“Plum cake. Which I threw to the floor when you cried out.” He looked to the far corner. “Over there.”
Together they dashed around the table.
“Oh, drat.”
Well. The plum cake had been there, on the floor.
It would now appear that the entirety of it—and Clio’s ring, as well—were currently inside Ellingworth’s stomach.
At first, Clio struggled not to laugh.
The picture was so comical—the ugly old bulldog’s flattened face snuffling over the empty platter.
Rafe, however, didn’t seem to find it amusing.
“Ellingworth, no.” As he ran to the dog, he let loose a string of curses, many of which Clio had never heard before and couldn’t have dreamed existed. “How did he get in here?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he waddled in and fell asleep in the corner hours ago.”
“No. No, no, no.” He lay flat on the floor and pressed his ear to the dog’s stomach. “It’s gurgling.”
“Isn’t that normal?”
“I don’t know.” He sat up and speared his hands through his hair. “It could be. I’ve never listened to it before.”
“The poor thing.” She knelt on the bulldog’s other side. “But he’ll probably be fine.”
“What should we do? Should we make him puke? Turn him over and give him a shake?”
She stroked the dog’s ear. “I don’t think so.”
“He feels warm.” Rafe pounded his fist against the carpet. Then he punched to his feet, stripped off his coat, and began waving it up and down to fan the bulldog.
Clio was starting to feel a little less touched at the protective care Rafe had displayed toward her. Whisking her away from the falling portcullis, catching her misstep in the tower—those acts had seemed dashing at the time, but it was nothing compared to this effort. And to her, the dog didn’t even appear to be ill. If anything, he looked rather fat and content.
If he died now, he’d go happily.
“It’s just a plum cake,” she said.
“No. It’s not just a plum cake. It’s a plum cake and an enormous gold-and-ruby ring.”
This was true. “At least it’s a cabochon setting. No sharp edges. Give him a bit of cod liver oil, and it ought to go right through.”
“It had better.” Rafe only fanned harder. “Do you hear me, you deaf old thing? Damn you, dog. Don’t you die on me now.”
In response, Ellingworth belched.
Clio tried not to giggle.
“We need a veterinarian,” Rafe said, throwing the coat aside. “A proper surgeon if you have one near. An apothecary, if not. Send for whoever is in the neighborhood.”
“Of course.”
Good Lord, she’d never seen him this way. She wasn’t overly concerned about Ellingworth’s health, but she was starting to worry for Rafe.
“Rafe, look at me.”
And when he did, the fierceness in those bold green eyes nearly knocked her over.
“We’re in this together,” she said. “We’ll do everything we can. We’ll send to London for specialists, if need be. I promise you.” She reached out and squeezed his big hand in both of hers. “This dog isn’t going to die today.”
Twelve hours, three veterinarians, two doctors, and one apothecary later, Clio sat on a chair outside the room dedicated as an infirmary, working a bit of embroidery by the light of a single candle.
The hour was late, and everyone else had gone to bed hours ago. But Rafe remained closed in the room with Ellingworth, and so Clio was still sitting here.
During the course of the day, she’d found a spare hour to bathe and change out of her cake-smeared clothing. At least the chaos of Ellingworth’s accident had saved her from making explanations for that. All she’d needed to do was raise her hands, and say, “The dog,” and everyone had seemed satisfied.
At last, the door opened. “You’re still here?”
Clio crammed her needlework into the drawer of a nearby table and stood.
Rafe looked so solemn. Unlike Clio, he hadn’t changed—other than removing his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, then rolling his sleeves to the elbow. His hair stood at wild angles.
She began to fear the worst.
“Well?” she prompted.
“They say he’ll live.”
“Oh.” She released the breath she’d been holding. “That’s good to hear. I’m so relieved. You must be, too.”
“He seems to be sleeping soundly now. The veterinarian will stay with him, so I’m going up to bed.” He turned his head in both directions, then glanced upward, too. “Which way is my bedchamber, again?”
She picked up the candle from the table. “I’ll walk you there.”
He hooked his coat on one finger and slung it over his shoulder. They ambled down the corridor, side by side.
“The good news is, they’ve given him a dose of some purgative. The ring should”—he cleared his throat—“appear within a few days.”
Clio shuddered. “I’ll never put that ring on my finger again.”
“Yes, you will. I just told you, the veterinarian says it will only take a few days. That’s good news. You’ll have it back before Piers returns.”
She turned and blinked at him. “Be that as it may, Rafe. I’ll never put that ring on my finger again.”