When Emilia rounded the corner, she was a bit relieved that it was Mr. Byrne who'd been Mopsy's victim. Not that she had no sympathy at all for the way the rope was twisted around his legs as Mopsy bounced around the man like he was a maypole. But at least his opinion of Mopsy was already fairly bad, to the point that it couldn't get much worse.

"Could you call off this madra dúr before he topples me to my death?" Mr. Byrne growled when he caught sight of her.

The poor man must be quite alarmed if he was reduced to nonsense words.

She tried calling Mopsy's name very firmly, but that didn't stop him from, when he ran out of rope, attempting to climb Mr. Byrne's legs. And the both of them were very near the top of the stairs!

There was nothing else for it. She rushed forward, gripped his lapels, and toppled the man herself, just away from the stairs.

While the pair of them fell to the carpet with grunts of alarm, Mopsy couldn't have been more pleased and used their new positions to lick both of their faces in abject adoration, the silly darling.

"A Dhia, cabhraigh liom," he breathed, which sounded like more angry nonsense to her.

She was tempted to laugh, but resisted, certain Mr. Byrne would be even angrier if she did. She shielded herself from Mopsy's kisses, holding him away by the rope, and turned her head, wincing already at the murder she was likely to see in Mr. Byrne's eyes. Though he didn't look amused, he didn't seem angry, precisely, staring down at her as if torn between shock and annoyance and... was flabbergastment a word? She'd have to ask Miss Prudence later.

She suppressed a laugh again as Mopsy whined as if his heart was broken while she continued to hold him back, though she did give Mr. Byrne an apologetic smile. "If you wanted to, you could take this as a compliment."

He let out a surprised huff that almost seemed like a laugh. "Are you saying this is some kind of flirtation?"

Her eyes widened as she caught his meaning and, quite belatedly, realized their very unseemly position. "I meant from Mopsy. He is an awful flirt, but I wasn't..." She did let out a laugh, then — a very tittering, irritating one that made her wince all over again. Who was she around this man? "I didn't want you to fall to your death. That's all."

"Well, thanks for that consideration," he grunted, lifting himself up by his arms and attempting to stand, but as his legs were still bound, he could only roll to the side.

She reflected that his opinion of her might possibly be worse than his opinion of Mopsy. And she shouldn't care, but... "Are you hurt?"

"No. But no thanks to you, since you brought this monster into... Stop it, you!" Since his movements had spoiled her grip on the rope, Mopsy had renewed his attempts at showing his affection. The man tried to angle his head away as he worked at his bonds.

Emilia sat up and turned to him. "Here. Let me loosen this end and you can wriggle—"

"I think you've done enough," he broke in, batting her away with one hand, then poor Mopsy with the other. "Leave me be, diabhal!"

And he was still talking nonsense. "Don't be silly. I can—"

"If someone were to see us like this, Miss Crewe," he said stiffly, "they wouldn't find it silly at all. Do you care nothing for your good name?"

Emilia scrambled to her feet, feeling quite chastened at the idea of her being the one to finally ruin Miss Prudence's reputation. The girl was doing that well enough without her help. "Good God, I didn't think—"

"No, you obviously didn't. Now would you stand up and hold that madra craiceáilte back? I can't get free if he keeps mauling me."

She gripped Mopsy about the middle and pulled him away, despite his protests. "Are you certain you aren't hurt? You keep talkin' nonsense. Perhaps you've hit your head."

"It's not nonsense. It's Irish," he grunted, getting to his feet and handing her the end of the rope. "You see, I've run out of English words for this... thing you keep plaguing me with."

Emilia kept poor Mopsy close. "You really should take it as a compliment. He was excited to see you again."

"The feeling is not mutual. I thought you said you'd be presenting this creature to the kitchens, not prancing it around the house... and tied up with a bow, I see."

"I think he looks very well now that he's dry." She straightened his slightly-crushed ribbon. "Isn't he marvelously fluffy?"

Mr. Byrne only grunted as if, she noted with satisfaction, he couldn't deny it.

"I thought Sir Anthony might like to see him at his best," she said, "as if he was applying for the position."

"What position would that be?" Mr. Byrne grumbled. "House menace?"

"I hadn't thought of a name for it. But he could be a fair guard dog, ward off mice and all that. Just listen to his fearsome bark. Bark, Mopsy!"

Mopsy only tilted his head and stayed silent, which was very irritating since he'd barked quite a lot all afternoon, and always when not asked.

She leaned down, giving him a look that she hoped told him he was meant to impress here. "Go on! Speak!"

He let out a very small whine and licked her nose.

"Very intimidating," Mr. Byrne observed dryly. "The mice will cower before him."

