Scritch-scritch-scritchat the back door. Had Mrs. Tumney forgotten to tell Franny about a kitchen cat?
She pulled her shawl around her and unlatched the door, but instead of a tabby curling around her legs, a huge dog with a dark face and the most precious, dangling jowls confronted her.
“Who are you, you enormous puppy-thing?”
A pair of muddy paws landed on Franny’s shoulders and a rough, wet tongue bathed her face. She staggered back, laughing.
“Oh, so friendly, so furry, so big! Who are you? Yes, who are you? You love of a thing. You beautiful monster.”
The dog dropped down and trotted over to the fire and flopped onto the hearthrug. Franny looked out into the mews but could see nothing but rain and puddles. She shivered and closed the door.
Franny brushed at the mud on her shawl. “Oh, you think you belong here, do you?” The dog put her head down. “Are you hungry?” The dog yawned. “Let me get you some water at least.” The dog watched Franny fill a bowl from an ewer and bring it over and set it on the floor. The dog sniffed politely and put her head back down. “Not thirsty either, then?” The dog closed her eyes. “None of that. You’ll have to go.” The dog didn’t move.
“Oh, goodacious.” This giant dog must belong to some nob hereabouts, but Franny couldn’t very well go out and start knocking on doors. And Franny couldn’t put the poor creature out in the cold. Not just because Franny was soft-hearted. She physically would not be able to put the dog out if the dog did not want to go.
The lovely creature would have to take refuge here, and tomorrow morning, Franny would get some rope and lead her around the square and see if anyone knew her. What other choice did Franny have?
“All right, you can stay.” The dog opened one eye. “But I’m off to bed.”
As soon as she heard the wordbed, the dog lunged forward and out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Oh, no, oh, no. The biggest dog in the world was loose in a duke’s fancy town house.
When Franny finally found the troublesome hound, she was lying on the largest bed Franny had ever seen, in the most opulent bedchamber she had ever seen.
“Get off.” Franny used her sternest voice, which, if truth be told, was not stern at all. “Get off now.” She added a frown.
She could swear the dog smiled at her. Franny put the lamp down and took hold of both front paws and tugged. Nothing. Now it felt like the dog was laughing at her. She pulled again with all her might. The dog didn’t budge a single inch.
Buggedy.
Franny couldn’t leave the dog here. What if the animal thought this luxurious bed with its dark-red velvet draperies and its carved mahogany posts was the equivalent of a necessary?
Franny sat next to the dog. She’d have to stay right here and make sure nothing untoward happened.
The dog rolled over against Franny and and put her legs in the air, and Franny scratched her furry stomach. She really shouldn’t encourage the sweetheart to stay, but that belly was begging for a rub. And Franny had been wrong. The dog was not a she. The evidence was clear: the dog was a he.
Franny yawned. She’d unlace her boots and lie down for a while. She giggled. Her first time having a kip with a male and what a big, strong, hairy male he was! And so warm which was good because there was no fire up here. She’d just get under the heavy, quilted velvet counterpane. Oh, perhaps she better get the dog under the counterpane, too. She didn’t want the poor pup-monster to be cold and see, now, they could nestle together and be so wonderfully, scrumptiously warm.
She threw her arm around the enormous animal. This was going to be the best Christmas ever. She just knew it.
Frances.The usual shortening of Frances was Fanny, wasn’t it? But Franny suited the gap-toothed grin with the lush lower lip.
Kittredge pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with his napkin and then ran the back of his knuckles over his smooth jaw. He would not scratch that soft, pretty skin around her mouth with his whiskers now.
Ha! Of course, he wouldn’t. He would never see her again. She was lost in the vast multitude known as London.
“Back so soon, Your Grace?”
He looked up into the grin of the Earl of Burchester. Kittredge stood and they bowed to each other.
“Burchester.”
The silver-haired earl cuffed him on the shoulder. “Usually you come back from your sojourn to the woods looking a little less cross. But, if anything, you look more glum than usual.”
“Glummer. Not more glum.” That was young Danforth, shouldering his way past Burchester.
“Shut it, you fastidious philologist.” Burchester chuckled and Danforth scoffed and raised adigitus impudicusand headed towards the crowded table at the far end of the dining room.
Burchester turned back to Kittredge. “Would you like to come over to our corner for some early wassail, Your Grace? Dagenham promised he’d join us later once his purse has been emptied at whatever gambling hell he frequents these days.”
