“They were, they were, didn’t you see? Oh, my poor little FooFoo, are you all right, my darling?” She examined the little dog anxiously, straightening her ribbons and murmuring, “Mummy’s here now, precious. Those nasty dogs won’t bother you again.”

“Actually they will,” George said. “Unless you keep FooFoo locked up for the next few weeks.” The dogs had retreated but were waiting, all eyes on little FooFoo, who wriggled and squirmed to get down.

“Locked up? Why ever should I do that? FooFoo loves her walkies in the park.”

“Yes, but she’s in season at the moment,” George explained. And when the lady didn’t seem to understand, she added, “She’s in heat. Those dogs know it. They can smell her.”

Mrs. Prescott pulled a horrified face. “Smell her? But she was bathed this morning with my own special soap. And why would that make them attack her? They didn’t attack me and I use the same soap.”

George couldn’t think how else to explain. Not in any polite way. She cast an appealing look at Emm, who stepped forward. “What my niece means, Mrs. Prescott, is that your dog has entered her breeding season.” Emm patted her own burgeoning belly in gentle emphasis.

Mrs. Prescott blinked at Emm’s belly, then gasped in understanding. “No, it cannot be! My little FooFoo is far too young for that! She’s still a puppy.”

“She’s not a puppy anymore, and those dogs know it,” George said bluntly. “So keep her away from all other dogs for the next few weeks.”

“I will, oh, I will. Thank you so much, dear, brave Lady Georgiana. Good day to you, Lady Ashendon, Lady Dorothea.” Mrs. Prescott hurried away, little FooFoo clamped firmly to her bosom, gazing wistfully back at her admirers, her feathery tail gently wagging.

“She was widowed last year,” Aunt Dottie explained. “She’s childless, and her husband was a cold, hard man who never let her keep a pet. FooFoo is her first.”

“The way those dogs were going at it,” George said frankly, “FooFoo might just present her with some more.”

Emm burst out laughing. “George, darling, you are such a breath of fresh air. Don’t ever change.”

“I agree,” Aunt Dottie said. “And now, ices.”

*   *   *

The following afternoon the duke’s front doorbell rang again. It had rung on and off all day—to no avail. Hart made a grimace of satisfaction and bent over his correspondence. The gossip-seeking vultures would get no joy here. Fleming had his instructions.