"He's just savin' himself. It's really Sir Anthony he needs to impress. Speaking of him," she lifted pleading eyes to his, "if you could not tell him about what happened just now—"

"Don't worry yourself. I don't relish the idea of spreading my near-death by dog far and wide, so let us forget it." He extended his arm to her.

She stared down at it a moment, then awkwardly bent her own arm around to shake his hand. "Then we have an agreement."

He tilted his head, giving her a quizzical look. "Yes. That. But I was offering to escort you downstairs."

"Oh." She released his hand abruptly, feeling like a simpleton as she stared as his bent arm. She was not quite sure what she was meant to do. She'd never had need of being escorted downstairs before. Did she really need it now?

Regardless, he finally grasped her gloved hand and placed it on his arm.

"Er... Thank you. Go on, Mopsy." She tugged the rope and Mopsy skipped past to walk before her. "See how he minds me? He's such a docile boy. He must have belonged to someone before. I think he deserves to belong to someone again. "

"Then I won't spoil it for you, even if it was bad enough having to explain to my valet how my boots met their untimely end."

Emilia pulled away from him at the bottom of the stairs. Servants gossiped. Not that she did... mostly. But she knew better than anyone how quickly word spread below-stairs, enough that it made its way upstairs before a day was done. Had she ruined Miss Prudence's good name already? "Did you mention me to him? Please say you didn't."

Mr. Byrne didn't answer since, at that moment, there was a clap of distant thunder and Mopsy decided the best defense against it was rushing to the window and growling with all his might.

"So very docile," he droned.

"Dogs act funny when the rain's coming. That's all. I reckon he believes he's protectin' us."

Mr. Byrne gestured to the window, where Mopsy was still expressing his suspicions. "From the sound of it, I reckon he'll be protectin' us for several days."

Dash it all, she must mind her speech more closely. What was it about this man that put her so off her guard? "If Sir Anthony finds it so distracting," she began carefully, "I suppose I could take him 'round... around to the neighbors tomorrow. Someone must have need of him."

Mr. Byrne gave her a doubtful glance. "In the rain?"

"I'm certain Mrs. Baddeley would be kind enough to lend me an umbrella."

"Mrs. Baddeley is notoriously kind, however you shouldn't be out in such weather."

She waved a hand at that silliness. "I've done it plenty of times. Sometimes a house needs things from the village whether there's rain or not."

"And you're the one sent out? Aren't there servants to do such—"

"Oh, no. I... I often insist upon it," she lied, pasting on a smile. "I quite enjoy a walk on a rainy day." She didn't, of course. It was only when rare necessity intervened that she'd ever been forced to walk to the village in the rain. She'd really been quite comfortably indoors since her promotion, leaving poor Agnes to brave the rain if needed, though Jeremy often volunteered to save her from the damp. But Miss Prudence had often gone out walking in the wet as if it was not madness. "It stirs the imagination," she'd say. Emilia repeated the words now, as much as they'd always annoyed her.

Mr. Byrne shook his head. "I suppose your maid is more forgiving than my valet then."

"Yes, speakin' of him..." Emilia twisted the rope in her hands. "I'm sure everyone will think me silly enough for this dog-bathing business. No need for anyone to know your part in it. I certainly haven't told anyone, not even my miss... Miss Finch," she finished awkwardly. "So I hope you didn't tell your Mister... er..."

"Fletcher," he supplied, staring at her strangely. "You have a surprising amount of secrets, Miss Crewe."

He didn't know the half of it. "I am simply worried that it might be considered unseemly if we were known to have... bathed a dog together."

He let out a slight laugh. "Are you certain there are rules against it?"

"I don't rightly know, but in case—"

At that moment, the thunder was joined by lightning and it was far too much for Mopsy to defend the house against. He rushed to bury his face in her skirts.

"Well, I told my man the diabhal dog was responsible. You weren't mentioned."

"Dee-uhl dog?" she repeated. That was what it sounded like to her. "Is that another Irish word?"

"It means devil. Fletcher doesn't know the word, but he understands the sympathy behind it. He's not fond of him either."

"Poor Mopsy. You're not a devil, are you?"

Mopsy had no response but a sweet little whine as he nuzzled closer to her.

"Well, I certainly hope Sir Anthony's servants feel differently," she said.

Mr. Byrne stared down at the dog a moment, his brows drawn together. "I have a feeling they might," he finally said.

*********************

It was galling, but Miss Crewe had really left him little choice. It was either take the dog in or suffer the idea of the girl parading him around to the neighbors in the rain. They weren't his neighbors and, as he kept reminding himself, Miss Crewe was not his concern. So he had to wonder why he was so bothered about it.

