“Horace?” She considered the dog a moment, then patted the top of his head. “It suits you mightily, it does. You are as big as a horse.”

“He is as big as a horse, Val . . . We must call him Horace . . .”

That memory intruded, and he braced for the expected rush of pain, the stabbing needles as they pierced his chest, that place where his heart had once beaten, whole and happy.

That didn’t come this time.

He drew back, recoiling from the absence of the only sentiments that had been familiar to him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice harsh, and Myrtle looked his way again.

Confusion crinkled her brow. “Petting your dog?” she ventured.

My god, was she being deliberately obtuse?

“Out here,” he snapped, motioning to the area around them.

The lady’s nose scrunched up, and it was as though, bright and cheerful as she always was, she wasn’t capable of a complete frown. “This is my property, Your Grace,” she reminded him. “I rather believe the better question is what are you doing here?”

Yes, she had him there.

That was a fair enough point.

“I caught you sneaking about.”

“Well, it’s not really sneaking about if I’m on my own properties,” she said gently. “Is it?”

He flattened his lips.

No, she was correct on that score, too.

Suddenly, the lady’s brown eyes brightened, and her always generous smile was firmly fixed in its usual place. “Why, you were—”

He was already shaking his head.

Val needn’t have bothered wasting that negating movement.

“Worried about me, weren’t you?” she finished, and somehow that impossibly wide grin grew.

“I absolutely was not. I do not worry about anyone.”

She pointed down at Horace.

“He’s a dog. Not a person.”

“Hmph,” Myrtle grunted, and then grinned again. “But you were watching because you were worried, and I thank you for your concern.” She lowered her voice. “I believe two men are watching my townhouse,” she said, and then stared at him as if expecting he’d be as shocked and horrified as she herself was.

He shook his head.

“Yes.” Myrtle lifted two small, gloved digits. “Two. You see, I suspect they might have an interest in my father’s curiosity collection.”

As she rattled on, he recoiled for altogether different reasons. Good God, what had he done, engaging her?

“And his collection is quite vast . . . some of the oldest and finest, and everyone knows of his treasures . . .”

At last, what she was suggesting penetrated his fog.

“Are you saying you believe someone intends to steal from your father?”

The lady nodded. “Precisely.”

One such as Lady Myrtle McQuoid would possess an overactive imagination.