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John acknowledged the point with a rueful nod.

“What you said about June being small . . .” Mad Dog continued. “It’s the first thing people notice. They can’t see how tall she is on the inside. June has to fight for things those ladies at cookery school take for granted. Her battles is harder than theirs. Last thing I’d ever do is give ’em reason to mock her.” He sighed. “If I go anywheres with June, I ’as to change my name.”

John was inwardly amazed at what the man was willing to sacrifice for June’s sake. To Mad Dog, his name had always been an assertion of his own will, a determination not to be overlooked or discounted. It was proof that he mattered, if only to himself. Surrendering it would compromise his self-worth. And that would be a damn shame.

“I have a suggestion,” John said.

“Yeah?”

“If you put ‘Mad’ and ‘Dog’ together, it spells a name we pronounce in Wales as ‘Maddock.’ ”

“Maddock,” the coachman repeated, and gave him a suspicious glance. “That ain’t the sound a G makes.”

“It does when a Welshman says it.”

“I ’eard that name before. You sure it ain’t English?”

“It’s as Welsh a name as ever there was—the name of a fearless warrior, Maddog Elfed, who was slain in battle while trying to reclaim stolen land . . . and Madoc ap Uthyr, son of Uther Pendragon and brother of King Arthur.”

“So it’s still my name . . . only we say ‘Maddock’? ”

“Aye. The drawback is, people may assume you’re Welsh.”

“Can’t be worse than being a criminal.”

“You’d be surprised,” John said dryly. “What you said yesterday—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean none o’ that,” Mad Dog assured him. “I’d of given you guff even if you was Irish or English. Can’t follow a bloke’s orders if I don’t jab a bit first, see what he’s made of. But I don’t hold nothing against no Taffy.”

“The Welsh hate being called that.”

“We do?”

“For God’s sake, man, it comes from a poem that starts with ‘Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief.’ ”

“Never thought folk meant nothing by it. Just a poem.”

“A poem that calls us thieves,” John said acidly. “Whenever we hear it, we’re obliged to defend our honor.”

“Are the Welsh keen on a fight?”

John responded with a snort of amusement. “Always. A people of high feeling, we are, quick to love or hate. Hardheaded, thin-skinned, and loyal to the death. There’s no better man on earth than a good Welshman, and no worse man than a bad one.”

“I must be Welsh,” Mad Dog—Maddock, now—said in amazement. “I were all along and never knew it!” He paused as a new thought occurred to him. “Do you think June will like it, me being Welsh?”

Giving him a sardonic glance, John said, “Whatever her opinion is . . . I doubt she’ll keep it to herself.”

***

“Let’s try to be fair to Pembroke,” Reina said. For the past few minutes, she had sat at the kitchen table with her morning tea and toast, listening as June poured out her grievances about the new butler’s high-and-mighty airs, his unwanted interference, and his fiendish assumption of authority over someone he wasn’t supposed to be managing. “The truth is,” she continued, “it isn’t safe to go out alone. Remember how you insisted on accompanying me to the Second Chance Agency—and that wasn’t even at night, it was midmorning.”

“You’re taking his side?” June asked in outrage.

“There are no sides in this, dearest June. Pembroke could have been far more tactful in his approach, but—”

“He called me small!”

Reina regarded her with infinite sympathy, understanding her friend’s fierce pride. “Men are so undiplomatic at times. So painfully blunt. I’m sure Pembroke wasn’t trying to demean you.”