Shrieking from the ground floor wafted all the way upstairs to the guest room.

Nora laid her pencil atop the escritoire and rubbed her temples. It was not Lady Roundtree’s shrill tone that was causing her megrim, but rather the challenge of responding properly to her brother’s letter.

The dozen lines he had written had cost her half an hour to read. She’d spent twice as long attempting to pen a coherent reply. Her stomach was sick with frustration.

If only writing letters was as easy as drawing sketches! In a matter of minutes, she would have been able to explain the need for heightened secrecy, that he should never again mention the business arrangement in his letters to her, and that he should never, ever breathe her name to the intermediary, lest the printing house learn her identity.

Above all, she needed to ensure Carter would not accidentally make things worse. Nora ground her teeth at the few lines she’d managed to eke out. If words were as easy as sketches, she could have already conveyed her inspired plan to—

“Miss?” A timorous maid hovered at the open doorway. “Milady requests your immediate presence downstairs. There’s a… situation.”

Nora leapt to her feet. Of course she would go at once; she was here at the baroness’s whim. It would be a great irony for her to be sacked for dereliction of duty because she was in her guest chamber, failing to write a stupid letter.

Her fingers trembled against the balustrade of the spiral balcony. What if the “situation” below was that the baroness wished for her new companion to read the morning newspaper aloud? Or the latest gothic novel for her book club?

Nora pushed through the fear and forced her feet to march down the stairs. Dillydallying after a summons would be just as bad a crime as borderline illiteracy. Promptness, on the other hand, was a trait she was delighted to display.

Besides, there might be nothing worrisome afoot. Perhaps Lady Roundtree had decided she no longer trusted maids or footmen, and it would now be Nora’s sole and solemn duty to starch handkerchiefs and fetch fresh pots of steaming chocolate. Or to place pearl-studded pins in the baroness’s hair.

Heaven help them both.

The intricacies of High Society hair styles were just as foreign to Nora as the contents of Debrett’s Peerage. Lady Roundtree’s private lady’s maid was nothing short of a wizard with hair pins and curling tongs. The addition of splints and a wheeled chair did nothing to reduce the baroness’s elegance.

As Nora reached the foot of the staircase, a single sharp bark rent the air. What on—

“Good!” came Lady Roundtree’s voice. “That’s Winfield now. She’ll handle him.”

Nora spun to see a cluster of maids and footmen fanning in a half-circle about the baroness’s wheeled chair.

“Handle who?” she asked.

A flash of golden brown fur shot from behind the baroness’s wheeled chair and disappeared under the hem of a maid’s skirt.

The maid unsuccessfully stifled a shriek. “Help! It’s—”

The bundle of fur darted out from under her skirt and latched itself to the foreleg of the closest footman, upon which it delivered several frantic thrusts of its fawn-colored hips.

“—it’s on my leg,” the footman completed the sentence, his face a mask of pained stoicism.

Nora edged closer. “It’s a dog?”

Of course it was a dog. A pug, to be exact. The adorable curled tail with its little black stripe, the golden-brown coat, the floppy folded ears, the distinctively wrinkled face with patches of black about the muzzle and eyes. From the diminutive size, the puppy could be no more than a few months old.

The only question was what it was doing inside Lady Roundtree’s house. Besides humping the servants’ legs. Had it snuck in somehow? Or was—

“This,” Lady Roundtree informed her proudly, “is Captain Pugboat.”

Nora blinked. “Captain… Pugboat?”

“My new puppy,” the baroness added, in case the situation was unclear. “You will henceforth be responsible for his actions and appearance.”

“I am henceforth responsible for… Captain Pugboat,” Nora repeated faintly.

“Precisely.” The baroness waved a white-gloved hand. “Begin by removing him from John Footman’s leg. He smells of wet dog and must be bathed and dried at once.”

“She means Captain Pugboat,” the closest maid whispered to Nora. “Although by now, all of us smell like wet dog and ought to be bathed.”

