The Primrose Path (20 page)

Talbot did want Corin’s opinion—of his new waistcoat, all puce stripes and cabbage roses. Angel wouldn’t dress her dogs in it.

Averill Browne wanted only to rhapsodize over Mrs. Gibb. Corin hired the clunch to renovate the school-house, just to send him off to his drawing board.

Major McKennon was locked in the library with his codebook and Corin’s finest cognac. The billiards table needed repair, and Florrie cheated at cards. The brats would still be terrorizing the nursery staff abovestairs, and the servants who hadn’t given notice would be having their supper below. Now Corin remembered why he didn’t spend much time in the country. He decided to take the dog Buttons down to the local tavern, to see if the sheep man Ligett stopped in for a drink after a hard day’s work. Lud knew Corin could use one. Or six.

Chapter Twenty-two

“Deuce take it, woman, why didn’t you tell me the blasted dog was a sheep killer?” Corin was on Angelina’s doorstep before breakfast the next morning, not even wondering what she was doing opening the door herself. He had to return that miserable mutt and get home before his company arrived—his proper company, a lady who wouldn’t think of sending him off to defend the worst criminal in the animal kingdom, according to the men at the Drovers’ Inn. Now he had to go find Doddsworth, hoping the fellow hadn’t left for London, hoping the valet was still greedy enough to accept a bribe, hoping he still knew how to use the hare’s foot to cover bruises. Bruises, by George, a cut near his eye and a huge purple mark on his chin, with Melissa Wyte and her father arriving in just hours. Hell and damnation!

“Why couldn’t you have named the cur Slasher or Gnasher? Medea? Anything that would have warned a fellow not to make a fool of himself in front of half the shepherds in the shire. Why not Wolfie! No, you had to call him Buttons, sweet little button nose, adorable little button eyes, great big bone-crunching teeth!”

Angelina was standing in the hallway, biting her lip. “I—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it. The dog should have been destroyed! Would have been, too, if you hadn’t interfered with Shep Cavanaugh, I understand. Did you think the others wouldn’t recognize Buttons? Let me tell you, missy, sheepherders can recognize a killer dog no matter how many years and miles have passed. Those men were ready to murder the blasted beast right there!”

And heaven knew what Angelina would have done if Corin had let them. So he’d had to defend Buttons, first with words and smiles and buying several rounds for everyone. Not a good idea, he found out, as some of the shepherds lost a deal of their respect for the peerage with the loss of their sobriety. The men weren’t Republicans, but they did hold grudges against the aristocracy, even if the aristocrat was paying their wages, paying for their ale. They particularly resented a nobleman who stayed away from his responsibilities so long, who brought a Frenchy spy into their neighborhood, and who was trifling with that sweet Miss Armstead, a proper lady if there ever was one, even if she was touched in the upper works when it came to dogs.

One word had led to another, one drink to another, and then fists were flying. Corin hadn’t had so much fun in ages, but he wasn’t about to admit that to the cockle-headed Miss Armstead. No, he’d return the rogue sheepdog and wash his hands—skinned knuckles and all—of Angel and the rest of her worthless waifs, plus the hundred or so she’d find to fill that hell-spawned dog hotel she was building. His lordship didn’t want a dog, didn’t need a dog, and didn’t care if he never saw another dog in his life, especially not this one that was leaning against his leg in a misplaced gesture of canine affection. “Get away from me, you lamb chopper.”

“Buttons didn’t kill the lamb.” Angelina was stroking the black-and-white head.

“What, Shep Cavanaugh was mistaken when he found the bones, and his dog with a mouthful of wool?”

“I didn’t say he didn’t eat the lamb, I simply said he didn’t kill it. And the whole episode was Cavanaugh’s fault in the first place. It was just easier to blame the dog for his own laziness. He left the sheep in the hills too long, during a terrible storm, never coming to check for early lambs, never coming to bring food for his dog. Buttons was starving, but he wouldn’t leave the sheep. The lamb could have died naturally.”

“The lamb could have put on ice skates and sung at the Frost Fair, too! Deuce take it, you’d make excuses for the cannibals that ate—I’m sorry. That was unforgivable. But you cannot know what happened up in the hills. Cavanaugh is an experienced man who knows sheep and sheepdogs.”

