“You never listen,” Cam said. “I know what I saw, and you’re not the only one who can grasp when an animal’s miserable. The dog was being stolen and beaten. The idiot trying to haul him down the alley didn’t even try asking the dog to come, didn’t offer a single treat, and yelled at the poor creature so half of Mayfair might have heard.”
Beating a dog was unproductive, disgraceful, and just plain ungentlemanly. Beating a dog that weighed more than many grown men was also stupid as hell.
“Cam is right,” Ash said. “The dog was in the hands of a fool. You don’t own a dog that size without some notion of how to manage it.”
While Will, increasingly, had no idea how to manage his brothers. “What did you do, Cam?” For he’d done something, and Ash hadn’t been able to stop him.
“I followed them for about a mile, though it wasn’t a pretty mile. The dog had a lot of fight in him, but he was quick too, and dodged most of the blows. They stuck to the alleys, and ended up on a back street toward Bloomsbury.”
“Let’s keep moving,” Will said, for his appointments mattered to him, as did shepherding his brothers in the opposite direction from Bloomsbury. “Tell me the rest of it, Sycamore.”
“Not much else to tell,” Cam said, jamming his hands in his pockets. “The man dragged the dog halfway across the West End, then tied him in an alley behind a tavern. When nobody was around, I tossed the poor blighter a bit of cheese, told him he was a good fellow, then untied the rope securing him. He gave me a great lick across the cheek, then bounded off. I let him go because I didn’t want anybody to see me with him.”
The dog might have killed Cam. Might have delivered fatal bites, might have created a commotion that drew the owner and his friends from the tavern, and seen Cam hanged or transported for theft.
“Sycamore,” Will began in his sternest tones, “what you did was very, very—” Ash caught Will by the arm when he might have marched right across Upper Grosvenor Street. With that hand on Will’s arm came a glance. Cam meant well. He’s trying his best. I didn’t know what to do.
Dogs needed no words to convey their sentiments to one another, but humans seldom paid the same degree of attention to their own kind.
Sycamore had been doing exactly what Will might have done at his age, exactly what Will’s instincts goaded him to do even now: protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, look out for mute beasts left to the mercy of humankind’s fickle honor.
Will settled his top hat more firmly on his head. “What you did, Sycamore, was brave, clever, and bold. I’m proud of you and your quick thinking, as well as your willingness to risk your well-being to look after an unfortunate creature in need of rescue. If you ever do anything like that again”—Ash was grinning at his boots, Cam looked bewildered—“I will bankrupt myself paying for your legal defense, and black the eyes of anybody who says a gentleman should have done differently.”
“Will can nearly afford the legal defense too,” Ash said as they set off across the street. “Our Willow has entrusted his coin to Kettering, with encouraging results.”
“Sycamore, please don’t take similar risks in the future,” Will went on, because what mattered Ash’s teasing, when Sycamore could have been arrested or mauled to death? “Bring the problem to me, and we’ll find a safer way to handle it.”
The duchess had hinted that Will ought to be looking for the missing dogs, and Will had pretended to misconstrue her innuendo—despite the nagging sense that Her Grace was right.
“I couldn’t see a safer way,” Cam said. “Poor dog was being dragged to perdition. Ash didn’t try to stop me, so he agrees with me.”
“I never said—” Ash began.
“He’s your brother, and you didn’t tie him to the saddle,” Will said. “That’s resounding agreement, Ash, and I’ll thank you not to bruit my financial status about in the streets.”
They sauntered along, tipping hats to the ladies, and Will wished for a moment that Casriel might have joined them. The earl deserved to banter with his brothers, to be proud of them, to know they could get both into and out of scrapes without moment-by-moment supervision.
A sense of wistful hope wafted through Will, because the boys would grow up, Casriel would marry, and maybe someday…
“If a man leaves his financial reports in his coat pocket,” Ash said, “where his brother, an aspiring solicitor, can find them, then that man is not very careful with his privacy, is he?”
“Will’s rich?” Cam asked.
