Page 50 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

He snapped his fingers. “Lord, what was that ill-tempered creature’s name?”

“Mr. Bunch-and-Stuff.”

Lord Shelton laughed. “That is right! What a horrid little dog.”

“He was,” she agreed. He’d been a fat, whiny pug prone to nipping, and he had once peed on her shoe while she’d had him out on a walk. “I cannot believe you recall the dog.”

“I remember him because he bit me once—years ago, on an earlier visit. And he pis—er, urinated on my best pair of boots.”

Stacia laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said at his reproachful look. “He did the same to me.”

“Vile beast. I’m amazed that you didn’t secretly throttle him.”

“You mustn’t speak ill of the dead, my lord. Mr. Bunch-and-Stuff passed on to his Eternal Reward shortly after your visit. And before you ask, no, I did not have a hand in that.” She paused and then added, “Although I must admit the notion occurred to me more than a few times.”

He laughed. “Lord, he must have been ancient.”

“Just shy of twenty.”

“No! Impossible.”

“Lady Hamilton was adamant on the matter.” She had also been broken hearted when the ill-tempered little dog had died.

They skated in companionable silence and Stacia realized she was gliding smoothly, no longer huffing along like a frantic calf after its mother.

“I recall my great aunt writing to tell me that Lady Hamilton had died,” Shelton said after a moment. “Is that when you took a position with Lady Addiscombe?”

Stacia thought about the job she’d briefly held after Lady Hamilton and pushed the unpleasant memory away. “I had a small gap in employment between Lady Hamilton and the countess.” That was not a lie, but neither was it the unpleasant truth.

“Kathryn said the previous Viscount Clayton was your father?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your family seat?”

“Devon, but we never lived there.” At his enquiring look, she explained. “My grandfather was…improvident.”

Shelton nodded and Stacia saw not only comprehension on his face, but something that looked very much like guilt.

***

The last thing Andrew wanted to do was talk about improvident landlords, but he’d been the one to broach the subject. Besides, he was curious about her and how she’d gone from life as a gentlewoman to slaving for a shrew like the Countess of Addiscombe.

“Was your father forced to sell?” he asked after a moment.

“The property is entailed and so he leased it to a wealthy shipbuilder and his family who have occupied it for most of my lifetime. We kept small lodgings in London, near the museum. My father was a scholar.”

“Ah. Probably why I didn’t know him.”

“You are not bookish?” she asked.

“Lord, no! Brains have never been my strong suit. Our tutor was fond of saying I had a great deal of vacant room in the old bone box.”

She gasped. “What an extremely unkind thing to say to a child!”

“Perhaps, but that does not make it less true,” he assured her. “I was a dreadful student from the beginning.” That was an understatement, but it was far too mortifying to confess that he’d not learned to read until he’d been eight. “I couldn’t wait to leave school and escape into the army. My uncle—Chatham’s father—exercised his ducal influence and so I was able to join even though I was only fifteen.”

“Fifteen! That seems very young.”