Clara scrambled outafter Alden, keeping a reassuring hand on the dog, who was whimpering again. She nearly ran into Mr. Forsythe, who gallantly moved aside as Alden set the dog down.
“You emerge victorious,” he said to Clara with a grin. “I tried to help, but Alden’s confounded bulk was in the way.”
Lord Alden scowled, but he was gentleness itself when he righted the dog on its feet. The dog stood up by himself now, though he continued to shake.
“You should get home, Clara,” Alden said, ignoring Mr. Forsythe. “The night will be icy.”
A brisk wind had parted much of the fog, making for a brilliant sunset, and yes, it was cold, but Clara eyed Alden in annoyance.
“I’m certain it will be. But we can’t leave the dog out here to freeze, can we?”
Alden frowned back at her. “Where do you propose taking him, then? His owners have obviously given up looking for him, if they ever intended to.”
“It’s sad,” Mr. Forsythe put in. “So many simply abandon a dog if it’s too difficult to look after.”
“Exactly,” Clara agreed. “He’ll come home with me, of course. He can stay in our back garden. We’ll build a shelter…”
Alden’s frown became a scowl. “For heaven’s sake. He’s feral dog, not a pet. You have two younger sisters. What if he bites them?”
“He obviously is not dangerous, or else he’d have tried to attack us both,” she returned. “He let us help him without becoming savage.”
Mr. Forsythe brushed a patch of mud from the back of his friend’s coat. “She has you there, Carlisle.”
Alden shrugged him off. “I’ll take him tomyback garden. There’s plenty of room for him to run around, and he won’t tear into your mother’s famous rosebushes and get himself evicted. My gardener keeps things plain, and there’s a large wall to prevent him running off again.”
“It’s barren, you mean,” Clara said. “I’ve seen your garden. A flower bed or two wouldn’t hurt you.”
“An ideal place for a dog, then, isn’t it?” Alden growled. “The gardener can help clean him up, and I’ll give him a decent meal. Then we can decide what’s to be done with him.”
“Find him a good home, that’s what,” Clara said with conviction. “With people who will be delighted to look after him.”
Alden shook his head. “You are optimistic. He’s a sorry specimen.”
The dog, whose down-hanging ears had pricked while they’d spoken, drooped again. Clara didn’t believe dogs understood every word of English, but they could sense meaning in conversations, she was certain.
“That is not his fault,” she declared. “Once he has a bath and a good brushing, I’m certain he’ll be perfectly—”
A shout interrupted her. It was followed by another, gentlemen bellowing heartily to each other in the distance, a sound incongruous with this somber place.
Mr. Forsythe made a face. “Hell, it’s the dunces. Ah, beg pardon for my language, Lady Clara.”
Whoever he indicated shouted again, the men growing nearer.
The dog’s head jerked up, his body shook, and then he leapt away from Alden. Alden lunged for him, and in alarm, the dog took to his heels, dashing along the walkway with renewed vigor. He limped on his right foreleg but did not slow down.
“Damnation,” Aldan roared.
“Beg pardon for his language too,” Mr. Forsythe murmured.
Clara glared at them both and ran after the dog, calling to him, “Good lad. It’s all right. Come back to me, sweetheart.”
She rounded the bend in the path, but she saw no dog. She could hear him huffing and scrabbling in the distance, but mists were closing in again, as well as darkness.
Clara heard Mr. Forsythe behind her, cursing at the gentlemen he apparently knew, but he didn’t catch up to her. Alden did, seizing her by the arm and yanking her around.
“What the devil are you doing?”
“Going after the dog, of course.” Clara wrenched herself from him and righted her hat, which had sagged as she’d run. “You just agreed we needed to take him home.”
