He hesitated an instant before shaking her hand, all the while conscious of how much smaller it was than his own. Every part of her was smaller. Good lord, her head scarcely reached his chest. He felt a veritable goliath looming over her. A clumsy giant who could crush her as easily as breathing. “Mrs. Hartwright.”

“Miss Hartwright,” she corrected. “Mrs. Archer said to speak to you about finding a place for Bertie in the stable. He must be kept warm, you see. And I haven’t yet received permission to keep him in the house.”

Neville reached out to brush his hand over the little dog’s head. Bertie blinked up at him with rheumy eyes. A smile tugged at Neville’s mouth. He was often shy around people, but he understood animals. He’d always had a way with them, long before his childhood accident on the cliffs and the head injury that, even now, affected his speech. It’s why he preferred to work in the stables. Being around dogs and horses settled him. Helped to put his mind at ease. It helped his speech, as well.

“He belongs to Mrs. Bainbridge?”

Miss Hartwright’s blush deepened. “Er, no. He belonged to the previous lady I worked for. She died last month, and poor Bertie isn’t a favorite with her family. They were going to have him destroyed. I couldn’t leave him behind. And I can’t permit him to catch his death out here.”

“It’s warm enough.”

“Yes, it’s much warmer than being out of doors, but Bertie is accustomed to residing inside the house. He’s spent much of his life on a velvet cushion in front of the fire, and I fear—”

“May I?” Neville reached for the little dog.

“Of course.” Miss Hartwright helped to transfer Bertie into Neville’s arms. “He’s very sweet and gentle. Not spoiled at all. Not like some pugs. He won’t be any trouble to you.”

Neville scratched Bertie under the chin. Bertie didn’t appear to notice. He was more than old. He was positively ancient, content to stare off into the distance and pant. Neville wondered if the little dog had all of his faculties.

Miss Hartwright moved closer. Close enough that he could smell the soft fragrance of orange blossoms that clung to her hair and cloak. “I understand you already have two dogs in residence. Mastiffs, Mrs. Archer said.”

“Yes.”

“Are they friendly?” She gazed up at him. “It’s only that Bertie has no way to defend himself. If a bigger dog were to—”

“I won’t let them hurt him.”

“Yes, but—”

“He’ll be safe here. I promise you.” For once, the words came out strong and sure. They seemed important somehow.

“Oh.” Her mouth trembled. “Oh, thank you. I’ve been so worried.”

Neville’s chest tightened. Were those tears glistening in her eyes? The very thought sent a jolt of alarm through him.