Angelina just said “Watch.” She whistled once and made a series of hand gestures. Buttons barked once, then herded the three yapping Yorkshire terriers, Pug, and the epileptic Pekingese into a corner of the hall. At another signal, Buttons nudged the half-blind Maltese into the corner, too, before lying down in front of his corralled flock as they yipped in his ear, made swipes at his wagging tail, and pawed at his thick fur.

“Buttons would not hurt anything, my lord. He deserves another chance.” She waved her hand, and the big dog got up, releasing the others from the corner.

So they were back to “my lord.” Fine. “No one will give a sheep killer a second chance, Miss Armstead. They cannot afford to when every lamb makes the difference between their own children going hungry. There are a lot of dogs.”

“And there are a lot of competent, conscientious sheep-herders. If that lamb meant so much to Shep Cavanaugh, he should have been the one out in that storm guarding it.”

“Dash it, you
do
care more for the dogs than for people. You’re sounding more like my aunt Sophie every day. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up like her, too, alone and lonely.”

“She wasn’t alone! She had her dogs and her friends and a staff that adored her. She had me, too, remember, her paid companion. Except she did not pay for my affection; I gave that freely and happily, unlike others who have to trade their titles and fortunes to—” Angelina bit back the words she was about to say concerning loveless marriages, like the one he was about to contract if rumors were true. “Excuse me.”

“Touché. Now we are even for saying more than we should. I shall bid you good day. Miss—What the deuce cloth-headed thing are you doing now?”

He’d finally gotten around to taking stock of his nemesis. Angel was back in her shapeless black gown and drooping black mobcap. She was wearing sturdy boots and thick gloves, and an old-fashioned blunderbuss rested on the ground near her foot. He took a step back when she raised the ancient weapon. She couldn’t be that offended, could she?

Angelina stepped around the little dogs and around the viscount. “Excuse me, I am going for a walk.” When she followed his gaze to the firearm, she added, “You did warn me it might be dangerous, didn’t you?”

“Bloody hell,” Corin muttered, following her out of the door and down the path. He should have left the dog on her doorstep. He could feel trouble in his bones, especially his bad leg and the aching ribs from last night. He should turn his back and keep going, without asking one more question whose answer he wasn’t going to like. Hell, he should shoot himself for interfering, if Angel didn’t shoot him first. “Halt!” he shouted in his best military voice. “Halt, I say, or I’ll march inside and ask Lady Hathaway if she knows where her proper young miss is going.”

Angelina stopped, cursing the man for his meddling. “I am in a hurry, and Lady Hathaway is still abed.”

“Too bad. To my everlasting regret, I must insist on knowing where you are going, my girl, and what you are going to do with that gun once you get there.”

Angelina didn’t have the heart to rip up at him for his overbearing ways or the familiarity, not now. “I am going to the woods to kill a dog, my lord.”

“Well, that’s a novel twist, I must admit. Is your victim any dog I’ve had the pleasure of encountering? How about Caesar, or the one who ate my gloves again yesterday?”

“Is making light of things all you can do? This is not a joking matter, my lord. Someone has shot a dog in the woods. One of the children reported hearing the shot and the animal’s screams. He couldn’t find it, so he came to me.”

“To you? What can you do about it?”

“I can put the poor creature out of its misery, of course. Did you think I would let an animal lie there and bleed to death in agony?”

“Of course not. But why didn’t you send for one of the soldiers at the gatehouse to take care of the problem?”

“Because the problem, as you call it, came from the gatehouse, where you have those ruffians quartered. That’s what the boy Leroy said, anyway, and I believe him. None of our local people would shoot a dog.”

“There are always poachers.”

“With all the watchmen you have patrolling the grounds and woods? Not likely. Besides, the last thing a poacher would do is fire a gun where someone could hear it. And a dog? Not even the most desperate of thieves would shoot a dog.”

But any number of herdsmen would shoot Buttons. Thank goodness the sheepdog was safely inside. He looked around to see if he could tell which of the others was missing. “Is it one of your dogs?”

“No, thank heaven, but that doesn’t change anything except that I’d practice my aim at the gatehouse first.”

“What would you do, shoot the whole contingent of soldiers? You have no proof.” He eyed the wide-muzzled, unreliable gun skeptically. “You do know how to use that thing, I assume.”

