“You see”—the lady dropped her voice to a whisper—“my sister is something of a storyteller. That is, Cassia. Not Fleur.” Once again, she spoke like he should know who in hell these people were, and more . . . as though he should care. “Fleur is just nine. Not that she can’t be a storyteller at the age of nine. She can. But that is not her way.”

“I don’t give a damn about your siblings,” he barked, and apparently, he’d found the one person in all the kingdom unafraid of him.

And at last, he managed to kill that effusive smile. It dimmed, and damned if Horace didn’t turn a frown his way, too. “Well, that is quite rude, Your Grace.”

He was rude, was he?

“What in hell were you doing at my windows?” he said tightly.

“Looking for servants. My sister said—” The young woman instantly stopped speaking, clamping her lips in a line and letting her words go unfinished.

Good. At last, he’d silence from her. And he took advantage of it. “I don’t care if your sisters like stories. I don’t care if they write them, sell them, or anything else for that matter.” He looked to his dog.

His dog.

Val patted his thigh once.

Horace cocked his head and remained locked at the McQuoid girl’s side.

His planned tirade briefly forgotten, Val slapped his leg a second time—this time harder.

When his faithful pup made no attempt to come, Val swallowed a curse and stalked the remaining distance until he towered over lady and dog.

Up close, he appreciated the lady was an even tinier thing than he’d credited. Her curls were an even greater tangle, and her round eyes were even wider, giving her the look of an owl startled from its perch.

Hardly pretty but certainly interesting to look at, in a peculiar way.

Interesting to look at? Val started. Where in hell had that thought come from?

He recoiled. His face flushed.

“Come,” he commanded, and his dog whimpered, stepping behind the young woman’s skirts.

Val gritted his teeth. This was really enough.

The lady gave him a pitying look, and then leaning close to Horace’s pointed grey ear, she whispered something that sounded a good deal like, “Your master is sad. Go be with him . . .” She nudged him lightly with her palm.

Alas, Horace did not budge.

The lady said something else, and at last, the dog trotted over, back to Val’s side.

He clenched his teeth all the harder, the muscles of his jaw radiating in painful protest. “Do you know what I do care about, my lady?”

“Your dog?” she ventured.

“Yes.” Flummoxed, he tried to right the remainder of his curt argument. “But that wasn’t—” He gave his head a hard shake. “That isn’t what I was talking about.”