A Perfect Gentleman by Bárbara Metzger Page A

knew what to do with a gentleman’s hand. The dog sniffed, snarled, then lunged, trying to launch a drooping, drooling jaw toward Stony’s throat. It fell short, on its short, bowed legs.
    “Yi!” Stony yelled.
    “Don’t worry. He has no teeth.”
    “He has my blasted hand!”
    “I’ll ring for tea.”
    Was the woman totally insane? The cur had a death grip—toothless or not—on Stony’s wrist and refused to let go, and now she was serving refreshments?
    She ran toward the desk and a small silver bell there, which of course immediately stuck to her hand. It rang anyway.
    Timms must have been anticipating her call, for he wheeled in a tea cart before the last chime. Actually, the old butler leaned on the cart as it rolled. He took one look at the situation and fell to his knees.
    “Now is not the time to pray, man!” Stony shouted.
    But Timms wasn’t praying. He was tossing tiny cucumber sandwiches at Stony. That is, he was trying to get them near enough for the lockjawed dog to notice, but without his spectacles…
    Then Miss Kane reached into her pocket and pulled out a small…boiled potato. Stony’s mouth would have hung open, except he was too busy yelling and trying to shake the barnacle bulldog off.
    “Here, Atlas. Your favorite.”
    The dog’s name was Atlas? It should have been Attila. But those steel-trap jaws did open, and the beady, bloodshot eyes did follow the path of the falling potato, which, luckily, did not stick to Miss Kane’s hand.
    Stony did not know whether to wipe his wet, aching hand on his handkerchief, or use the linen square as a bandage. Should he ask for hot water to get rid of the slime, or a piece of ice to hold against the swelling? One thing he was not going to do was put his fingers in his mouth to ease the pain, not after where they’d been.
    No one was hurrying to his assistance, anyway. The aunt was making henlike cackling sounds in her corner. Stony could not be certain if she was trying to smother her advice or her laughter.
    Miss Kane was on the floor beside the butler, patting his back, then helping him to stand. Why, Stony could not help wondering, did she not pension the old man off, if she was so solicitous of his well-being? He did not understand, and he decided that he did not wish to understand anything about this odd household that kept a four-legged piranha as a throw pillow.
    Miss Kane must have noticed his uneasy glance toward Atlas, on the floor. “Oh, he will not bother you anymore. You were just in his place, you see.”
    “The sofa is his?”
    The heiress fussed over Timms instead of answering, straightening his neckcloth and likely leaving it permanently glued together. “He is content on the floor for now.”
    Of course he was. Having gobbled up all the fallen sandwiches, the brute was now devouring Stony’s bouquet that had landed on the floor. Stony chose not to argue with him over it.
    Timms was standing on his own now. “I’ll just go fetch more refreshments, Miss Kane,” he said.
    She looked at the empty plate on the tea cart. “Thank you, Timmy, that would be lovely. And some wine?”
    “Thank you, miss. Don’t mind if I do. The good Lord always blessed the fruit of the vine, didn’t he?”
    When the butler left, Stony could not stop himself from asking, “Why do you keep him?”
    “Timmy? He has been with the family for generations. What would you have me do, toss him out on the street just because he is old?”
    And slow, decrepit, half-blind, and a psalmist? “No, I meant the dog. Why would you keep an animal like that in the house?”
    “It’s his house.” She sat down in her armchair again. Stony sat in the hard wooden chair, just to be safe.
    “Oh, I doubt the inheritance would stand in a court of law,” Miss Kane went on when Stony offered no comment. “But Aunt Augusta left her home to Atlas. I could not neglect my aunt’s wishes, could I, especially when she left five copies of her will? Besides, the house will come