"Certainly not," Trev agreed. "But I'm obliged to you for your courage. It's women of your iron moral fiber who saved England from Bonaparte."

The cook glanced at him. She took a deep breath, as if to reply sharply, and then straightened her shoul ders a little. "I spe'ct so. And who might you be?"

"The duke," he said easily.

"The duke!" She made a puff of disdain. "Oh, come!"

Trev shrugged and smiled. The cook's lips pursed as she tried to maintain her indignation, but her frown eased. Ladies always melted when Trev smiled in that self-deprecating way. Callie had a strong tendency to soften into something resembling a def lated Yorkshire pudding herself, in spite of knowing better than anyone how dangerous it was to succumb.

"I'm one of those eccentric dukes," Trev said. "The French sort."

"Little does she know," Callie said under her breath, pulling Hubert's ear forward so that she could rub behind it. The bull tilted his head and moved it up and down with heavy pleasure. Trev took a step back as a horn waved perilously close to his face.

The door opened a crack. "They're on the way back, sir," came Jock's disembodied voice.

"Already?" Trev said. "Can't Barton even lead a respectable goose chase?"

"They don't look none too happy, sir. Sturgeon's got mud over half his breeches, and his sleeve's torn off."

"The work of the vulgar Toby, I perceive." Trev gingerly pushed Hubert's horn away from his face with his injured hand. "Doubtless this too will be added to my account. Keeping a vicious dog on the premises."

"Old Toby's all right," Jock muttered through the door. "Had all the sense knocked out of him in his line o' work, is all."

"Toby? That's your dog?" Callie asked, lifting her head. Before Trev could even answer, she had leaped forward in her thoughts. "That's a fighting dog!" She stared at him for an instant, her whole world tilting. "Why is Hubert dyed black?"

"A small misunderstanding," Trev said hastily.

"You stole him!" Callie exclaimed. "You were going to bait him!"

"Of course not. I—"

"Why is he disguised?" she demanded. "Why is he in your kitchen? And that dog." Her voice rose in pitch. "I'll never let Hubert be baited! He's—"

"Callie!" His voice cut strongly over hers. "Good God, do you think I'd do any such thing?"

She paused, biting her lip. Then she lifted the f lour sack in bewilderment. "But I don't understand. Why is he here?"

"I was trying to get him back for you," he said roughly. He began to edge past Hubert's bulk as the door clicked abruptly closed. "Maudlin fool that I am. Keep him quiet, unless you prefer to hand him back to Davenport on a silver platter, and my head along with him."