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  Mister Darcy’s Dogs

  Mister Darcy Series Comedic Mysteries - Book 1

  barbara silkstone

  MISTER DARCY’S DOGS ©

  Copyright 2014 by Barbara Silkstone

  ISBN EBook: 978-0-9903807-6-4

  ISBN Paperback book: 978-0-9903807-9-5

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and respectfully. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook collection is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the publisher and purchase your own copy.

  Contents

  Mister Darcy’s Dogs

  Acknowledgment

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  More books by Barbara Silkstone

  Mister Darcy’s Dogs

  Mister Darcy’s Christmas

  Mister Darcy’s Secret

  Pansy Cottage

  Mister Darcy’s Templars

  Mister Darcy’s Honeymoon

  Happy Christmas From The Darcy’s

  Mister Darcy’s Maltese Falcon

  Darcy Down the Rabbit Hole - Book 9

  Mister Darcy’s Dogs

  Pride and Prejudice Variation

  A Light Comedy

  The mysterious Mister Darcy retains the services of dog psychologist Lizzie Bennet to train his basset puppies for an important fox hunt. Despite knowing nothing about fox hunting, Doctor Lizzie takes on the challenge. Society reporter Caroline Bingley and would-be paramour of Darcy is to cover the hunt for the BBC.

  Lizzie’s sister Jane and Charles Bingley join the adventure and fall trippingly in love as Lydia involves Georgiana in an ill-planned caper. And why is Wickham lurking in the shrubberies?

  Book One in the Mister Darcy series by Barbara Silkstone

  Thank you to Jane Austen for sharing her timeless, beloved characters.

  Chapter 1

  Churchill Hounds Best of Show might have been the most exclusive canine competition in London but at the moment it sounded as if the hounds of the Baskervilles had cornered the tastiest fox smack-center in grand Royal Albert Hall. The baying of hundreds of dogs cut the night air of Kensington Gardens as our taxi pulled to the curb. I took a deep breath, rolled up the cab window and grabbed my battered leather courier bag.

  This was my older sister Jane’s first time as coordinator of the Hounds event. Through her sweet demeanor and stiff determination she had secured the Royal Albert as a venue. Never before had animals graced the revered concert hall. All gilt, velvet, and posh, this would be the first and by the sounds of the chaos within, perhaps the last dog show held in the Hall.

  I leaped from the cab, my little sister Lydia close at my heels, her eyes two giant blue eggs. I was the dog psychologist able to tame the wildest beast. Lydia was terrified of anything on four legs. Sixteen going on twelve, she clung to the pocket of my tan trousers with one hand, her other arm linked to the sleeve of my jumble-sale blouse.

  There was no way I could have left Lydia alone at my home in the country. Not with the RAF reserves on bivouac at our neighbor’s farm. Lydia had a thing for men in uniforms, and her thing grossly exceeded her common sense.

  The text that launched my mad race from Pansy Corners was marked urgent with the lovely words “paying client” at the bottom. Jane had not pluralized client. Could one lone distressed dog be the cause of this uproar? The possible new client for Elizabeth Bennet’s School of Canine Manners may have created a riot in the two hours since Lydia and I left Maidenhead.

  As I cut through the barking beagles, the baying bloodhounds, and the odd otter-hound, Lydia fairly climbed my back to avoid the pedigreed pooches. The toff dog owners poised their human noses in the air as if avoiding the smell of something foul. How had the upper crust survived as a class with their hooters permanently upside down? A good rainfall should have drowned them all by now.

  A tall gentleman in a gray bespoke suit elbowed me in the ribs as he bent to tend to his English Foxhound. He cut me a quick look, taking inventory of my worth. My lack of salon hair, my thrift shop blouse, and my Swatch watch lay claim to my working class status. Without an apology the non-gentleman turned and went back to tending his dog.

  I will not tolerate rudeness in dogs or people. The gent injured my ribs and he needed to know it. I spun on the heels of my ballet flats and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped and withdrew as if I were contagious with middleclass-itis.

  “Excuse me, sir. You hurt me. An apology would be good manners as any dog would understand.”

  The snob looked down his nose, which seemed to grow longer with each glaring second. “Whatever,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He turned his back to me.

  I wasn’t about to take his boorishness like a whipped puppy. With a quick stomp I mashed the heel of my shoe into the arch of his right foot and immediately melted into the chaos with Lydia close behind. The sound of his cursing rose over the howling of the hounds.

  “Nicely done.”

  The compliment came from a tall, rather good-looking chap. His expensive suit screamed money, his expression said serious flirt. Was he the non-gentleman’s solicitor? Had I done permanent damage to the arch of an ass? Was I about to be sued? And where was Jane?

