Demetrius snapped his attention to Bottomley. Why was he being mentioned?
“You have served me well,” Bottomley continued to read. “I bequeath to you my cottage known as Hartshorn, as well as Maximillian and Cal.”
All Demetrius could do was stare at the solicitor. Certainly, he had not heard correctly. Hartshorn? That was a cottage located in Seaford and overlooked the channel.
Further, why, of all people, had Totten left Demetrius his dog and cat? What was he supposed to do with pets?
“He also left this letter for you.” Bottomley placed the missive on the corner of the desk. “If there are no questions, I shall take my leave.”
There were murmurs among the others in the room as Bottomley left and Demetrius was pulled toward the desk. He picked up the missive, then left without speaking to anyone. It was almost as if he were stuck in one of the evening fogs that so often cloaked London, not hearing or seeing anything, shocked, yet anxious to know what Totten had been thinking. Except, when he reached the entry, there stood a footman holding the leash of Maximillian, the sheepdog. A maid was holding Cal, the calico cat. A second footman held a crate.
“What is that?”
“Food, instructions, bedding for Max and Cal.”
He simply stared at it. What the hell was he supposed to do with a cat and a dog, he asked himself again.
The footman held out the leash and Demetrius stared at it for the longest time before accepting it. The maid then held out the cat.
Bloody hell!
He took it and cradled it with one arm and the cat immediately began purring against his chest.
He then looked at the crate and wondered how he could carry that and the cat and hold onto the dog’s leash.
“Did you bring a carriage?” the butler asked.
“No. A hackney.”
He nodded and opened the door. “We shall hail one for you.”
Numbly, Demetrius walked out of the manor, the dog by his side, cat in his arms, missive in his hand with a footman carrying a crate.
“Go with him to his home to deliver the crate then return,” the butler instructed to which the footman nodded.
“Thank you,” Demetrius mumbled.
The missive weighed heavy in his hand, but Demetrius would not read it until he was in the comfort of home, a glass of brandy in hand and, more importantly, without a footman watching.
As he tapped the folded and sealed parchment against his knee, he looked out the window, only to be pulled from his thoughts when the cat decided to pounce on the sealed missive and at the same time sank razor sharp claws into his thigh.
“Ow!” He lifted the cat and sat him on the seat beside him.
Cal seemed to then give him the cut direct with a lift of the chin before finding a place to curl up on the opposite side of the bench.
Meanwhile, Max took up the entire floor, his head resting on his boots.
“Max is usually more energetic,” Demetrius commented to the footman. “He is calm for a change.”
“He has been this way since the viscount passed away,” the footman answered quietly. “As the viscount grew ill, the end coming, Max never left his side. He has barely eaten since.”
“Dogs mourn?” Demetrius asked. “I have never had a pet.”
“Apparently, they do.”
Demetrius hated that Max was sad, but also somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t be bounding around his set of rooms breaking things.
“Cal seems to be doing well.”
