Page 59 of The Captive Duke
“David, Jenny, go dust up the whelping box and let Duchess know she’s to have visitors.”
Christian was being announced to a dog. He rather liked the idea. “Your bitch answers to Duchess?”
Timwood grinned. “Me da named her, and a right duchess she is too. Excellent bloodlines all around, but a sweet nature, for all she’s protective of those pups. Eightof them, there are, four and four, dogs and bitches. Not a fault in the bunch.”
“To which sire did you breed her?”
Christian had asked the right question, for Mr. Timwood launched into a diatribe laced with more begats and out-ofs than could be found in a book of the Old Testament. By the time the three men were assailed with the pungent scent of the kennel, Christian was certain the bitch’s lineage went back at least to the Conqueror’s dog, if not to some pup Jesus had played with as a boy.
“That ’un be the runt,” Timwood said, though the thing wasn’t any smaller than its siblings, that Christian could see. “He’ll be big enough, but he hangs back, see. He’s smarter than the rest, mayhap, waitin’ and seein’ rather than scrabbling away to get to the tit. There’s always another tit, ain’t there, fella? But he’ll not get the attention, the way he is.”
Timwood scratched the little beast’s ear, then went on to regale Christian with the virtues of the other seven puppies. They were geniuses, according to Timwood, ready to learn to fetch His Grace’s slippers, light his pipe, saddle his horse, and hunt up his dinner. They’d offer protection, companionship, and cut a dash on the street in Town…
And all the while the runt curled up by himself at the side of Duchess’s roomy whelping box.
“Who plays with the runt?” Christian asked.
“This ’un.” Timwood picked up a wriggling ball ofpuppy. “The dimwit. He’s too good-natured. He’ll work his heart out for ye, but don’t be trusting him to guard the chickens. He’ll cadge a nap when Renard comes by for a visit.”
The dog hung in Timwood’s big hands, panting happily, looking every bit as stupid as his breeder suggested.
“I’ll take the runt and the dimwit.”
A look passed between Hancock and Timwood, the visual manifestation of, “Oh, the Quality!” Christian allowed them their silent communication and scratched a silky puppy ear.
“Come week’s end, this one would have gone into the rain barrel,” Timwood said, holding up the runt. “And now he’s gone for a dook’s dog. God looks after fools, drunks, and strays, aye? To drown the pup woulda hurt me heart—Missus usually sees to such things—but he’ll have a big mouth to feed once he’s weaned. He’s good-lookin’ enough, though. He’ll do for ya, Dook.”
Christian accepted the dog, narrowly avoiding having his face bathed by a curious pink tongue.
“And this one. Stone stupid, he is, but yer not buyin’ him for his brains.” He passed the dimwit to Hancock, who suffered the dog to lick his chin.
“You’re sure they’re ready to be weaned?” Christian distracted the puppy by letting it sniff his riding glove.
“We’ve been feedin’ them from the dish for the past week. Duchess is looking a mite peaked, according to the missus. Milk and gravy to start, some juicy bones for their puppy teeth, and soon, any table scraps ye got.”
Chessie sniffed the puppy, then looked away, as if to indicate he cared not one whit for such a small excuse for a beast. Christian aborted his original plan, which had been to transport the pups in his saddlebags. He settled for holding the thing in one hand and guiding the horse with the other, while Hancock managed similarly.
“Can’t say as I’ve ever ridden with a dog,” Hancock observed.
“Nor have I. Pay him more than he asks.”
“Beg pardon?”
“He’ll try to gouge us on general principles, but if he makes a fine profit on the runt and the dimwit from this litter, he might try harder to sell the next runt and dimwit to some preening earl’s son. I might be able to connect him with a London factor for that express purpose.”
Hancock dodged more chin-licking. “May I ask what you intend to use these beasts for, sir?”
“Leverage.”
Thankfully, it was beyond Hancock’s ability to ask His Grace what on earth he meant.
“Come, princess.”
Christian held out his hand to his daughter. They had a routine now. Late morning, after he’d ridden out, after he’d spent several hours with his stewards andhis correspondence—and his grooming and penmanship—he went up to the nursery and sprang Lucy from her studies.
They strolled the garden, examining the flowers now rioting in abundance. They rode out, with Damsel on a leading line, or Lucy up before her papa on Chessie. Twice they’d taken a rod and tackle to the estate’s nearest fishing hole and dropped a line.
Today, Christian had other plans.