The tiny pug snorted in delight as he continued to thrust against the footman’s foreleg.

Nora hurried forward and plucked the bucking puppy from the man’s ankle. Captain Pugboat immediately burrowed against her bodice and gave her bare arms a happy lick. He indeed smelled of puppy and morning rain. Nora could not have fallen more deeply and instantly in love if she’d tried.

The rest of the servants immediately fled before Captain Pugboat could greet them anew.

He was too busy trying to lick the side of Nora’s face.

She laughed and turned toward the baroness. “He’s adorable.”

“That is why I acquired a pet,” Lady Roundtree said with a nervous flutter of her hands. “My husband does not share a favorable opinion. He believes the only useful animals to be horses and hunting dogs. You are to ensure Captain Pugboat does not bother him.”

Nora nodded.

Avoiding Lord Roundtree would be her easiest task to date. Nora had glimpsed the baron only once in the week since she’d been installed in their household, and doubted his wife saw him much more than that.

To Nora, the idea of practically remaining strangers with one’s husband even after years of marriage was baffling. She recognized that the upper classes often wed for reasons far removed from love, but the idea that they wouldn’t try to make the best of things once they’d tied the knot had not occurred to her until she’d seen the phenomenon firsthand.

According to Lady Roundtree, her situation was far from unusual. In fact, many aristocratic men kept mistresses whose company they preferred over their own wives. Not that the wives were much different: once they’d produced the requisite heirs, a few even found their own lovers, although careful to be discreet about it.

There was no way Nora could ever withstand a ton marriage.

Not that anyone was asking.

A delicious shiver whispered down her spine at the memory of Mr. Grenville enquiring whether there was space on her dance card. She had not been able to quit the moment—or the man—from her mind since. All she could think about was what might have happened if she’d been at the ball as a guest. As an equal.

Perhaps he would have begged a proper introduction and stood up with her for a dance. Perhaps a cotillion… or perhaps a waltz. A full quarter hour with nothing to do but be whirled about in his arms amongst all the other dancers.

Not that Nora would have eyes for anyone but Mr. Grenville. He had charmed her so effortlessly with mere words. What would the touch of his hand do? His arm, wrapped about her waist? Her breath quickened. A waltz with him would leave her head in the clouds for the rest of her life.

If she were someone other than Nora Winfield, that was.

She cuddled the new puppy to her chest and turned to the baroness. “Where did Captain Pugboat come from?”

“I ordered him.” Lady Roundtree beamed with satisfaction. “Dogs are fine companions. Addington has one, Underhill has one, even that dreadful Epworth has one. Pugs are the present rage, you know.”

Nora did not know. But she was glad to have a puppy in the house. She had been in London scarcely more than a week, and each hour had seemed even lonelier than the last. The baroness might regard Nora as an employee like any other, but a dog would be delighted to have her around. Already the day seemed brighter.

“Who gave him his name?” she asked.

“I did,” the baroness answered with pride. “Leviston thought I should call him Spot or Goldie. Such uninspired twaddle. I prefer Captain Pugboat to stand out from the crowd.”

Perhaps it was Lady Roundtree who stood out from the crowd. Nora smiled. Anyone who would name a pet Captain Pugboat with a straight face had a clear sense of whimsy. Perhaps the baroness wasn’t as difficult to please as Nora had feared, but rather a lonely woman in search of companionship, wherever she might find it.

Nora curtsied to her patroness. “I think you chose splendidly. I shall be honored to care for him while I am here.”

“I should hope so,” the baroness said with a sniff. “You’re paid to do whatever I desire.”

Nora bit back a sigh. More proof she would forever be seen as an employee, not a cousin. Or even as a thinking, feeling person who loved animals and silly puns and filling her sketchbook with fashionable gowns. Here in London, she would never be worth anything as herself.

She was just as anonymous as her caricatures.