“Entered,” she corrected. “He might be plump for a cat, but he has no trouble leaping to great heights when he puts his mind to it.”
“Yourcatwent through the window?”
She nodded. “May I fetch him?”
Swinton did not immediately respond. Worse, he maintained that same frustrating mask of no-smile, no-frown.
Those were the two expressions Virginia could reliably read. Without one or the other to guide her, she often did not know how to proceed.
Like now. Did Swinton not understand her query? Should she impress upon him the importance of corralling her runaway cat before Duke took it upon himself to frolic in the larder, or disrupt the crystal on the table, or leap at the sparkling glass of the chandeliers?
Or had she missed some other cue? Should she have begun with a more effusive greeting? Or a more abject apology? Or—blast, this was probably it—inquired whether the Duke of Azureford was at home and receiving visitors?
Swinton stepped aside. “Of course, you must retrieve your cat. Shall I summon a few footmen to aid you?”
She shook her head. “Even the most fearless hunter will hide when he senses he has become the prey.”
“As you say.” Swinton ushered her inside and shut the door behind her. “May I take your coat and bonnet?”
“I shall only be a moment.” She hurried forward in search of her cat.
Duke was not in either of the front parlors, which were the only rooms Virginia had spent time in on previous occasions. Nor was Duke in the kitchen or the larder, to Virginia’s great relief. The dining room was also intact.
She headed toward the living quarters at the rear of the cottage, grateful that Azureford was not present to witness this gross trespass of his home.
“Duke,” she called into each open doorway she passed. “Duke, please come out.”
Not that she could blame him for running off when opportunity had presented itself. It was one of the reasons they shared such a kinship. Virginia had often wished she could dive into someone else’s life, too.
“Duke…” She nudged open a cracked door and came to a full stop.
There, perched high atop a wardrobe with his dark shoulders hunched low and his furry hips wriggling high, Duke prepared to pounce.
Just below, seated in a stiff, wheeled chair beside a four-poster bed, sat a man cloaked half in bandages and half in shadow.
His face snapped toward hers. “Get out.”
She stepped closer. “I’ve come for my cat.”
“I don’t have your cat,” the man growled.
“He who does not look, knows not what he possesses.” She rushed forward to place herself between the innocent bystander and her mischievous cat before Duke could cause the poor man more harm than he’d obviously suffered.
He flinched at her sudden movement, then gave an almost simultaneous wince, as if the mere act of flinching had caused him extraordinary pain.
Virginia’s heart twisted. She might not be competent at reading expressions or subtle social cues butwincingandflinchingwere behaviors she very much recognized. Every single one of her wounded strays had begun just so before they healed.
“Don’t take another step,” the man ordered, his harsh voice little more than a cold rasp.
She inched closer.
Normally, Virginia did her best to follow all explicitly spoken directives.
If anything, she often wished everyone could state their desires plainly, instead of expecting the crease of a brow or the position of a painted fan to convey what actual words could communicate so much more effectively.
Wounded strays were different. They didn’twanther help. Theyneededher help. They just didn’t know it yet.
“Don’t move,” she whispered. “I’ll do my best to block the attack, but he is very good at being a cat.”
