,” he said with a touch of Scottish brogue. “Calm yourself, wee laddie.”
Cassie put her hands on her hips. “Where did that come from?”
He glanced up from the dog’s adoring gaze. “The thicket?”
Her turn, apparently, to roll her eyes. “I meant to inquire where a good English duke picked up a phrase like wee laddie?”
“It just slipped out.” He frowned. “The coachman I was telling you about earlier, the one who taught me to drive, was Scottish. He used to let me play with the dalmatian pups he raised to ride alongside the carriages.”
He’d forgotten all about those dogs.
“Oh!” She looked pleased. “So, you do like dogs?”
He wouldn’t go so far as to say he liked them, but this dog was growing on him, and fast.
He scratched Mercy beneath his chin. The puppy sighed and went completely limp.
“I like this one. I suppose.”
She briefly brightened. Then, her face fell. “Then I suppose you’ll want to keep him with you tonight?”
He glanced down at the dog.
Mercy, indeed.
“You,” he spoke to the dog in a commanding voice, “will get what you want if you do what you’re told. Do you understand?”
The dog tossed his head and snorted.
Harbury considered that an agreement. He walked over to his bedside and then placed Mercy carefully into his pillow’s crevice. His scent should be enough to keep the thing calm for a time. Mercy propped himself up on his front legs and glared upward accusingly.
“Those are expensive sheets,” Harbury laid down the law. “You are not to muss them.”
“He’s just a pup,” Cassandra said from the door. “Ergo, messes are not his fault.”
“Did you hear her?” Harbury asked the dog. “A jury of one has preemptively declared you not guilty. I might be inclined to agree. However”—he glanced over his shoulder—“If I have to spend one more night in frustrated want of my wife, the consequences will not be my fault.”
Her mouth formed an unspoken oh.
“Frustrated want in general?” She folded her arms over her night rail. “Or frustrated want specific to me?”