“Now you’ve done it,” Will said. “The town crier has got hold of the news, but having two coins to rub together hardly makes me wealthy. One has dogs to feed, and coats to order from the tailor. Unlike you lot, I don’t take an allowance from Casriel and never have.”
“You live off Georgette’s affairs,” Cam said.
“Georgette does not have affairs,” Will retorted. “She makes her visits to the stud dogs of my choosing, and when the puppies are old enough, and have sufficient training—why must every conversation with you eventually turn to the topic of procreation?”
“Here it comes, the procreation and self-restraint lecture,” Ash muttered. “You have more than two coins, Willow.”
“How rich is he?” Cam asked.
Ash, thank heavens, did not name figures. “Look on the third page, Willow. Kettering is breaking records to get your finances put to rights. I shall ask him about investing a sum for me. Cam, I’m sure, would rather spend all of his allowance on wenches and wine.”
“Can’t spend it on the opera dancers,” Cam lamented. “Kettering takes a dim view, and then Casriel starts clearing his throat, and Jacaranda peers down her nose at me so disappointedly even a lusty fellow such as my handsome self finds it difficult to muster a proper—”
“Sycamore!” Both older brothers spoke at once.
Cam grinned, stopped walking, and tipped his hat. “Right. Gentlemanly discretion and all that. I’ll leave you two well-dressed old nuns to make your calls. I’m for an ice at Gunter’s.”
He strolled, off looking entirely too self-possessed and rakish for a mere boy.
“That went well,” Ash said, resuming their progress. “That went very well, in fact, but what will you do when he decides his calling is rescuing the oppressed canines of London, because that’s how brave, bold, honorable fellows occupy themselves of a drunken evening?”
Will stared at the figure on the third page of Kettering’s report, though Ash’s question conjured scenes of Cam beaten and incarcerated, like the very dogs he’d seek to rescue.
“If Cam insists on disregarding the dictates of prudence,” Will said, “I might be forced to go out dog-rescuing with him, despite the danger to life, limb, and reputation. Ash, could this total be in error?”
“No, it could not. Kettering’s people don’t make silly mistakes. They don’t even make brilliant mistakes. Kettering is shrewd, and you gave him a decent sum to start with.”
Every penny Will could spare. Still the figure was larger than he’d anticipated. Not a fortune, but…not a pittance.
“Will it continue to grow at the same rate?” Will understood the canine species as well as he understood his own. Agriculture was in his very blood. He could manage a ledger fairly well, and monitored conversations with the bankers mostly to ensure they weren’t cheating Casriel.
This investment business, though… It wanted more than a piece of cheese and a pat on the head for Will to take an interest in it.
“The rate of growth can change, and even become a rate of loss,” Ash said. “Kettering is the best though, and you’re family. He’ll ferret out the more profitable projects for you, and watch them like an old tabby with one kitten. Then too, as the principle grows, the interest has more to work with.”
“Like when Georgette’s daughters are old enough to breed,” Will said, folding the paper and tucking it away. In a few years, the progeny of one bitch and one dog could number in the hundreds. Why hadn’t Will seen that inv
ested money had the same potential?
Between Grosvenor and Mount Street, a bright, sunny revelation beamed down through the clouds of Will’s worry for his brother, and for several unfortunate dogs: Someday, I might be able to marry Lady Susannah Haddonfield. Not now, maybe not for several years, but someday…
“That is a dangerous smile,” Ash said. “Makes you look more like Cam. So upon whom are we calling?”
“Lady Susannah Haddonfield. Who said anything about we, Ash?”
“Don’t be difficult, Willow. I stopped Cam from appropriating your newest breeches, and I am owed some consideration for merely borrowing them myself.”
Eight
“Mr. Dorning has asked me to accompany him on a call to Lady March. Would you like to come with us?” Susannah asked, tying her bonnet ribbons beneath her chin.
“Suze, you have no sense of style,” Della retorted, untying the ribbons and repositioning the hat. “A slight angle to the bow, a jaunty set to the brim does not make you a Haymarket streetwalker.”