And he rather wished he could stop being so bothered about Miss Crewe on the whole -- her dog-based antics, her mysteriously disappearing and reappearing accent, and the feel of her underneath him in those moments before he'd ripped himself away.

It shouldn't matter. None if it should be his to dwell on for more than a second. He should tell Tony to cast her dratted pet out. But by the time Miss Crewe asked Tony if he had need of a "well-behaved, gentle dog... er, who is also very fiercely protective," she'd added as the silly thing growled back at the thunder again, Byrne found himself nodding when Tony gave him a questioning glance.

Tony, of course, exaggerated his enthusiasm. "What a lively fellow! I'd be more than happy to have him around the house. You know, I've always said no house is complete without a mistress or a dog. And now you've given us one, Miss Crewe," he said, grinning. "I suppose we must be patient as to the other."

Byrne frowned at his claret and considered exchanging it for whiskey until he noticed Miss Crewe's smile falter slightly and his mood inexplicably lightened.

He reminded himself he should be angry. It was outrageous that he was forced into caring for the diabhal dog, but that's what things amounted to. Sculthorpe might be Tony's house, but almost every servant currently in it was Byrne's. They'd be tasked with the caring and feeding of it... as if that wasn't the case already.

While Fletcher absolutely detested the dog, his valet had informed him that he strongly suspected the cook and the kitchen maid had been feeding the thing all week. It wouldn't have been likely to leave the place alone even if Miss Crewe hadn't practically sent the mop an engraved invitation.

As the rest of the party trickled in, reactions to their new dinner guest were mixed. Mrs. Fernside still cringed away from him, while her charge knelt to scratch and coo over the "chiot très doux."

Mrs. Baddeley was similarly enthused. "Who knew there was such wonderful fluff under all that dirt?"

Miss Crewe beamed. "Aye, I suppose he's a bit of a diamond in the... ruff," she finished, glancing around with a slight laugh. No one else joined her. "I meant ruff as in the sound, not the..." Her voice trailed off. "Never mind."

Byrne found himself chuckling and rolling his eyes, drawing slightly nearer to her. "I understood what you meant," he said lowly, "but I found it a pawful joke."

Miss Crewe's eyes slid his way as her lips quirked up slightly. "I am not surprised. You don't seem impressed by his trans-fur-mation, either."

"Come now, I've kept his secrets, helped him get a woof over his head."

"With all this rain, isn't that the leashed you can do?"

He shook his head. "Now that was terrible."

"I can find something better." Her eyes searched the ceiling as she muttered to herself. "Terrible, terrible... I'm wondering if there is some kind of terrier joke to be found, but he's not a terrier, so..."

"No. He looks more like a mut with some Smithfield or Cotswold Collie in him to me."

She pursed her lips. "I can't think of any jokes for those. Except perhaps that he's a jolly collie... No, that doesn't quite work since we don't know for sure."

"Perhaps it's just as well. The rest of them might wonder what we're whispering about over here. They might even suspect we've..." Here, he let out a gasp. "...washed a dog together."

She stiffened and hissed, "Could you say that less loudly?"

"Of course, I..." He drew back slightly. They didn't know each other well enough for him to tease her. And it wasn't something he usually did with young ladies or... really anyone, these days. "My apologies, Miss Crewe."

"But aye," she went on. "We might've exhausted all possible dog words between us. Still, I'd wager Miss P... Finch could likely come up with more, but..." She trailed off with a distracted glance behind her.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Your maid?"

"Well... She's a very clever thing," Miss Crewe said, backing away.

"I don't doubt it," Byrne said, wishing she wouldn't go. "You know, my man, Fletcher is also quite—"

"I beg your pardon," she broke in. "I must instruct someone as to Mopsy's care."

"Yes, of course," he said uselessly, since she'd already turned away and was joining Mrs. Baddeley at the door.

He could spy his kitchen maid through the opening. Kitty looked almost ecstatic, leaning over and patting her apron to lure the dratted dog closer. He jumped at her, thick as thieves. One of the culprits, along with his Cook, he'd wager. He had a good mind to say something about this insubordinate behavior, but he feared he'd get cold eggs or, worse, his kitchen staff would give their notice. It had nearly happened once before. After a particularly raucous week of parties, he'd managed to convince them to stay, but found himself eating burnt toast for the week after. He'd actually been more impressed than angry. Fair was fair, after all.

Once the dog had been dispensed with, Miss Crewe seemed to flit about the room to anyone who wasn't him.

He should be relieved. Someone had to put an end to the flirtation, silly as it was, and he didn't seem to be capable. He'd accused her of flirting earlier, but it was really he who was the guilty party. And it was not like him.

