Neville went still. His instincts told him to retreat. To withdraw to the feed room, or to the private rooms he kept above. It was a cowardly impulse, and one with which he regularly did battle. He had no good reason to avoid people. As long as he kept his speech to a minimum, he could manage very well in company.

But dashed if it wasn’t awkward. Especially where ladies were concerned.

He wiped his hands on a cloth, dusted the straw and horsehair from his white linen shirt and dark trousers, and slowly walked out into the aisle.

A young lady stood inside the doorway. A shapeless woolen cloak billowed about her small frame, the hood shielding her face from view. As Neville approached, she pushed it back with one gloved hand.

He stopped where he stood, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m looking for Mr. Cross.” Her chocolate brown eyes were large and luminous, with a peculiar sheen to them. “Neville Cross.”

On a good day, the words Neville formed in his mind could be translated into short phrases with minimal difficulty. He’d learned over the years how to keep things from getting muddled. How to say what he intended with the least fuss, even if that meant he must occasionally sound like a child.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

Not when the young lady standing before him had a face that made his heart beat faster.

It was a perfect oval, with a finely molded nose, a damask rosebud of a mouth, and wideset eyes framed by thick, gracefully arching brows that were several shades darker than the flaxen blond of her hair.

His thoughts, which were usually clear, proceeded to tangle themselves into a Gordian knot. With his brain in such a state, his speech didn’t stand a chance.

“Are you Mr. Cross?” She stepped forward, a wash of pale pink tinting the sculpted curve of her cheekbones. “Mrs. Archer said I should speak with you about Bertie.”

He stared down at her, fully aware that he must look as dumbfounded as he felt.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I should have explained straightaway. This is Bertie.” She opened the front of her cloak, throwing it back over her shoulders to reveal a black pug dog.

A very old pug dog, by the look of it. The little creature was cradled in her left arm, its face and body liberally peppered with gray.

Neville swallowed hard. His voice, when it emerged, was many steps behind the workings of his brain. “I’m Neville.”

He could have groaned aloud in frustration. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not now.

But the young lady appeared unfazed by his inarticulateness. “I’d assumed so.” She extended her hand. “I’m Clara Hartwright, Mrs. Bainbridge’s companion.”