In the mirror over the foyer’s sideboard, Susannah studied Della’s adjustments. “You’re not supposed to know about Haymarket streetwalkers, or speak of them if you do. Are you fretting over Lord Effington’s lapse?”
For the viscount had failed to keep his appointment in the park not an hour ago, and Della’s handling of Susannah’s millinery was brisk to the point of agitation.
“In truth I’d be relieved were Effington to attach his interests to another lady,” Della said. “I want my own household, of course, and a husband and children, but if this is how he behaves when trying to secure my interest, how will he act once we’re married?”
Susannah picked up her reticule, felt the weight of Mr. Shakespeare therein, and decided he need not accompany her on this call.
“Effington might simply be ill, or busy with his solicitors, or perhaps he got the days confused,” Susannah said, the same excuses she’d trotted out for the few and fainthearted gentlemen who had made overtures to her years ago.
A knock sounded on the door, and Susannah answered it herself rather than indulge in the absurdity of waiting for the butler.
“Mr. Dorning, and Mr. Dorning, good day.” Susannah was disappointed to see Ash Dorning at his brother’s side, though they made a fetching pair.
“My lady and my lady,” Will replied, bowing when he and Ash had been admitted to the foyer. “Lady Della, will you join this sortie?”
Would he be disappointed if she did?
“No, thank you,” Della said. “I’ve just come back from taking the air in the park.”
“Ah, then you’ll be having a spot of tea,” Ash Dorning said. “I could use a cup myself.”
Bold of him, but after Susannah’s own behavior beneath the rhododendrons, she could hardly judge a man for a bit of boldness.
“Come upstairs, then,” Della said, “and we’ll leave the social calls to our elders.”
Will watched them go, his expression troubled. “Lady Della is not pleased to have a caller other than Effington. Perhaps he’ll stop by, for I crossed his path at the Duchess of Ambrose’s house.”
Oh dear. “Lord Effington was due to walk in the park with Della and failed to keep the appointment. Did he seem in good health?” Had the viscount known what day it was?
“His lordship was to all appearances in the pink of health. Had Mannering in tow, and that fretful little pug.”
Yorick, or poor Yorick, to Susannah. “You might have dissembled, Mr. Dorning. Hedged, prevaricated, failed to note the viscount’s state of health.”
Will took Shakespeare from Susannah’s grasp and set him aside. “No, I mightn’t. You prefer the difficult truth to the convenient lie. I like that about you. Shall we be on our way?”
A compliment, however well disguised.
“Your note was mysterious,” Susannah said as Will held the door for her. “Why are we calling on Lady March? My memories of her tea dances are hardly cheering.”
“They should be fortifying memories. You foiled the Mannering sisters’ attempts to wreck your standing in the eyes of the young fellows, and to destroy your confidence. Others would not have fared as well.”
“I was too stupid for some of their schemes. If somebody complimented my dress, I took it as a compliment.”
Such an unusual color, my lady. What an original way to draw the notice of the gentlemen.
You actually drink the punch! Ah, so you can send more than one man to fetch you a glass. Very clever, Lady Susannah! Though I suppose you might become tipsy…
“You were too innocent,” Will said. “We’re calling on Lady March for old times’ sake, but also because her mastiff has gone missing.”
Will would be interested in the missing dog, though his tone suggested he wasn’t exactly pleased to be out socializing.
Perhaps he’d scheduled this call to allow Susannah a chance to revisit the sight of her youthful challenges, but she was more absorbed with the pleasure of walking along with her arm linked through Will’s. Maybe their sessions with the dogs had made a difference, maybe Will was simply accustomed to her company, but Susannah’s escort felt more relaxed, possibly even friendlier than he had in their previous encounters.
Most of their previous encounters. Willow Dorning was a prodigiously skilled kisser when caught unawares beneath the maples.
