Chapter 1
"Lady Arabella, I do believe your dog has just absconded with the Duchess of Marlborough's finest silk slipper."
The pronouncement, delivered with the sort of weary resignation one might employ when announcing a catastrophe over afternoon tea, caused Lady Arabella March to whirl about so quickly that her muslin skirts created a small meteorological event around her ankles.
Her companion, Miss Penelope Finch, stood pointing toward the lower lawns with an expression that suggested she found the entire situation both appalling and delightfully amusing in equal measure.
"Oh, botheration," Arabella muttered, a phrase that would have sent her mother into mild apoplexy had she heard it. "Not again. I specifically instructed Thistle to limit his thievery to items belonging to persons of no particular consequence."
"How remarkably liberal of him to ignore your instructions entirely," Penelope observed, adjusting her spectacles with the air of one preparing to witness a spectacular disaster.
"Though I confess myself curious as to how you intended to communicate the subtle distinctions of social hierarchy to a creature whose primary interests appear to be mud, theft, and the systematic destruction of all that is decent in civilized society. "
Arabella was already moving, her cream-colored gown and her brown curls, catching the afternoon sunlight as she descended the terraced gardens with a speed that would have been deemed entirely inappropriate for a lady of quality, had anyone of importance been watching.
Which, naturally, everyone was, because a summer fete was precisely the sort of event where everyone of importance gathered to watch everyone else and pretend they weren't.
"Thistle!" she called, her voice carrying across the manicured lawns with admirable authority. "Thistle, you absolute scoundrel, return that slipper at once!"
The hound in question, a creature of indeterminate breeding whose coat appeared to be composed primarily of mud, enthusiasm, and what might charitably be called character, paused in his flight just long enough to look back at his mistress.
The Duchess's pearl-encrusted slipper dangled from his jaws like a trophy of war.
His tail, that traitorous appendage, wagged with such vigor that his entire posterior participated in the celebration of his crime.
"I believe," Penelope said, having caught up with admirable efficiency despite her claimed delicate constitution, "that your father's dog has just made what military strategists would call a tactical decision."
Indeed, Thistle had chosen that precise moment to alter his trajectory toward the ornamental lake that glittered at the edge of the estate like a sapphire set in emerald.
The crowd of guests, bedecked in their summer finery, began to take notice.
Parasols tilted at angles that suggested their holders were attempting to observe whilst maintaining plausible deniability.
Conversations about the weather and Lady Nottington's shocking choice of turquoise ribbons stuttered to a halt.
"He wouldn't dare," Arabella breathed, though she knew with the certainty of one who has loved difficult creatures that he absolutely would.
"My dear Arabella," Penelope said, "I fear your optimism regarding the moral character of that beast has once again proven wildly misplaced."
Thistle had reached the wooden dock that extended into the lake like an accusatory finger pointing toward aquatic doom.
The structure, built more for aesthetic appeal than practical use, creaked ominously under the hound's enthusiastic gallop.
Several ladies gasped. One gentleman, Lord Nottington, if Arabella's glance was accurate, raised his monocle with the expression of one who has just discovered that the afternoon's entertainment has exceeded all reasonable expectations.
"The dock won't hold," Arabella said, her mind performing rapid calculations involving structural integrity, canine velocity, and the social consequences of allowing the Duchess of Marlborough's slipper to meet a watery grave. "The wood is too thin, and Thistle is too... substantial."
"Substantial," Penelope repeated with a delicate snort. "How diplomatic. I believe the term you're searching for is 'constructed primarily of mud and poor decisions.'"
The crack that followed was audible even from their position thirty yards away.
It was the sort of sound that announces that circumstances have moved from unfortunate to catastrophic with alarming efficiency.
The dock, having endured as much enthusiasm as its delicate constitution could manage, surrendered to the inevitable.
Thistle, still clutching his stolen treasure, disappeared through the splintered wood with a splash that sent a family of ducks into offended flight.
