nothing more than embarrassment. But in America, he’d have been hung as a horse thief. His guilt when he looked at the bill to Tattersall’s was almost too much to stand.
What did bother him even more than the debts was having strangers scraping and bowing and calling him my Lord Comstock. He wanted to shout, ‘You don’t know me.’ If they did, they would realise that they had made a mistake in thinking a common ancestry qualified him to do the job they had foisted upon him.
After half a day’s journey, he passed the marker that indicated the edge of the Comstock holdings. There was no denying that the land he’d inherited was pretty, with rolling farmland and a village full of thatched-roof cottages. The view was spoiled when he paused to realise that he was responsible for keeping those roofs from leaking. But at least the tavern served a decent ale and did not enquire about his past, despite his accent. The last thing he needed was to be identified as their new lord and master before he could finish his drink.
* * *
After a light lunch he rode on towards the estate. But as he came around a turn in the gravel drive he saw two houses: the great house on the hill and a second house, large by normal standards, but dwarfed by the manor beyond it.
The smaller one must be the dower house that he’d been told of. It had been described as almost beyond repair, which meant it was unoccupied and unattended. If there was a couch, or at least a dry patch of floor to lay out his bedroll, he might stay there unnoticed. It would save him the trouble of making excuses to the servants at the great house about his sudden arrival and equally sudden departure.
And if there happened to be a set of silver left in a sideboard, he might still see some profit from this unfortunate trip. When pawned, a saddlebag full of second-best decorations would at least be enough to buy a ticket for home.
He dismounted, looped the reins over a nearby tree branch and approached the house. But before he’d got within ten feet of the door he heard a familiar angry bark and felt a fifteen-pound projectile strike his calf. He stared down at the little black-and-white head, with the equally small fangs sunk ineffectually into his boot leather, and resisted the urge to kick.
Instead, he reached down, grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and tugged it free, then lifted it to eye level, glaring at it.
The dog returned the sort of look normally reserved for cats and creditors.
‘I do not know what possessed me to rescue you at the docks, since this is all the thanks I’ve got for it. If this is how you treated your previous owner, I understand why he was trying to drown you.’ It had been instinct that made him drop his luggage and grab for the burlap sack that the boy had been trying to fling off the gangplank of the Mary Beth, assuming that the child’s father had told him, harshly but sensibly, that a sea voyage was no place for a dog. By the time he’d turned to assure the little attempted murderer his pup would be safe, the boy had vanished and Miles had been the owner of the most ungrateful cur in the New World.
‘Grrr…’ The animal made a snap at the empty air, trying to reach him. Miles had told himself for weeks that the dog’s bad temper was caused by close confinement and the constant rocking of the ship. But he appeared to be no happier on the dry land of England than he had been in America.
‘When I sent you on ahead with the Dowager, I hoped we might never see each other again. Have you managed to get yourself banished from the main house already?’
The dog squirmed in his hands, taking another snap before wriggling free and jumping to the ground. Then, he turned towards the dower house and leapt through a broken window, still barking.
Miles sighed. ‘I am not climbing in after you. There is a perfectly good door.’ He walked to the front of the house, reaching into his pocket for the ring of keys, before noticing that it already stood open a crack.
‘You can come out on your own,’ he called. ‘You have four good legs on you and no longer need my help.’ He listened for a scrabbling of paws or any other sign that the dog had heard and meant to obey him. If he planned to stay here, it might be handy to have the little beast chasing down rodents for him. With the door left ajar, the place was probably crawling with them. But since the dog loathed him and tried to bite each chance it got, he was probably safer putting it outside and trying to befriend the rats.
As he stepped into the house, it surprised him that there was no sign of the dog, nor the sound of barking from deeper inside. Was there a chance that it had fallen through a weak floorboard, or injured itself on broken glass? He was a fool to care for a thing that wanted no part of him. But at least there was no one around to witness his softness. He advanced into the house. ‘Where are you, you little bastard?’ With luck, he could lead it back towards the open door without incurring any damage to boot or hand. Then, he could block the window and lock the door against it until it gave up harassing him and found its way back to wherever it was being kept.
Miles looked around him at the entryway to the dower house. Except for the dog, the place would not be a bad one to hole up in, until he decided what to do with himself. The Dowager had spoken of repairs too expensive to render the place liveable. But she was a great lady, used to comfort and entertaining. To a man used to sleeping rough, it was near to a castle. It was damp, of course. But a fire would help that. And the furniture had been covered to protect it against time and the elements, which would likely enter through the leaks in the roof. He would not trust the mattresses to be dry, but in the rooms he passed on the way to the dog, there were no end of tables and chairs, and probably a few long benches and sofas that would make a decent bed if one was tired enough. It would do nicely, even if he couldn’t find any silver worth selling.
A streak of black-and-white fur passed by the doorway ahead of him. There was another familiar bark as the dog came to the end of whatever course it had set for itself. Then a moment’s pause before it pelted back across the opening in the opposite direction. The creature had played a similar game on the ship, running back and forth down the companionway, dodging curses and kicks from angry sailors and passengers before racing back into his cabin and falling into an exhausted heap at the end of his bunk.
It had been amusing the first time. Now it was just annoying. But before he could shout at it, someone else said, ‘Pepper! Be still.’
He froze. Though it had the strength of a general, the voice was definitely female. Was it the empty house that gave it such an unusual tone? It seemed to echo, yet was strangely muffled. He approached the room in front of him with caution, not sure if it was better to confront her, or sneak away unnoticed.
When he passed the threshold, the explanation was obvious. The dog had halted his insane racing and was sitting on the hearth, sniffing at the pair of women’s boots standing on the andirons. As he watched, one of them lifted as the woman wearing them stretched her body upwards, reaching for something in the chimney.
There was a shower of soot and a muffled ‘Damnation.’
The dog retreated with a sneeze, waiting for the ash to settle. Then, as helpful as ever, he lurched forward and grabbed a mouthful of skirts, swinging on them to further unbalance their wearer.
Miles could not help it. He laughed.
Slowly, the boot lowered, seeking footing on the grate. ‘Whoever you are, if you mean to harass me, I have a poker and am not afraid to use it on you.’ If her arm held the same resolve that her tone did, any blow delivered would likely be strong enough to make him think twice.
‘And I have a pistol,’ he countered. ‘But I don’t think either of us need worry, because neither of us wishes to resort to violence.