  The gent extended his hand. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding band. He caught me finger-peeking and smirked. I don’t know why I looked at his digits. I was not in the market for a date, not in the midst of my sister’s career defining emergency and truth-be-told, not at all. I was determined to build my canine consulting practice with no romantic distractions, as one must not live one’s life through a man.

  “George Wickham,” he said, still smirking. “Please don’t stomp on my foot. I’ve been standing all day assisting a friend in preparing his miniature dachshund for show. Have you any idea how low one must stoop to comfort such a dog?”

  “I should think you would have no problem as you appear to be a low-stooper,” I said. “Amusing as you are, Mr. Wickham, I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t throw it,” I said. Could the man not see I was in a rush?

  Sure as Swiss clockwork, Lydia stepped between us. “We’re the Bennet sisters. I’m Lydia and this is
Lizzie… Elizabeth.”

  Wickham gave Lydia a look that raised my hackles. This was a man who knew women. He possessed a tractor beam able to draw and hold. I pulled my anti-ingénue sister ahead of me and we forged through the tide of the escaping audience.

  I felt Wickham’s eyes and the hairs on the back of my neck did a wiggly dance.

  “He was quite handsome,” Lydia said, jumping up to reach my ear.

  “Hush! Do you see Jane?” I scanned the crowd feeling my older sister’s panic.

  My phone vibrated. I pulled it from my pocket and read Jane’s text. Hurry. In the front of stage.

  Cutting through the crowd and climbing over the plush theater seats, Lydia and I made our way to the enclosed circle just below the elevated stage. The audience continued to grumble as they pushed to the exits, a wave of designer cocktail dresses and Savile Row suits. I’m sure the dogs were very impressed.

  I glanced up at the overhead screens; the cameras were filming. I could see Jane standing defensive guard between two basset hounds and a highlighted redhead who looked vaguely familiar. My sister’s face filled the screen, her tearful eyes impossible to hide, her blonde hair poking in spikes from what had been a lovely chignon, and her lower lip quivering.

  “Jane! I’m here!”

  Chapter 2

  Jane’s mascara lay in Alice Cooper smudges, her nose dribbled, and her panty hose were rippled with runs. She held me to her chest and whispered in my ear.

  “The redhead is Caroline Bingley, the BBC Society Columnist. Oh help me, she’s going to crucify me in the press.”

  I wanted to reassure her, but the video running larger than life above our heads told me Jane was destined for the BBC and YouTube. She might consider joining a convent when this was over. Get thee to a nunnery, the line from Shakespeare, crossed my mind, but I bit my tongue.

  Jane and I unclenched as the two basset hounds lunged at Caroline Bingley, tripping us in their short leases. They snarled and growled, crouching low as if to leap at the society bird, a physical impossibility based on their short legs and her five-inch heels. Normally docile and loving, these bassets were almost rabid in their reaction to Caroline, who hid behind a rather handsome looking man.

  The gent shielding Caroline had the soulful eyes of a puppy and the bearing of royalty. Perhaps I stared a millisecond longer than I should for the toff glared at me as if I were an odd piece in a curio shop.

  I clapped my hands lightly. The dogs turned their red droopy eyes and gazed at my face. Dragging their leashes, they padded toward me and sniffed the canine scent of my shoes. I raised my hand above their heads, and their barking ceased. Lowering the tone of my voice, I spoke softly to them. “Shall we be quiet?”

  “That must be the Dog Whisperer,” the handsome gent said, but it was in the superior manner he spoke that set me off.

  “I am an animal psychologist. Dr. Elizabeth Bennet.” I extended my hand.

  “William Darcy,” he nodded, his eyes locked on mine as if I were the cause of his unruly hounds. How dare he? We were off to a lovely start in our doctor-client relationship.

  Mister Darcy waved toward the bassets without acknowledging my outstretched hand or my title. I imagined he was trying his best to put me ill at ease. I decided to double my hourly fees as my blood pressure rose in response to his blatant putdown. Dog Whisperer, my arse.

  “This basset is Derby and the other, Squire. They answer to their names.”

  His pedigree hounds did not appear to answer to anyone. Scooting on the floor, I extended my hand palm down. The dogs snuffled slobber over my arms. They inched closer, peering back at the redhead in the orange Versace evening dress.

  Caroline Bingley possessed all the refinement of Lady Gaga with slightly less makeup. If she was an example of ‘society’ the class needed a good hoovering. Aside from being a proponent of the ‘more is more’ faction, she was one of those women who take instant inventory of others. Her eyes ran from the top of my head to my hands, lingering on my fingers with an astonished expression, as I wore no rings or blings. A nasty glint of superiority fired her eyes for an instant, and then she looked away.

