Meanwhile, as Miss Jenny Smythe-Pitcairn polished the Duke of Sunderford's knob, mischief of an entirely different stripe was afoot, aclaw, and atooth in Lord Bumblefield's tiger pit.
Albert Buttick, Lord Bumblefield, always introduced himself as the last of a great line of Bumblefields, which only makes sense once you realize that a great many Bumblefields had to perish for Albert to inherit the title. That long line of Bumblefields stretches back into the mists of time until the fog clears for a bit and reveals the family progenitor, William the Exceptionally Stout Buttocked, saving William the Conqueror's favorite pet rabbit from a mad ferret by seizing and crushing the ferret with his aforementioned prodigiously stout buttocks. Mashing small animals with the buttocks was a popular trick at court in those simpler times, but only William would have dared take a ferret in that manner.
For his service to the usurped crown and to ensure that posterity would not confuse the deeds of William the Conqueror with William the Exceptionally Stout Buttocked, the Norman king granted a peerage to his vassal, now The Most Honorable the Marquess of Bumblefield or simply "Lord Bumblefield" to his chums.
But such lineage and forms of address mattered not a single whit to the present Lord Bumblefield's tiger. In fact, an entire hogshead of whits would have hardly made an impression on the tiger, who was currently relishing the expectation of using its left canine tooth to pulverize the last Lord Bumblefield's cervical vertebrae and thus render him the final Lord Bumblefield.
Three thoughts rattled around the Lord's well-bred cranium:
The carnivorous feline in question now drooled visibly while it fantasized of the blue blood that would soon be spurting across its tongue.
As the tiger calculated jump vectors and optimal bite pressures, Lord Bumblefield tried furiously to remember now vital details from a childhood tale of Bengali monks who had perfected the killing jab to the throat cartilage of the fearsome Bengal tiger, after having gone through quite a number of intrepid yet hapless monks.
He wracked, keelhauled, and ultimately flogged his intransigent brain to no avail. He was done for.
The big cat now drew a bead on Lord Bumblefield's neck as surely as Lord Bumblefield would have with his fine Rigby double rifle on a tiger.
Lord Bumblefield shrank, or rather slightly diminished his lordly stature, against the wall. Reaching blindly behind him, his hand found a door handle. Out of habit, he gave it a twist and it turned with a satisfying click. That dashed fool Dimpwhipple had forgotten to lock the door.
*
Lord Bumblefield swept into the room like a well-appointed broom and found Miss Jenny Smythe-Pitcairn on her knees polishing the Duke's knob. Her curled tresses bobbed as she worked, fairly grunting with the effort.
"Miss Smythe-Pitcairn!" Lord Bumblefield ejaculated.
Miss Smythe-Pitcairn bolted upright and spun to face him. Her curls took a moment longer to catch up and bounced fetchingly. Her porcelain fingers clutched at a polishing cloth.
"Miss Smythe-Pitcairn, what is the meaning of this?"
"Oh, Lord Bumblefield," she beseeched, "The Duke's knob polisher has been laid low by a terrible case catarrh. While I stayed as a ward under the Duke's auspices, I felt obliged to repay his kindness and chastity, even if it were to sink to such a low and mean activity as polishing the Duke's knobs."
"Dash it all, Jenny," Lord Bumblefield dashed, "Will you kindly acquiesce to be my bride?"
"Oh, Albert! Why yes, of course!"
And then Lord Bumblefield ejaculated.
Pakeha