He didn't have a tendency to flirt or even to respond to flirtation, but compared to his usual behavior, he might as well have winked, called her 'dearie', and pinched her bottom. Every interaction they had, he found himself prolonging it or, like just now, seeking her out. And it needed to stop.

WEALTHY INDUSTRIALIST WEDS DAUGHTER OF COUNTRY BARON

It wouldn't be printed. It wasn't interesting enough to warrant a spot in any paper except in very small print in the wedding announcements. Even if Tony hadn't claimed her, she was certainly no use to him and he'd do better to concentrate on the other girls.

And he would, damn it!

Yet during supper, he still found himself watching her, straining to hear what she might say every time Tony spoke to her, watching for some sign of encouragement on her part. Tony was, as was his way, exerting himself constantly, but Miss Crewe seemed more interested in Miss Poole, the way she was watching her and mirroring every dip of her spoon... which was odd.

Perhaps that was what kept drawing his eye to her: simple curiosity. He'd done little inquiry into her or her family, so no wonder he was drawn to her now. He'd not reached his status, such as it was, without careful study and close assessment of those he'd be dealing with. He'd always rather know. That frustration, along with her odd contradictions... Why, any man would be curious!

He'd not given her much thought before meeting her, but he'd rather expected her to be more sedate, more seasoned, more cultured. Yet, in the flesh, she seemed artless and almost countrified. But it was possible that was a sort of artfulness. Perhaps it wasn't her fortune that had the young men after her. Perhaps she hypnotized them with those guileless, bottomless eyes. Even behind those spectacles, a man could fancy himself falling into...

He shook his head. He wasn't given to fancy. He was given to fact.

Yes, she was countrified. Much too countrified. Something was amiss and that was obviously what was bothering him. Perhaps she didn't have a fortune, but only a dowry.

Her gowns were a bit too fine for a life of genteel poverty, but perhaps this Duchess aunt of hers indulged her during her time in London, but cared little for how her family fared outside of the season. He didn't know Ernest Crewe as well as Lord Stanborough, but hadn't the lad often avoided playing at cards, talked of having no pocket allowance? Might her family be struggling?

Miss Crewe had said a few things that might bear that out; about being sent to the village in the rain, about past troubles with mouths to feed, the words "Sleep comes when work is done and not before," and he'd noted her hands. They'd felt — in his brief moments touching them — rougher than expected. He couldn't imagine painting, even if she did so day and night, forming such calluses. More than that, he was constantly arrested by her accent. As a man who'd taken great pains to rid himself of his own, her Yorkshire lilt seemed quite pronounced to him — not as refined as most young ladies he'd met, perhaps because her family had not been able to afford lessons in proper diction and elocution as he could.

Damn it all, it was not his affair, whatever her situation!

And he should be the last to judge anyone on proper use of the English tongue. Tonight alone, he'd slipped, spouting Irishisms at every turn. He blamed the dog for rattling him so. He was usually more guarded around these society types. Even around some of his servants — or mostly Fletcher. His valet had been immeasurably valuable in his efforts to help him blend into fashionable society -- something he'd be cast out of, should his true identity come to light. 

Here, being a nouveau riche upstart was deemed acceptable to an extent, even an Irish one, as long as one was respectably born. And it was the same with servants as with those above them. No matter how well they were compensated, most servants expected a certain level of respectability in an employer, something that a bastard couldn't rightfully claim.

And yet he was determined to bring a wife into his mess? He'd told himself that no one, including his future wife, need ever know, but could he live with that?

Then again, if he chose the right wife, perhaps she wouldn't mind if she did know. His eyes slid to his left, past Mrs.Fernside to Lady Adele, seated at Tony's right hand, but barely glanced at by him. He knew the LeMarquand family had been living on the kindness of friends and relations for years, but it might not be long before their welcome was worn out. She was very pretty, and with a certain effortless elegance that might make most men look past the frayed lace on her cuffs, the ill-fitting gown that had seen more than a few seasons, not that she'd even had a proper season.

Despite her blue blood, she had no money, nor friends or family with enough to sponsor the girl in London, where she might be exposed to men who might rescue her from her situation. She might overlook his bloodline, grateful for the security he could bring her, not to mention her family. And her rank would raise his profile, surely.

Yes, he'd best look to Lady Adele and certainly not Miss Crewe.

********************

TBC

Well, he's definitely not looking at Miss Crewe... if that helps him reconcile it.

If anyone wants to, you can easily translate all Byrne's "nonsense words" on Google translate, but be warned that poor Mopsy doesn't fare well. I can only hope everyone else gives him enough cuddles and love to make up for this slander!

Be back with more soon!