A planter in the corner caught Hortense’s eye. “You need a little mussing.”
She scooped out two fingers of dirt, and before he could gather what she was about, she strode up to him and smudged it on both of his cheeks.
“What on earth?” he sputtered, stepping back.
“Now rub it in and make sure to get some in your hair. You’re simply too clean for a laborer.”
“You expect me to walk through Mayfair with dirt on my person?”
She gave a little shrug, one designed to wheedle its way under his skin. “I can always go alone. Besides, no one will recognize you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because no nob is looking for the Marquess of Clare to be striding around with muck on his face.”
With a bemused shake of his head, he did as he was told, even though he clearly didn’t like it. For all his airs and titles, the man truly was a good sport. She liked that about him.
Soon, they were on their way, companionably traversing the streets toward Lady Fortescue’s townhouse. “Have you ever entered a house through the servant’s entrance?” she asked. She already knew the answer.
“Never.”
“Follow me, then.” She slowed her step at a townhouse painted in the same white with black trim as its neighbors and opened a low wrought iron gate at the head of a short flight of stairs. She descended, Jamie two steps behind. She raised her fist and gave the kitchen door three quick raps.
The same kitchen servant she’d dealt with last week opened the door. “Oh, it’s ye,” the girl said with no amount of joy as she glanced down at Sir Bacon, who barked by way of greeting.
“Fetch the housekeeper and tell her I’ve returned Lady Fortescue’s dog,” Hortense said, the voice of authority. It was the only way to deal with a servant who looked on the verge of slamming the door in one’s face.
Just before she turned to her errand, the girl’s eye caught on something over Hortense’s shoulder. Her gaze widened, and a blush pinked her cheeks. She’d noticed Jamie.
Hortense cleared her throat. “The housekeeper?” she said, giving the girl a nudge, even as she understood. Jamie was a difficult man to remove one’s eyes from. Just one more quick glance back and the girl was gone.
“Shut the door behind ye,” came a rough voice, “and ’ave a sit down with one of me fresh biscuits.” It was the cook. “If I know that lass, ye’ll be waitin’ a tick or two.”
For Jamie’s eyes only, Hortense held a quieting forefinger to her mouth, telling him in no uncertain terms to keep his mouth shut. They each took a stool at the kitchen table, Sir Bacon settling at their feet, his face upturned in the eternal hope of a dropped scrap. Cook cast a baleful eye the little dog’s way.
Hortense felt compelled to speak up for him. “He’s trained to go outside now.”
Cook responded with a disbelieving, “Harrumph.”
At last, the efficient rustle of skirts approached, and the housekeeper swept into the kitchen. The woman wore what Hortense suspected was a permanent frown of vague offense. “Her ladyship will not be requiring the dog any longer.”
Alarm shot through Hortense. “What does that mean? He’s her dog. The one she’s paying me to fetch for her.”
“As to that…” The housekeeper held out a pouch, coin clinking inside. “Here’s your payment. Now, if you will please take the animal with you when you go.”
Neither Sir Bacon nor Hortense was dismissed so easily. “Doesn’t she care what happens to him?”
“Not particularly. She procured a new pup in the country.”
“He’s trained to go outside now.” Hortense couldn’t help feeling defensive. “He’s truly a good little—”
Jamie’s fingertips trailed down her upper arm, staying the remainder of her defense. In bruised silence, she accepted the pouch from the housekeeper’s hand. Then she pivoted on her heel, brushing past Jamie, who had opened the door. Sensing fractiousness in the air, Sir Bacon barked at the household at large for good measure. They may have seen the last of him, but they wouldn’t soon forget him.
Once they were back on the sidewalk, Jamie shot Hortense an amused glance. “It appears you have a dog.”
She glanced down at Sir Bacon, thoroughly befuddled. Big brown eyes stared up at her, awaiting their new direction. He was…hers?
“He cannot possibly be mine.” It had to be said.
