Page 54

Within minutes, he was astride his horse, cutting through the streets at a hard pace, his thoughts narrowed to a single, burning purpose. Several minutes later, he reined in before a townhouse in Hanover Square. Fortunately, he had attended a private card party there several years before. George dismounted, secured the reins to the wrought-iron gate, and mounted the steps. If Pottinger believed ownership granted him the right to cruelty, he was about to discover otherwise.

George reached for the knocker. The door had scarcely opened before he stepped inside. The butler’s startled protest died unfinished as George strode past him without permission, his boots ringing sharply against the marble floor. He neither slowed nor offered an explanation.

Viscount Pottinger emerged from a side corridor at that very moment, his coat half on, gloves in hand, surprise flashing across his florid features. “Templeton?” he exclaimed. “I was just heading out⁠—”

“Where is the dog?” George interrupted.

Pottinger blinked. Then his expression hardened. He studied George carefully, his eyes narrowing as calculation overtook surprise. He knew exactly who George was. The future Earl of Bloomfield. A gentleman of considerable wealth, influence, and consequence in his own right. Pottinger was weighing the risk of provoking such a man.

“He is outside,” Pottinger said at last, his voice stiff. “Near the servants’ entrance.”

“What is his name?”

“Alfie.”

George took a single step forward. “I am taking him with me.”

“How dare you? You will not touch that dog,” Pottinger thundered, finally finding his voice. “I shall summon a magistrate if you interfere.”

In a blur of movement, he seized Pottinger by the lapels and slammed him against the wall with enough force to rattle the framed portraits lining the hall. Pottinger’s breath left him in a violent wheeze as George leaned in, his voice terrifying in its calm.

“I ought to call you out,” George said evenly, “and flay the skin from your back for what you have done.”

Shock widened Pottinger’s eyes. “You have gone mad,” he gasped. “You would duel me... over a dog?”

George’s grip tightened until Pottinger’s boots barely touched the floor.

“You ask whether I would duel you over a dog?” His voice remained frighteningly calm. “I would call you out because any creature placed in a man’s care has the right to expect protection, shelter, and kindness in return. They cannot speak for themselves. They depend upon us entirely.” His eyes hardened. “They trust us. You took the trust of a defenseless animal that looked to you for food, for shelter, for safety, and you answered it with cruelty. That is not cowardice.”

George’s fingers tightened more when it seemed the man would protest.

“Animals become part of one’s household. Part of one’s family. They offer their loyalty without condition and ask for little in return. Yet you repaid that loyalty with violence. You are unworthy of the trust another living creature placed in your hands.”

Pottinger swallowed hard. “I only struck him because the damn dog bit my hand. I had every right to defend⁠—”

“I will purchase every debt you possess,” George continued, his tone almost conversational. “Within a month, you will be ruined. You will either flee London or rot in debtor’s prison. Decide now how this ends.”

Pottinger's bravado collapsed entirely.

“By God,” he choked. “Take the dog. He is not worth it.”

Disgust curled through George. He shoved Pottinger away with open contempt before turning without another word and striding toward the rear of the house.

Outside, near the servants’ entrance, he found the animal. The bullmastiff stood rigid, his ribs stark beneath a dull, stretched coat, one massive paw lifted uncertainly from the ground. When George approached, the dog flinched, then froze, watching him with wary intelligence.

George crouched instead, lowering himself until he was no taller than the animal’s eye level. He kept his movements slow, and his hands relaxed at his sides. “It is over,” he said quietly. “You are safe now.”

The dog growled, baring his teeth.

George did not flinch. He knew Alfie’s reaction sprang from fear and self-preservation, not malice. Every mistreated animal responded differently. Some cowered and hid. Others trembled. Some met the world with savage aggression, while still others endured their misery in silent resignation. George remained where he was, his posture loose and unthreatening. He spoke softly, neither issuing commands nor attempting to coax the animal closer. He simply talked.

He told Alfie about his day, about the ride through the city, about Seaview Manor and the quiet refuge waiting there. His voice never wavered, offering only calm companionship rather than expectation. Several minutes passed. The dog neither growled nor advanced. He simply watched, his breathing shallow, his body still poised to flee or defend himself if necessary.

George understood that kind of vigilance. He shifted slightly, angling his body away instead of facing the dog directly, offering space rather than pressure.

“My lord,” a voice said softly.

His coachman approached, holding several slices of ham wrapped in paper. George accepted them but made no attempt to offer the food from his hand. Instead, he laid the ham upon the ground between them and immediately withdrew.