“I know the mechanics, thank you. Jed Groom taught me.” Patting the pocket of her skirt, she confessed, “I am better with the pistol here. But I do not know how close the dog will let me come. Wounded creatures can be unpredictable and dangerous. I do not want the poor thing to run farther into the woods, either, where it will be harder to find.”

“I can see where you’d be concerned—anyone would be—but why the deuce isn’t Jed going with you, or in your stead?”

“It’s market day; Jed has driven Cook into the village. I could ask one of the footmen, but none of them can handle a weapon, and this is not their province. Lady Sophie left me in charge here, so this is my responsibility. I can do what needs to be done.”

She could if she could see between her tears.

Corin cursed to himself. “You’re not even taking Ajax, your bodyguard?”

“He shouldn’t have to see this.”

Bloody hell, Corin thought, the widgeon was protecting the tender sensibilities of Attila the Hun. And looking more like Florrie’s blotchy children with every tear she tried to hold back. Damn, damn, damn. He took the heavy blunderbuss from her and fell into step.

“Oh, but it’s not your responsibility,” Angelina started to say.

“No? In case you haven’t noticed, we are on my land now. I sent for those soldiers, and I pay the gamekeepers, who should have seen to this. Furthermore, you might not think I am much of a gentleman, but the day I permit a lady to shoulder such a task is the day I shall be in my grave.”

“Thank you. Do you know, the vicar must be right after all, that there is some good in all of us.”

Except the military mawworms at the gatehouse.

* * * *

They heard the dog before they saw it, a low wailing sound of death and fear and pain that would have brought tears to the hardest heart. Angelina and Corin crashed through the brush, following the sound and the trail of blood; then they had to pull apart a thicket of briers that the creature had crawled under, to die.

“Don’t look,” Corin told her, but Angelina didn’t listen, as usual. The dog was medium-size, black and tan with a dash of white, with a thick, matted coat. There was a huge, gaping wound above the right hip, with blood slowly seeping onto the already sodden ground. The animal didn’t raise its head when they came closer; it just kept up the rhythmic keening.

“Don’t get any nearer,” Angelina whispered, reaching into her pocket for the pistol. “An animal in such pain doesn’t know what it’s doing and can inflict a terrible bite.”

But Corin had put the blunderbuss down and was kneeling on the muddy ground next to the dog. He moved his hand cautiously forward until the animal could smell him, and a tongue reached out to try to lick his fingers.

“Stand away, my lord,” Angelina entreated him, her voice wavering as much as the pistol she held in both hands, trying to aim through tear-filled eyes.

“Don’t shoot.”

“I can do it, really I can.”

“But don’t. See, he’s trying to move, to come to me. He’s not dying, I know it.”

“But all the blood, and the pain the poor dog must be suffering.”

“Blast it, the dog deserves a chance!” he echoed her earlier words.

“I cannot believe this,” Angelina said, lowering the gun and coming to his side. “You’d have me destroy Buttons for one suspected misdeed, and the other perfectly healthy dogs because they are not useful or they misbehave, yet you’d let this poor creature suffer because it licked your hand?”

He was petting the dog’s head now, and the yowling had stopped. Angelina thought it was because the dog was too weak to cry anymore; Corin thought it was because the dog was reassured by his presence. “He likes me.”

“He is a she, and it makes no difference. We cannot help her, Knolly, no matter how nice a dog. The only merciful deed we can do is end her misery.”

“We can try, damn it.” He had his neck cloth off and formed into a pad to hold to the wound.

Without a word Angelina turned, bent, and ripped the hem of her petticoat. She handed the length of fabric to the viscount and said, “I have a bottle of laudanum in my pocket that might help, if you can get some into her without getting bitten.”

“She won’t bite me, will you, girl?” The dog let him bind the wound and pour the opiate down her throat. A lot dribbled out of her mouth, so he tried again. “I don’t know how much...”

Angelina shook her head. “It won’t matter if you give her too much.”

“I’ve seen men with worse wounds live to fight another day, Angel. She can make it, I know.”

“Perhaps, if we get the bullet out, if there is no infection, and if she hasn’t lost too much blood already, or caught a lung inflammation. But we are miles away from the cottage. She’ll be dead by the time we can get back with a wagon, or even a horse if you could hold her, so what’s the use?”