She was prevented from asking anything more, however, when the blanket at their feet twitched.
She had not imagined it, then.
But this time, something decidedly alive burrowed out from beneath it, and startled, Ambrosia gasped. “Merciful heavens—what do have we here?”
MR. DOG
The creature—a dog, unmistakably—stretched, shook itself, then meandered in a clumsy circle, pumping legs that were far too short for the length of its body. After one precarious turn, it returned directly to the blanket, dropped again, and began to snore.
Ambrosia blinked. “Is it okay?”
The dog’s eyes were half-lidded, his tongue lolling lazily from the side of his graying muzzle, as if he’d long since given up on keeping it tucked inside. Instead of curling into a neat ball like any self-respecting creature, he wriggled about until he was flat on his back—front paws folded to his chest, hind legs splayed wide—exposing everything.
Mr. Beckman chuckled and bent to scratch the dog’s large barreled chest. “I think it walks in its sleep.”
“He,” she clarified, her voice a little high. Like this, there was no mistaking the animal’s gender.
“Quite right.” Mr. Beckman’s French lilt momentarily edged with the clipped precision of an English gentleman. A wry grin hooked up one corner of his mouth. “A modest creature, clearly.”
Ambrosia pressed her gloved fingers to her lips, torn between laughter and a small pang of pity. “What’s the matter with him?”
The dog, without bothering to move, shifted his gaze toward them with one squinty eye, as if suspicious of their intent.
“We ought to return him to the inn,” she said gently. “His owner will be worried.”
There was a pause.
“I don’t know about that, princesse.”
She looked again at the little beast—his sides too lean, his coat smeared with mud, his ribs faintly visible beneath the stretch of skin. “You don’t think someone is missing him?”
“Not likely, no.” There was a slight drop in his voice, and Ambrosia thought perhaps it was not only horses this man had a soft spot for. “If they are, they haven’t been feeding him.” He frowned. “Or bathing him. Or claiming any sort of responsibility for him at all, really.”
The dog let out a snuffling wheeze, tongue lolling further sideways, and one paw twitched upward as if it was waving at them.
Mr. Beckman opened the window to the driver’s seat. “Daniels? Do you know anything about this dog in here?”
“Blasted mongrel!” Mr. Daniels grumbled as he brought the carriage to a halt. “Just put him down here. He’s a stray—been hanging around the stables all night begging for food.”
Ambrosia’s breath caught. “No!” The word burst out before she could stop it, and out of the corner of her vision, she saw both its dark brown eyes open wide, a sliver of white showing around the edges. Her heart thudded painfully, panic rising absurdly strong for the situation. The thought of simply casting him aside, leaving him behind like a piece of forgotten baggage?—
She reached down instinctively to soothe him, her gloved hand met by a flick of a tongue. The creature hadn’t done anything but exist in the wrong place. “We cannot just leave him,” she said more quietly, struggling to keep her voice even. “He cannot manage on his own.”
“Damnedest looking stray I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Beckman muttered, scooping the animal onto his lap with a mix of curiosity and caution. The dog sprawled bonelessly, all long body and absurd little legs.
“But he is adorable,” Ambrosia insisted. “Like a little sausage. It’s very fashionable, you know, for proper ladies to keep little dogs for company. Perhaps I’ll clean him, fatten him up a bit… and he can be my stylish pet.”
She sniffed delicately. “Though a bath is certainly in order.” As soon as possible.
“Hmm…” Mr. Beckman grimaced, but then, as though he realized he needed to pass muster, the dog pushed himself up and balanced on his hindquarters—while still atop Mr. Beckman’s legs. His back was straight and proud, and he was swaying only slightly, paws flicking out now and again, apparently helping to maintain his center of gravity.
It was magnificent.
“Oh, look at him! He’s perfect,” Ambrosia said. “If we truly think he’s alone in the world, I’m going to keep him—but he needs a name.”
There was no missing the amoosement in Mr. Beckman’s eyes. “I’ve no doubt you’ll come up with something suitable. He does have rather impressive balance. With enough soap and some training, I imagine he’ll take the ton by storm. Just like his mistress.”
The dog chose that moment to twist around and lick the underside of Mr. Beckman’s chin.
