Hope danced in her breast, making her feel light inside as the two raced off.

Horace continued to bark and growl long after they’d gone from sight.

The moment the threat was gone, Myrtle flung her arms around his head and hugged him hard. “You were magnificent,” she praised, cooing.

Myrtle stopped. Her stomach dropping and her terror ratcheting inside.

They’d returned.

It had been naive to think they’d give up so very easily when they’d gone to such lengths to steal from her father, the earl.

“We know yar in there, gel. We know yar in there, alone.”

“I’m not alone,” she shouted back.

“Not another servant in this place but ya.”

“I’m not a servant,” she called loudly, and then raised her voice, infusing it with all the stiff, regal tones Mrs. Belden had drilled into her and the rest of the students. “I am Lady Myrtle McQuoid, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Abington, and I command you to leave.”

Her pronouncement was met with a deep silence.

And then . . .

Both men burst out laughing, roaring with their hilarity.

Hmph. So much for having mastered that skill.

“Yea, sure,” one of the men rejoined between his bout of amusement. “And I am the Duke of Cornwall.”

“That hardly makes sense,” she said. “The Duke of Cornwall is dead.” She briefly recalled her lessons during her Titles and Ranks class at Mrs. Belden’s. “And though it is possible for a nobleman to obtain that particular title, it has not been in use since—”

“Enough with yar damned history lesson. I’m being facetious, you stupid chit.”

Myrtle folded her arms. “Well, I never . . .”

Horace barked his canine support of her.

She patted his head, finding comfort in his presence. Feeling less alone with him near her.

“Never been treated so poorly, my lady?” the other bounder taunted, and his overexaggerated emphasis of those syllables combined with their laughter indicated they believed her anything but.

“Actually, I haven’t,” she informed them tartly. “Because—”

“Never tell us, ya’re the Earl and Countess of Abingdon’s precious daughter.”

Before Val, she’d believed herself adept at detecting sarcasm. She’d come to find she’d not known as much as she’d thought about spotting droll retorts, and credited Val with her edification. “I’ll have you know I am one of them.” Hardly precious, though. After all, devoted parents didn’t go about forgetting children that were precious to them.

“And they just forgot you, leaving an innocent, virtuous lady on her own?”

They had done just that. Only, even as she opened her mouth to continue her insistence, she stopped. Because she heard their disbelief, and she knew precisely how it sounded and saw how it looked. Who in a thousand years would ever trust she was who she claimed to be? What lord and lady went about forgetting an unmarried daughter and leaving her for days on end?