Lord of the Beasts. Susan Krinard
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Gloucestershire to examine the animals in your private menagerie?”
“I did.” She held his gaze. “When we met at the Zoological Gardens, I was most impressed by your dealings with the elephant. I made inquiries based upon the assumption that you had some connection with the Zoological Society. Lord Pettigrew is an old acquaintance of my father, Sir Geoffrey Amesbury. He told me of your profession, and that you had come to London at his request. He said that you were able to improve the health of a tigress and several other exotic animals within only a few days.”
Fleming rose from the table and paced halfway across the room. “I went to London only because my family are also acquainted with Lord Pettigrew, and he presented his case as a matter of life or death for the animals concerned.”
Cordelia also rose. “Perhaps I was not clear enough in my letters. My case is also urgent.”
He came to stand at the opposite end of the room, pressed near the wall like a cornered animal prepared to fight for its life. “You wrote that your pets are suffering from a general malaise. This is hardly surprising in creatures forced to endure unnatural captivity.”
She held onto her temper. “You can hardly judge what you have not seen, Doctor.”
“I have seen cages,” he said, his voice growing distant and strange. “One is little different from another.”
“I do not agree. I, too, have seen cages, all over the world, and beasts nearly starved or beaten to death.” She swallowed her anger. “My animals receive care equal to that of the Zoological Gardens. Expense is no object where their well-being is concerned … and that includes generous compensation for an expert practitioner such as yourself.”
He emerged from the grip of memory and made a sound not unlike the snort of an irritated horse. “Sir Geoffrey Amesbury,” he said. “A knight?”
“My father is a baronet.”
“And your husband, Mrs. Hardcastle? Does he take an equal interest in your hobbies?”
She stared at him, abruptly realizing that she had never clarified her marital status. “My husband, Dr. Fleming, is deceased. I am a widow.”
Fleming gaped at her and then had the grace to look embarrassed at his faux pas. “I am sorry,” he said, tugging at his cravat. “I had not realized … When we first met in London, I had thought you unmarried. But your letters …”
“Were not perhaps as clear as they might have been,” Cordelia finished. “My father is often indisposed, and has left the administration of the estate in my hands. So you see, I possess all due authority to request your assistance at whatever price we both deem reasonable.”
Dr. Fleming was silent for several moments, regarding her as if she had confounded all his expectations. He collected the tea tray and carried it to a scarred sideboard. “You must be very comfortably situated, Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said at last. “My circumstances must seem extremely limited by comparison.”
“If I have judged you in any capacity,” Cordelia said, “it has not been by your family—of whom I know nothing—your profession, or your residence.”
“But you have judged that I must be in need of money.” He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out the large kitchen window. “Do you believe that is my chief motive for the work I do, Mrs. Hardcastle? Are you attempting to bribe me with promises of fees I could never earn in such a backward place as this?”
Cordelia strode to join him, her skirts hissing like a goaded serpent. “It seems I remain most ignorant in matters of your character, Doctor. Pray enlighten me. Why does a man of your obvious skill, whose abilities are lauded by a personage such as Lord Pettigrew, choose to hide himself in the wilds of Yorkshire? Why does he so discourteously reject a respectable offer of employment to heal the very creatures whom he so obviously prefers to humankind?”
He turned on her, the color of his eyes shifting like leaves dancing in and out of shadow. “Tell me, Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said, “why can you not bear to be refused? Have you never met a man who declines to tremble in awe at the force of your indomitable will?”
His words hung in a sudden, shocked silence. Cordelia took a step back, her fists clenched at her sides, and tried to remember the last time any man had spoken to her with such contempt.
No, not contempt. She gathered calm about her like an Indian shawl and considered him with cool deliberation. She had been correct in her assessment of him: he was hiding, here among his animals, and anyone who might drive him into the open must be considered a threat. A threat to be chased away by any means necessary.
“You must have been hurt very badly,” she said, softly enough so that only he would hear. “I pity you, Doctor. I pity you more than I can say.”
Fleming blanched. For once he seemed unable to think of a suitably cutting response. Cordelia’s heart clenched with a pang of regret. Had she not spoken too rashly, out of pride and anger? Had she not sworn to herself a thousand times since returning to England that she would never again allow passions of any kind to rule her life?
She had opened her mouth to offer some sort of apology when a furious scratching began at the door. A moment later the door burst inward, and the dogs from the yard rushed toward Cordelia like a pack of wolves.
She braced herself, half expecting the pain of fangs tearing at her flesh. But the dogs, all nine or ten of them, simply ran around her and pressed against their master, licking his hands and whining as they milled about him. It was if they had sensed his distress and responded to it in the only way they could.
Their devoted attentions freed Fleming from his preoccupation. He met Cordelia’s eyes for only an instant and then walked past her to the door.
“Forgive me for this disturbance, ladies,” he said. “The animals of Stenwater Farm are accustomed to an unusual degree of liberty.” Something in his voice, and in the halftwist of his lips, suggested that he counted himself among the fortunate beasts. “May I offer you anything else before you return to York?”
The dismissal was gentle, and absolute. Theodora rose, her fingers pinching the folds of her skirt. Cordelia smiled at her reassuringly and led her toward the door. The time for apologies was past.
Dr. Fleming showed them the courtesy of escorting them to the road and summoning the coachman. The dogs watched from the porch, ears pricked and bodies quivering. The cat and her kittens leaped up on the drystone wall bordering the road and regarded Cordelia with haughty disapproval. Even the pigs heaved out of their wallow, complaining like old men grudgingly roused from a sound sleep.
Fleming’s expression was mild and disinterested as he handed the women into the carriage and wished them a pleasant journey. It was as if he and Cordelia had never exchanged a single barbed comment or harsh word. Cordelia brooded for all of a half-mile before she signaled the coachman to stop.
“This will not do,” she said. “This will not do at all.”
Theodora touched Cordelia’s arm. “Perhaps it is for the best,” she said quietly. “Surely you can find another veterinarian for the menagerie, one who is more congenial.”
Cordelia frowned. “Did you find him so unpleasant?”
“Not unpleasant. Unusual, perhaps.” Two vivid spots of color rose in her cheeks. “He does not seem to need anyone.”
“You notice more than you admit, my dear.”
“I noticed that you did not dislike him as much as you pretended.”
“Oh?”
“Forgive me, but it is true that you are not used to being refused. If that is the only reason you would … I mean …” She sank into the seat, avoiding Cordelia’s gaze.
Cordelia tapped her lower lip and stared out the window. Green, rolling hills marched away from the road, dotted here and there by clusters of sheep. She opened the carriage door and hopped to the