Marquesses at the Masquerade(22)

Did he ever think about Poppy? Had that night at the ball meant even a little bit as much to him as it had to her? She would never know, of course, since as the companion of Marcus’s dog, she would not be having any kind of conversation with him that would hint at such matters.

She and Socrates reached the garden, where he happily set about sniffing pretty much every blade of grass while Rosamund tried, with limited success, to replace thoughts of Marcus with thoughts of sensible things, such as names for the dress shop she might establish, or patterns for gowns she could make. When Socrates had finished in the garden, she took him to the kitchen to see if there might be some scraps for his breakfast.

Two young scullery maids were at work in the kitchen when Rosamund and Socrates entered, and they squealed when they saw him. One of them covered him with kisses, while the other patted his head, leaving a puff of soap that made both the women giggle. Even Cook, a woman with quite a bit more gravitas than the maids, was charmed by him, and she gave him a scandalously large portion of a beef pie that was on the table.

“The marquess’s dog must eat well,” Cook explained when Rosamund raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps not too many rich scraps would be best,” Rosamund said, thinking of his digestive troubles of the day before.

Some plain chicken was found, and some peas, which he liked remarkably well.

“Like a little lord,” the maid with the soapy hands cooed as she set down a bowl of water. “And such a handsome fellow.” She giggled. “Just like his master.”

“That will do, Bessie,” Cook said, but with the kind of smile that suggested she did not disagree.

Rosamund had been considering what she and Socrates might do next. It wasn’t as though he was a child, who might be entertained with a book or paper and pencil, but as his hired companion, she intended for him to be happily occupied and not, in the unfortunate way of young dogs, causing trouble and making messes. Also, there was the matter of grooming, since the fur on his ears was long and looked prone to tangles. Perhaps he would sit by the fire while she brushed him, she mused as they went up the stairs to the main floor.

But Socrates had ideas of his own, and he abruptly took off at speed through the corridor and across the foyer. Rosamund was forced to run after him, passing a maid polishing a table and giving her a smile that she hoped looked as though she knew what she was doing. Rosamund was, it turned out, not as fast as an energetic lapdog, and before she could catch him, he disappeared through the open door of the drawing room.

As soon as she came into the room, Rosamund realized why Socrates was so excited. Marcus was there, with a remarkably handsome older lady who must be his grandmother, Lady Tremont.

“Excuse me,” Rosamund said from the doorway as Socrates ran to his master and dropped adoringly before him into a sitting position. “I’m terribly sorry. He got away from me.”

Lady Tremont, whose gray hair was pulled into a smooth, elegant coil and whose tall, still trim figure gave hints as to the origins of her grandson’s lean physique, subjected Rosamund to a thorough scrutiny. “Who are you, young lady? And why have you brought a dog into my drawing room?”

Lady Tremont’s voice was pleasant, her demeanor graceful, her gown subtly flattering, and nothing about her beyond her hair and a few wrinkles that had dared to form around her eyes and mouth suggested a person who’d lived quite a few decades. Rosamund supposed she must have always been vigilant about wearing a hat.

“Rosamund came with me, to help with Socrates, my dog,” Marcus said. “I did tell you I had brought him.”

“When you said you’d brought a dog, I thought you meant a hunting dog, but this”—Lady Tremont indicated Socrates with the swirl of a slender digit—“is a lapdog. I never figured you for a fellow who’d want a lapdog.”

Rosamund almost laughed at the pained expression that flitted over Marcus’s face. “He was a present from Mother, and he has an inordinate attachment to me. And by that I mean he howls incessantly if he feels I’ve abandoned him. Rosamund has accompanied me here so that she can be a sort of companion to him.”

“But this is absurd, Marcus! You are indulging this dog, and he will become spoiled and end up ruling your household.”

“I think I will manage to keep him from dominating my household,” Marcus said dryly. “But he is still young and in need of training.”

Socrates, perhaps sensing that it would behoove him to cultivate the goodwill of his hostess, condescended to sniff Lady Tremont’s shoe, causing the older lady’s eyebrows to drift slowly upward.

“Already he has made some improvement,” Marcus continued, “because he now tolerates Rosamund.”

“I see,” Lady Tremont said, still looking at Socrates. Finally, she turned sharp blue eyes on Rosamund, which, while there was no reason for the older lady to guess there was anything amiss with her nephew’s dog-minder, was still not a comfortable experience. “Interesting.”

Rosamund was eager to leave. “If I may, I’ll collect Socrates and take him somewhere else.”

“Certainly,” Marcus said.

“Oh,” said Lady Tremont, looking at Socrates, who had curled his little body into a tidy circle on the blue rug with his head resting on his paws, “you may as well let the creature stay. He doesn’t look as though he’ll cause any trouble. And he is rather adorable.”