Geoffrey hauled himself to his feet and drew a sleeve across his face. "Brummell? That is the least likely Brummell I have ever seen."

"Well, he really has no name. At least as far as I know. But I call him Brummell." She laid an affectionate hand on the dog's head.

"I thought you said he was not your dog." Glaring at the girl, Geoffrey ran his hands through his hair, and then began picking grass out of his clothing.

"Oh, he is not. He belongs to Mr. Jenkins, one of Bradworth's farmers. But he likes to follow me. Don't you, old fellow?" She looked fondly down at the dog.

"If he is part of your cohort, you might try to control him, my girl. He should not be allowed to run wild, attacking unsuspecting passersby." His improvised grooming completed, Geoffrey rested his fists on his hips and stared at the child.

And stared some more. This was no child. She could not have been many inches over five feet, her hair was a mass of curls around her face, and her wide green eyes had the ingenuous look of a young girl, but her drab brown dress covered curves where no child would have them. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Sir?" The woman -- for woman she obviously was -- snapped her head up and stared at him. "I apologize, sir, for Brummell's... um... attack, but I'm sure he didn't hurt you. I really don't think that it's necessary to have my name. And," she added, "I might inquire the same. Who are you and what business do you have crossing this field?"

"Is this your field?" Geoffrey asked, trying not to grin at the girl's prim indignation.

She shook her head. "No."

Geoffrey cocked an assessing eyebrow at the impudent young woman. "Then perhaps you would not mind telling me why you are crossing it."

"I cross this field every day," she said, her eyes narrowed and her hands clenched. "My father is vicar of this parish, and I frequently visit the Bradworth tenants. I am sure the new owner will not object."

"Really? Well, that remains to be seen," Geoffrey said.

"You... you are not the new landlord?" For the first time in this bizarre conversation, the girl looked uncertain. Her eyes widened and her fingers curled into the hair on the huge dog's neck. The dog let out a low growl.

Geoffrey shot a quick, nervous glance at the dog.

"Hush, Brummell." The girl relaxed her hand, and the dog subsided. But she stayed quite rigid, watching Geoffrey with those huge green eyes.

"I am not," Geoffrey said and watched the girl -- the vicar's daughter -- relax her posture.

"I am, however, his new land steward, Geoffrey Dorton." Geoffrey bowed. "Your servant, Miss....?"

The girl sighed. "I suppose you are bound to find out anyway," she said. "Miss Hartwell." She dropped a short curtsey, during which the wolfhound eyed Geoffrey speculatively.

"Very gracious," Geoffrey murmured.

"I must be going." Miss Hartwell shook her brown curls, twitched the skirt of her brown dress, put her hand on the back of the big brown dog, and turned away.

"Wait!" For a reason he could not name, Geoffrey was not ready to terminate the interview. Perhaps it was because she was the first person he had met outside of the workers on the Bradworth estate. Yes. Of course, that must be it. It was important to get to know the rest of the community.

Miss Hartwell stopped short but did not turn. "Yes?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I... er... mean to call on your father anyway. And, well, you seem to know the shortest route."

"Yes," she said.

"Would you mind if I accompanied you?" Geoffrey asked, chagrined to be begging the vicar's daughter for her company.

Miss Hartwell nodded and waited until Geoffrey stepped to her side -- the side away from the dog.

"He won't bite," she said.

"He smells like a fish." Geoffrey raised his head, seeking the vibrant smell of Devonshire in the spring.

"And you smell like him," Miss Hartwell informed him, "so I would not be too quick to criticize."

"I do?" Geoffrey raised his arm and sniffed the sleeve of his jacket. "Oh Lord. I do. Perhaps I will call on your father another time."

"Oh, come along. We will keep Brummell between you and Papa and he will never notice." Miss Hartwell strode off and Geoffrey, sighing deeply, strode after her.