Mrs. Prescott pulled a horrified face. “Smell her? But she was bathed this morning with my own special soap. And why would that make them attack her? They didn’t attack me and I use the same soap.”
George couldn’t think how else to explain. Not in any polite way. She cast an appealing look at Emm, who stepped forward. “What my niece means, Mrs. Prescott, is that your dog has entered her breeding season.” Emm patted her own burgeoning belly in gentle emphasis.
Mrs. Prescott blinked at Emm’s belly, then gasped in understanding. “No, it cannot be! My little FooFoo is far too young for that! She’s still a puppy.”
“She’s not a puppy anymore, and those dogs know it,” George said bluntly. “So keep her away from all other dogs for the next few weeks.”
“I will, oh, I will. Thank you so much, dear, brave Lady Georgiana. Good day to you, Lady Ashendon, Lady Dorothea.” Mrs. Prescott hurried away, little FooFoo clamped firmly to her bosom, gazing wistfully back at her admirers, her feathery tail gently wagging.
“She was widowed last year,” Aunt Dottie explained. “She’s childless, and her husband was a cold, hard man who never let her keep a pet. FooFoo is her first.”
“The way those dogs were going at it,” George said frankly, “FooFoo might just present her with some more.”
Emm burst out laughing. “George, darling, you are such a breath of fresh air. Don’t ever change.”
“I agree,” Aunt Dottie said. “And now, ices.”
* * *
* * *
The following afternoon the duke’s front doorbell rang again. It had rung on and off all day—to no avail. Hart made a grimace of satisfaction and bent over his correspondence. The gossip-seeking vultures would get no joy here. Fleming had his instructions.
He stared down at the note he was trying to compose. It was more difficult than he imagined. The previous evening he’d sent a note around to the Earl of Ashendon, offering to buy the black stallion. He didn’t mention that he’d seen the horse being ridden by the earl’s niece, let alone that the young hoyden had been riding astride. He was sure Sinc was wrong, saying the horse belonged to the girl.
But a brief note had arrived this morning in which the earl informed him that the stallion belonged to Lady Georgiana and that he doubted she’d sell it. However, if Everingham was interested in breeding the stallion to one of his mares, she might consider that. Everingham should apply directly to her.
It was ridiculous. Ashendon had always seemed like a levelheaded fellow, but allowing his niece to be directly involved in the breeding of a valuable, blood stallion . . . A young, unmarried girl shouldn’t even know about the breeding of horses, let alone arrange it.
He finished the note, making her a generous offer for the horse—he would not even consider discussing stud arrangements with a lady—addressed and sealed it, then returned to his business correspondence. Much less complicated.
A short time later voices in the hall, one of them female, caused him to look up. What the devil?
His butler knocked discreetly and looked in. “Your grace, forgive the interruption but—”
“What part of I am not at home did you fail to understand, Fleming?”
“I’m sorry, your grace, but—” the butler began.
“Oh, what nonsense, as if my son meant you to deny me,” said a soft voice from the doorway.
His butler gave him an agonized look of apology. Hart waved him away. He might be irritated, but he understood. Most men were helpless before his mother.
The Duchess of Everingham brushed past the butler, all slender, helpless frailty and fluttering draperies. Pretty and still quite youthful looking—she did not admit to forty, although since he was eight-and-twenty she could hardly deny it—she cultivated an air of delicacy and fragility that brought out the protective instincts of a certain type of man.
Hart was not one of them.
“The library, Redmond?” she said plaintively. “You receive your mother in the library?”
He gestured to the papers spread out on the desk before him. “I’m working.”
His mother pouted, then tottered across the room, sank gracefully into the most comfortable chair and gave an exhausted sigh. Hard on her heels came her most recent companion, a colorless woman clad in a depressing shade between gray and purple, clutching a large, lumpy reticule.
He nodded to her. She was some kind of distant cousin. Harriet? Henrietta? He couldn’t remember her name. His mother changed her companions so often it was hard to keep up. They all started off devoted, but after a few months, they became “impossible” and Hart was instructed to pension them off.
The companion produced a number of little bottles and vials and arranged them on a small table next to his mother’s chair. Smelling salts, hartshorn, feathers for burning, and various potions guaranteed to revive the feeblest invalid: Mother’s battery of armaments.
Not that his mother was an invalid. The Duchess of Everingham was said by some to enjoy ill health. Hart would have said that far from enjoying it, his mother positively relished it. As far as he was concerned, she was as strong as a horse.
The medicines were there purely as a silent warning that any opposition to his mother’s wishes would have dire, possibly fatal consequences. He’d learned that lesson young.
The companion pulled a shawl from the seemingly bottomless reticule and arranged it around his mother’s knees. Her grace had a horror of drafts.
“Oh, stop fussing, Hester.” His mother kicked impatiently at the shawl. “Go. Leave us. I wish to talk to my son.”
Handing a dainty crystal vial—probably smelling salts—to his mother, Hester turned to Hart and said in an undervoice, “Try not to upset her, your grace. She’s feeling very poorly today.”
When was she not? Particularly when she wanted something. But he didn’t say it aloud. He glanced at the doorway where his butler still hovered. “Tea and cakes, Fleming.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” his mother said. “Just a little barley water. With honey and a slice of lemon. And perhaps a rusk. I need to keep up my strength, such as it is.”
Fleming bowed and left, taking the companion with him. Silence fell. Hart turned back to his correspondence. His mother sighed. He kept writing.
“I miss this house so much.”
Hart ignored her. All his life his mother had complained about the inconvenience and old-fashioned furniture of Everingham House, saying it was too big, too grim and too cold. His late father had spent a fortune trying to please her, but nothing ever did.
Papa had never learned that lesson. Hart had.