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“Nanny?” called Lord Whitfield.
Sam gave a muffled affirmative. Penelope saw that his captive wore a collar with a small bell.
Lord Whitfield pulled a handful of turnips from the earth, strode over, and held them under Nanny’s nose. She sniffed, interested. He took a step. She followed. He took another. She came along. “Form a perimeter,” he told his troops. “Offer this sort of lure if you can find it.”
The others snatched up more turnips or carrots and held them out. Most of the goats seemed to appreciate the help with excavation. With Nanny in the lead, they moved in the same direction. Slowly, the men led the herd away. Penelope heard Lord Whitfield ask the goatherd about the nearest corral, and then the cavalcade disappeared behind the barn.
“Gor,” said Kitty. “I had no notion the country was such a terrible place.”
“No one was hurt,” said Penelope. “It was just a few goats.”
“But they have devil eyes!”
“Different eyes.”
Kitty shuddered. “I’m going to dream about demons with yellow eyes coming after me.” She made clawing motions with both hands.
“Oh come, Kitty. Look at cats. Their eyes aren’t like ours.”
“Yes they are.”
“They have vertical pupils. And some of their eyes are yellow.”
Kitty frowned at her. “Cats are on our side.”
“Our—”
“They sit in laps and catch mice and purr. Goats rampage about and trample gardens. Didn’t you see that big one sneak up behind Tom and knock him down?”
“She tried it on Foyle, too,” Penelope replied.
Kitty nodded as if this clinched her argument. “I’ll heat the big kettle of water, miss, in case the gentlemen want to wash up after those goats drag them through the mud.”
There’d been no sign of dragging. Or of mud, for that matter. But hot water was a good idea. She should have thought of it.
It was more than an hour before the men returned—disheveled and laughing. The sudden influx of masculine energy was like a rush of wind through the house. They ought to have mugs of ale to toast their victory, Penelope thought, but she had none to offer. A household included so many items that she’d taken for granted in the past. Would a local inn sell her a keg of beer? Foyle would be happy to ask about that. Not that she would be entertaining parties such as this in future. A viscount wasn’t going to be a frequent caller at humble Rose Cottage. Penelope sat in the armchair with folded hands and told herself this was all to the good.
The impromptu goatherds made noisy use of the hot water. Lord Whitfield was the first back in the front room. “Thank you for repelling the invasion,” she said, standing.
“It was actually rather fun.” He grinned. “If anyone had told me that Macklin could sweep the legs from under a goat and chuck it over a fence… Well, I wouldn’t have believed them.”
Penelope saw the boy he’d been in that grin—carefree, adventurous, full of laughter.
“I don’t mean he threw the creature,” Whitfield added. “He snatched it up and…placedit. But Macklin! The arbiter of polite society and model of elegance. With his arms full of goat.” His smile urged Penelope to enjoy his amazement.
She was conscious of a deep yearning to join him in simple laughter. She suspected, imagined, that they would find the same things amusing, and it would be pure joy to share them. But that was ridiculous. She had no basis for such an idea. And more importantly, her life was no longer simple. Spare, secluded, yes, but not simple. She fell back on commonplaces. “Lord Macklin is a relative of yours?”
Whitfield’s laughter died. Penelope felt its departure like a new bereavement. “He was a friend of my father. More than I realized.”
Her visitor’s father was a sore subject. Talking of him would lead to questions about her legacy, and then on to arguments. She didn’t want to fight with him. What else to say? “I don’t suppose you know where I could get a dog?”
“A dog?”
“Or perhaps two. Watchdogs. To bark at the goats if they come back and chase them off. I can’t always count on a troop of irregulars to wade in.” He looked bemused. She didn’t blame him. “I supposed you had dogs at Frithgerd.”
“Yes.”
“Not that I would take your dogs away, of course. But someone must know where you got them. Or perhaps there’s a litter…not that puppies would be of much use against the goats.”