  Derby and Squire slavered over my hands, which was why I rarely wore hand jewelry. Their stringy saliva dripped through my fingers. They liked me even if their master did not.

  “You are hired, Miss Bennet,” Mister Darcy said, towering over me.

  My eyes traveled the length of all six-feet of him. “My name is Doctor Bennet.”

  Derby bumped my hand with his head requesting an additional pat. I looked down at the dog and found myself staring at Darcy’s Italian leather shoes that must have cost more than my cottage. Who wasted money like that? Who had money like that to waste? I struggled not to look at Mister Darcy’s face, but I lost the battle. He was handsome in the ten-plus range with dark brown wavy hair, laser-white teeth, and those soulful chocolate eyes.

  Darcy continued to explain the details of my hiring as I knelt at his feet, calmly stroking his puppies. That sounded positively obscene. I swallowed a chuckle.

  “The dogs seem to have a problem adjusting to Miss Bingley. They must be conditioned to accept her as we intend to take part in a great many trail hunts this season with Derby and Squire. I am taking you into my confidence. Caroline is producing a BBC story on the decline of fox hunting in society since the Hunting Act of 2004.”

  “Well that’s a jolly good thing.” I tickled Squire behind the ears. “Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who referred to fox hunting as ‘the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneateable?’”

  “I see you enjoy sarcasm.”

  “I find it a most pleasing hobby.”

  He smirked. “A lady should have a diversion. Now, please do get up.”

  I scrambled to my feet, my hand slipping on a drool spill, and gaining purchase only by grabbing the floor with both palms and pushing up.

  Caroline’s snicker echoed over the loud speakers through her clip-on microphone. She was a pretentious cow. Years of inbreeding had left her all sharp angles and no softness except that which she might pretend in pursuit of a target. Her target was quite clear as she gazed at my new client.

  “May I have a word with you?” Mister Darcy led me away from his group for a private chat. As we walked to the foot of the stage, I caught the smell of clean laundry and fresh air over the odor of dog shampoo and expensive perfumes. From working with animals, my sense of smell had become keenly developed, and I loathed the stench of cologne. William Darcy’s scent reminded me of sunshine on a rolling green lawn. I fought a sudden urge to nuzzle his neck.

  He turned his back away from the group. Did Miss Bingley read lips? “This is doctor-patient confidentiality, Miss Bennet,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper and pinning me with those deep, dark eyes.

  “Doctor Bennet.”

  He stepped over my words. “My dogs are very socialized. They take to everyone, until… Miss Bingley and I have recently become involved. It is important to me that Derby and Squire get on with the lady.”

  I was about to tell him that it is impossible to make a doglike someone. If they instinctively dislike a person, you can’t train them against their natures.

  “May I call you William?” I began in an attempt to temper my advice in regard to Miss Bingley.

  He stiffened. “Mister Darcy would be the proper way to address me as you are in my employ. I am willing to pay you handsomely for your exclusive time in order to expedite their training. Thus far Derby and Squire have been show dogs. They have yet to hunt. You will have two tasks to bring about within a fortnight. I will assume you own proper attire for a fox hunt.”

  If I didn’t need the money and client reference, I would have happily told him where he could insert his attitude. Instead I forced a stiff-lipped smile and nodded.

  “I will send Caroline’s brother, Charles Bingley, to bring you to my flat in Knightsbridge tomorrow. I will expect you at nine a.m. sharp.”

  He strode away and rejoine
d the group. Caroline looked at him as if he’d saved her from a pack of hungry wolves. Her practiced expression all but said, “My hero.”

  Rubbish. I could easily despise the man.

  The dogs lapped at my ankles as I watched Caroline Bingley grab William Darcy’s arm, her claws extended, and her hoity-toity in full sail. The couple left the arena, wending their way through the off-stage area.

  Darcy keeps his hunting dogs in a flat? No wonder the animals are stressed. They need to gambol through fields with the wind in their ears. Okay, perhaps that was pushing a point as their ears are long and do trail the ground helping to grab the scent of what they are tracking. But they should not be confined in a city apartment.

  “Well, pups,” I said as I stroked their heads. “I suppose I will see you in the morning. Your Mister Darcy does not appear to be a man who will accept cannot be done for an answer.”

  William Darcy failed to inquire as to my fees, but having learned what not to do from my dear father who finds himself constantly on the bottom of his bills, I would prepare an agreement for Darcy’s signature and an invoice for an advance on my fees. The rich can be dodgy about paying their bills. I had no knowledge of this man other than that he appeared to be a colossal ass.

  A uniformed dog-handler approached. Lydia moaned as she gazed at the gent’s royal purple coat and gold braid epaulets.