“Are you to open it, milady?”
Phoebe sighed. “And prove to that rude creature I am a fool?”
Her lady maid gasped her affront, and Phoebe smiled.
“She did say she was waiting for a fool to hand this note, so I gather its contents to be objectionable to her intelligence and maybe a trap for me.” Phoebe glared at the note, her curiosity eating at her. “I cannot credit that she walked around with this letter to fob it off on the first stranger she saw. That means the contents are truly not that important to her…or perhaps anyone else. Or since she was watching us, she decided I was somehow the right person to hand it to.”
“So will you discard it or read it, milady?” Sarah asked, glancing at the rapidly darkening sky and back toward where they had left the carriages.
Her damnable curiosity won, and she opened it.
Dear You,
Phoebe blinked at the highly unusual greeting.
Thank you for the courage to reach for this letter. I requested that it be entrusted to someone kind, patient, and warmhearted. Before you is my very best friend, perhaps my only friend, and most certainly the most loyal of companions. As my sister berated me these past few days, due to my unchecked idiocy, I’ve fallen ill, and from the dark and excessively dramatic muttering about in the hallway, I’m not likely to recover. I do not fear the inevitable nature of death, yet I do care very much who will look after my friend when I am gone. We’ve been together these last seven years, and he has trotted faithfully with me on many adventures, and even through many perilous dangers, he remained by my side. He is brave with a huge heart.
Phoebe glanced up from the letter. “I…I believe it a letter from its owner,” she said wonderingly. “And he entrusted that very rude creature with it.”
His name is Wolf.
“Oh, of course it is,” she whispered, then with a light laugh of relief, she looked at him. “Wolf…please eat!” Then she held her breath in anticipation. “Wolf!” How decidedly odd.
The dog did not respond, and yet again, his stare remained on her. With a frown, she read the rest of the letter.
He will not respond to Wolf, for he has not learned to associate the sound of his name with his special symbol. Lift your hands to your chin with your palm open. Then form it into a side beak, then quickly snap your fingers together and say his name.
She stared in astonishment at the peculiar instructions. Unable to explain why, she complied, and her heart almost burst from her chest when the dog lurched to stand on trembling feet.
“Wolf,” she said softly and repeated the motion.
If he responded to you, that means there is something about your presence he finds trustworthy. Please take care of him. Below are instructions on how to sign commands to him, and once he is accustomed to you, I am certain a new bond will be formed where he will listen in whichever way you deem to speak with him. I’ve left instructions for a jointure to be provided for his care and feeding. Please leave your details with my sister so that my wishes might be fulfilled.
I will close my eyes, resting easy that he has found a new home.
Warmest of Regards,
Hugh.
And below his greetings were more odd instructions on how to tell Wolf to eat, run, fetch, and dear God, even attack.
“How strange!”
She folded the letter, and after slipping it into her pocket, Phoebe lowered to her knees on her coat. Recalling the instruction, she lifted her beaked fist and tapped it toward her partially open mouth three times. Phoebe laughed with relief when Wolf finally took a bite of the succulent meat.
“You are very stubborn, aren’t you? Wherever did you find the willpower to resist eating when you are so very hungry?”
It took a few moments for her to gather the courage to reach out and pet him. Wolf went remarkably still beneath her touch, and her heart quaked. Then a heavy, gruff sound escaped him, and the taut muscles beneath her fingers relaxed. “Come with me,” she said softly and used her fingers to shape the command—come!
He trotted to her, and she slipped her hands around his massive head. A rumble of what she hoped was pleasure came from his throat, and something tightened inside Phoebe’s chest. She’d never had a pet of any kind before. Mama had always seemed allergic to all critters, and Papa had indulged every hysterical fit whenever an animal dared to approach the duchess. The only exception had been for Francis’s beloved Lord Benjamin.
“I think we could be friends,” she whispered by his ear, ignoring the wet and mildly unpleasant odor wafting from him. “I’ve always wanted a friend I could confide my fears and hopes to, one who would not gossip about me or inform my mother of my wayward thoughts.”
Phoebe then stood and collected her coat. With a sigh, she patted the dog’s head, which easily reached her waist. Phoebe had never boasted any extraordinary height and now at the age of eighteen accepted that she would not grow beyond her five-foot-three-inch frame. The dog trotted beside her, and Sarah remained a few paces behind, not seeming to trust in what she had witnessed.
If Phoebe possessed any wisp of rationality, she would leave the savage animal to his own fate. She was only here in Scotland on holiday with her family, a retreat her mother had needed and one the duchess took yearly since the death of her oldest son two years past. Worse, the duke and duchess’s remaining son, Richard—the marquess of Westfall—was another source of disappointment because he had publicly claimed his bastard daughter, to his parents’ and society’s mortification. To Phoebe’s heart, her brother’s actions made him a man to be admired, and she loved him dearly. He would surely encourage her to help the poor animal.
A procession of four carriages crawled along the dirt road toward Phoebe. The front equipage held her mother with her traveling companion and lady maid. Her father, the duke o