Why did I not leave him to do his worst when I have an absolute horror, bordering on pathological terror, of mice, let alone rats? The immediate answer was that it would be reprehensible for me to allow a dog for which I now felt responsible to go hounding through the house. Lord Belfrey deserved better from me, as did his staff. A second truth was that much as I loathed the very idea of Whitey, I would have considered myself wicked beyond belief if I had not made the attempt to save him from imminent death. This would have been the case whether or not he was Mrs. Foot’s beloved pet and, therefore, also important to Mr. Plunket and Boris. It was a matter of unwished-for principle and I was stuck with it.
“Thumper!” I bawled, on catching sight of his tail disappearing around yet another corner. “Stop this minute! Weren’t you ever told to pick on animals your own size! Bad boy! Okay, good boy!” Plowing up a skinny, twisting staircase that had appeared to my right, I continued to rant between puffs, but to no avail, as he was now racing down another, particularly dusky passageway. Perhaps a change of tone would work better. “Thumper-or whatever your real name is-come! Come to Ellie, there’s a dear! We’ll go and look for some nice bones without life attached to them!” He turned so abruptly that I collided with a door left standing open. I could not have seen well enough to read his expression even had I not been grabbing my shin, but I sensed his hesitation… a dog torn between duty born of affection and the call of the wild according to Jack London. A vile squeak settled the matter. Thumper plunged through the doorway, with me staggering behind.
This passageway was wider and better lit due to a couple of windows. Ahead of us, Whitey was groveling at desperate speed along the skirting board, until the revolting tip of his hairless tail disappeared after the rest of him into a hole in the wall.
Thumper belly-flopped back to earth, to lie with his limbs at geometrically impossible angles. His pathetically defeated whine tugged at my susceptible heartstrings, but, eyeing my scraped shin, which would undoubtedly develop a bruise, I did not allow my voice to soften when telling him that he was a disgrace to whoever had brought him up. Ignoring his melting eyes, I added that I would be glad to see the back of him. This was not true, and to my instant regret he seemed to take me at my word, getting to his paws and trailing on down the passageway, head low, tail drooping. I was about to tell him that I hadn’t meant it-that I would miss him and would have liked him for my dog, but for the fact I had a cat at home who would be strenuously against the idea-when he halted and in his immobility radiated a renewed vigor, alert and cheerfully alive. He turned to look back at me, stepped forward, and turned again; clearly he was urging me to follow him. A closed door faced us, which I opened, instantly recognizing (as he had already done) that we were back on familiar territory.
“Okay,” I said. “All is forgiven. We’ll pretend this was your objective all along and say no more of the matter.” His palpable gratitude followed me into the bedroom that seemed likely to be mine for the week ahead. Today was Saturday; I stopped counting forward when Ben emerged from the cubbyhole where he should have slept in the previous night. Perhaps it was the distempered bareness of the small space that brought into such stark relief his dark, curly-haired, olive-skinned, blue-green-eyed good looks. Or was it that it seemed an age since I had last seen him?
His first words should have been that he had missed me terribly, prior to launching into an apology for agreeing to stay on as Georges LeBois’s chef without waiting to talk to me about it. But after the briefest of glances he turned his attention to Thumper, standing like a very short sentinel at my side.
“What’s that?” Ben raised an elegantly shaped eyebrow, but for once I was not one hundred percent charmed. A Hello, darling, I feared you were dead and my life forever blighted would have been nice.
“It’s a dog.”
“I can see that.” He moved farther into the room, returning Thumper’s equally intent look of appraisal.
“He,” I stressed the pronoun, “is a black Lab.”
“That too is apparent. I meant why is he with you?”
“A woman alone in the world needs companionship.” I sat down on the bed, peeling my shoes off suddenly tired feet. So far I’d had more exercise in the first hours of the morning than I often got in a week, and after only a couple of hours’ sleep at that. “As you may observe, Thumper here is my devoted slave.”
The dear dog gave an authoritative woof of agreement.
“Looks like it.”
Had I been a character in a book-Wisteria Whitworth for instance-I would have gazed up at Ben through a sweep of long, curling eyelashes. But unfortunately I am not overly blessed in the lash department. His are the kind to make any woman’s heart beat in envy. “Thumper,” I continued piteously, “has filled a void in my life since I awoke to find you gone. You might at least pretend to have been worried about me.”
“I was worried… I was panicked.” Demonstrating the truth of this, Ben sat down on the bed and drew me into his arms.
“Panic sounds good.” I admitted. “But I need to feel it.”
“Like this?” He kissed me deeply. Even knowing Thumper was watching could not spoil the moment.
“Very nice,” I said.
“I was panicked all right.” Ben smiled wryly. “I thought Lord Belfrey had abducted you.”
“If you were seriously afraid of that, why did you leave me alone all night?” I waited for him to tell me about his cleanup of the muck-filled Mucklesfeld kitchen and his talk with Georges about staying on for the duration of Here Comes the Bride, but he kept to the topic of his lordship.
“You must have noticed, Ellie, that the man couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Only because I remind him of a portrait. A foolish fixation from the sound of it, seeing the subject is Eleanor Belfrey, second wife of his cousin and predecessor Giles, and a woman who sullied the illustrious family name by making off at dead of night with the jewel collection and Giles’s beloved Scottie.”
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Ellie.”
“Rubbish!” I said. “Just because I snared you by a witch’s spell cast on the night of the full moon does not mean that every handsome man who crosses my path falls victim to my fatal charm.”
“The fellow is handsome, damn him.”
“I’d say reasonably good-looking.”
“Tall, too.”
“Now stop that,” I scolded. “I don’t know why you have this hang-up about being of medium height. I wouldn’t want to have to crane my neck when gazing starrily into your eyes.” Ben kissed me again, but I wasn’t entirely sure I had convinced him. And when he didn’t bring up Georges LeBois, I told him about Thumper’s arrival through the window, Livonia’s subsequent appearance on the scene, and the unfolding of other events. It was when I got to the encounter with Georges in the kitchen that I paused and said: “Your turn.”
Ben did not answer immediately because Thumper, who had been prowling the room presumably in search of hidden recording devices installed as per the great man’s instructions, climbed onto the bed and spread out between us.
“Wouldn’t seem to have heard the saying about two being company, three a crowd.” My husband, who along with the children had always been keen to have a dog if Tobias could be persuaded to give way on the issue, stroked a hand over the silken black head.
“No shifting from the point,” I said. “What’s this about your agreeing to stay on as Georges LeBois’s chef?”
“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Lower your voice.” I dropped mine down a couple of notches. “This room may be bugged.”