Lady March welcomed them with the flighty, dithery manners she’d shown her daughter’s friends seven years ago. She had aged, and apparently grown more nervous with the passing of time. Her dark ringlets showed not a hint of gray, though the years had dug grooves beside her mouth.
Susannah was abruptly glad Will had suggested this call.
Prior to Susannah’s come-out, Lady March had loomed in Susannah’s imagination like the social equivalent of the Fates, one of the hostesses who could destroy a young woman’s prospects or assure them.
Her ladyship had held neither power, though Susannah could see that only now. Lady March was a creature to be pitied rather than feared, trapped in a boring, anxious, lonely life.
“I do miss my little bowwow,” her ladyship said, drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve when the tea service had been dealt with. “Alexander was such a comfort, such a dear.” She touched the linen to the corner of her eyes, then balled up the handkerchief in a be-ringed grip.
“When did you first notice he was missing?” Will asked.
“I can’t clearly recall. Not long ago. Mere days, I’m sure. I miss him so, it feels as if he’s been gone an age.” More dabbing at her eyes. “How is your sister, Lady Susannah? Lady Delilah is such a pretty little thing, though her looks are quite unusual for a Haddonfield.”
Susannah smiled, though she wished Georgette had been with them, to leave a damp spot on Lady March’s carpet.
“Lady Della is enjoying her first Season very much,” Susannah said. “Society has been most welcoming. I only wish our parents could have been here to see her make her bow. Bellefonte and his countess are inundated with invitations, and her ladyship’s at home is an utter crush.”
Not a complete lie. The afternoons when Leah received were well attended, though not by swains looking to curry Della’s favor.
“But that dark hair,” Lady March said. “Dark hair can be a trial.”
“I’ve never found it so,” Will said, when Susannah might have spared a pointed glance for her ladyship’s curls. “Nor have my siblings similarly afflicted ever complained about having dark hair. Have you any idea what might have happened to Alexander?”
Her ladyship glanced down, and for an instant, her expression was exasperated. “Of course not. He was a very large dog, and if he went over the garden wall, or some careless servant left the gate unlocked, how am I to know of that? I’m too upset to dwell on the details of his disappearance, if you want the truth.”
She poured herself another cup of tea and neglected to offer any to either of her guests. In the late afternoon sunlight, the rubies adorning her rings and
bracelet had a flat, smudged quality.
The tea service she’d brought out was plain blue jasperware; the spite she’d served Susannah had been quite fresh, however.
Will tried again, gently, to pry details of the dog’s disappearance from the aggrieved owner, until Susannah realized Lady March would not share anything further.
“Mr. Dorning, we must be on our way,” Susannah said, rising. “Lady March, our thanks for a congenial visit, and I do hope your little bowwow comes home soon.”
While her ladyship directed a footman to clear the tray, Susannah leaned close to Will.
“Forget your walking stick,” she murmured.
His consternation showed only in his eyes, then he gave the barest nod. They left Lady March clutching her handkerchief at the front door.
“Keep walking in case she’s watching us,” Susannah said, threading her arm through Will’s. “She’s lying, Will, I’m sure.”
“How do you know?”
Susannah knew with every instinct developed while chatting desperately with the other wallflowers for the dozenth time in two weeks. She sensed Lady March’s mendacity the same way she’d sense when one of her brothers was troubled, though he’d never share a word of the problem with her. She knew Lady March had dissembled, the way she knew she must kiss Will Dorning again, and soon.
“Did you notice she never actually shed a tear?” Susannah asked. “She put on a performance worthy of Mrs. Siddons, but she never cried for her dog or shared any information about him that would lead to his return.”
Will slowed as they reached the corner. “What are you suggesting?”
“She doesn’t want that dog back. She’s making a great production out of her loss, but she doesn’t expect him to be returned.”
Will drew Susannah into the alley that would lead to the mews of the various great houses along the bordering streets. Maples and oaks arched over the lane, and the noise of passing traffic was muted in the alley. A tabby cat lay on a high garden wall, sunning itself amid pots of red salvia.
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