"Oh, for the love of..." Arabella didn't finish the thought.
She was already running, her kid slippers sliding slightly on the grass as she descended toward the lake.
Behind her, she heard Penelope's strangled cry of "Arabella, you cannot possibly.
.." but the rest was lost to the wind and her own determination.
The crowd's collective gasp followed her like thunder after lightning. Lady Marchwood, her own mother, could be heard exclaiming something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer or possibly a curse, though distinguishing between the two was often difficult where her mother was concerned.
Thistle had surfaced, paddling with the determined incompetence of a creature who had never quite mastered the art of swimming but refused to let that stop him.
The slipper, waterlogged and likely ruined beyond redemption, still remained clamped in his jaws.
His eyes, visible above the water line, held the wild look of an animal who has just discovered that his life choices have led him to a place of significant regret.
"Hold on, you ridiculous creature!" Arabella called, having reached the ruined dock.
She could hear footsteps behind her—multiple sets, suggesting that her dash toward disaster had attracted a following.
The wooden planks beneath her feet groaned ominously, but she pressed forward, dropping to her knees at the edge where the dock had given way.
"Lady Arabella," a man's voice called from behind, Lord Nottington, she thought, or perhaps Sir Reginald Worthing. "I must insist you step back. The structure is most unsafe."
"Yes, thank you for that remarkably astute observation," Arabella replied without turning, her attention fixed on Thistle's struggling form. "I had rather concluded that myself when it collapsed beneath my dog."
She reached toward the water, calculating distances. Thistle was perhaps six feet from the dock's edge, paddling in increasingly frantic circles. The slipper had begun to slip from his jaws, and his attempts to readjust his grip only resulted in him submerging his snout with distressing frequency.
"Someone should do something," a lady's voice declared from the safety of the lawn. Lady Nottington, by the sound of it, who had never done anything more strenuous than ring for tea in her entire decorative existence.
"Indeed," Arabella muttered, making her decision. "Someone should."
She stood, her hands moving to the buttons of her spencer with the efficiency of one who has already committed to a course of action and sees no purpose in prolonging the inevitable. The small jacket fell to the dock behind her.
"My goodness," someone exclaimed. "She's not actually going to..."
She was.
The water, when Arabella entered it with somewhat less grace than she might have preferred, was shocking in its coldness.
The lake, fed by underground springs and shaded by ancient willows, maintained a temperature that seemed specifically designed to punish impulsive rescuers of wayward hounds.
Her skirts, those traitors to mobility, immediately began absorbing water with the enthusiasm of items specifically designed for that purpose, which, she reflected grimly, they absolutely were not.
The collective shriek from the assembled guests might have been gratifying under other circumstances. As it was, Arabella was rather too occupied with the immediate challenges of movement whilst wearing several pounds of waterlogged muslin to properly appreciate the sensation she was causing.
"Thistle," she gasped, striking out toward him with movements that bore only a passing resemblance to swimming. "When we get out of this, if we get out of this, you and I are going to have a very serious discussion about the consequences of theft and the importance of sound construction."
Thistle, for his part, had stopped paddling in circles and was now staring at his approaching mistress with the expression of one who cannot quite believe that his poor decisions have resulted in someone else's even poorer decisions.
The slipper, forgotten in his surprise, slipped from his jaws and began its descent toward the lake's muddy bottom.
"Oh, now you drop it," Arabella sputtered, having received a mouthful of lake water for her efforts. "How remarkably helpful of you."
She reached for Thistle's collar, a sturdy leather affair that had survived numerous escape attempts and one memorable incident involving a badger, just as her skirts decided to make their own bid for independence from the laws of physics.
The weight of the water-soaked fabric pulled her down, and for one alarming moment, she found herself considering the possibility that she might actually drown in six feet of water at a garden gathering, which would be precisely the sort of death that would have people talking for decades.