Near the next pillar, the Earl of Casriel was commiserating with a kilted Scotsman about the price of wool and the necessity of taking a bride, and Tresham’s mood went from surly to vile.
Earls might consider taking a bride, but a ducal heir committed an offense against God and nature when he reached the age of twenty-eight without marrying. Quimbey had made that increasingly apparent, though His Grace couldn’t threaten Tresham with a tightening of the purse strings—Tresham’s own purse was quite ample, no thanks to his immediate progenitor.
So instead, Quimbey—dear avuncular, mild-tempered Quimbey—wielded that most brutal of familial weapons, guilt.
An ironic coincidence, that Tresham’s only living relative and young Lady Della should both attempt to coerce him, the duke with the leverage of a close family member and the lady with…
Tresham wasn’t entirely sure what Lady Della had up her sleeve. Though she and Quimbey had nothing in common, she yet reminded Tresham of the duke, for nothing would stop His Grace when he’d fixed on a goal.
“Ah, there you are, my boy,” said Quimbey himself. “Exuding charm in all directions, as usual.”
“Your Grace.” Tresham bowed, mostly to hide the frustration of having been caught unaware. The old fellow had too much practice sneaking about in ballrooms. “Good evening, sir.”
“Tiresome evening, you mean. Instead of glowering at all the demoiselles, you might consider standing up with one of them. You dance well enough.”
Tresham abruptly wanted to soak his head in the men’s punch bowl, which would likely result in blindness, at least, and rumors of bad blood in the Quimbey heir too.
“I dance passably, sir.”
Quimbey had paid for the dancing master. He’d paid for tutors, for the obligatory years at Eaton, three years at Oxford, for a grand tour, such as one could make a grand tour with the Corsican misbehaving. The duke had also paid for every pony Tresham had sat upon, every cravat that had been tied around his neck, until he’d reached the age of twenty-one.
“You’re accomplished at sulking too,” Quimbey said equitably. “Your father excelled at the public pout. Drove your poor mama to Bedlam and gave me several bad turns as well.”
They were in polite company, so Tresham could not retort with the truth. Papa’s philandering had driven Mama to her various excesses and dramas, and her excesses and dramas had driven Papa to his philandering. All very symmetric, a perpetuum mobile of marital misery.
“Has it occurred to you, Uncle, that you urge upon me a course you, yourself, have eschewed? Why don’t you take a bride? Snap up one of the fertile young things panting to become your duchess and leave me in peace.”
Quimbey wasn’t that old, and of all the loathings on Tresham’s long and much-visited list of loathings, assuming his uncle’s title was at the top. Quimbey had influence with half the courts in Europe, was universally liked, and commanded enormous wealth. Despite that ducal consequence, His Grace’s most trusted companion was a half-grown, stinking, drooling mastiff cast upon him by Tresham’s own departed father.
“My dear boy, even if I could stomach the notion of marrying one of these tender beauties, we have no guarantee the union would be fruitful. Your duty, irrespective of my own course, is to marry. If you prefer men, then you simply wed an accommodating woman, show the flag occasionally in the interests of ensuring the succession, and when the nursery is adequately—”
Two potted ferns closer to the door, the pair of earls had gone silent as the dancers left the floor.
“Uncle, for the love of God, stop. I know things were different in your day, but this is neither the time nor the place.”
Thirty years ago, London must have been one unending bacchanal for a man of means, with the royal dukes and the heir to the crown setting a tone of competitive dissipation. Marriage for a man with a title had been a mere formality, and for his wife little better than that once she’d delivered a pair of sons.
How Quimbey, a decent, honest, dependable fellow, had emerged from such an era was a mystery.
“Very well,” Quimbey said, “have your pout, though a bad mood only makes you look burdened and brooding. I’m promised to the Duchess of Moreland for this set. Lovely woman. Her Grace has been the making of Percy Windham too. She has at least four unmarried nieces, and they’re all fine-looking young women. Don’t let me trouble you, though, when you’re having such a jolly time glaring daggers at Polite Society.”
Quimbey sauntered away, greeting all and sundry with the casual good cheer of a man who made being a duke look easy.
Being a good duke was damned difficult. Tresham knew that. He also knew part of his resistance to marriage was simply a small boy’s terror.
Not of marriage. Marriage could be civil enough, despite the example set by Tresham’s parents.
His unreasonable, unbecoming obstinanteness was because Quimbey had been the only adult to show that small boy how a gentleman conducted his affairs, the only person to take an appropriate interest in a youth rudderless in a sea of parental drama.
And now Quimbey, unchanging, stalwart, lovable old Quimbey, was demanding that Tresham face a future that did not include his uncle. If anything happened to Quimbey, Tresham might be left with only his father’s ill-behaved hound for company.
A man should not acquire a duchess simply to preserve himself from the company of a dog, however objectionable that dog might be.
Tresham’s self-castigations were interrupted by a flash of green skirts and brunette curls moving in the direction of the stairs. Lady Della Haddonfield was without escort, and a second opportunity to accost her had at last dropped into Tresham’s lap.
He waited the requisite sixteen bars of gossip and laughter before striding after her, and to hell with whoever might have been watching.
* * *
An earl’s second son had options.
He could be embittered by his status as insurance against a title reverting to the crown, and go about in a perpetual ill humor in the church, the military, the diplomatic corps, or the academic disciplines.
He could indulge in a never-ending adolescence, leveraging biological utility into financial sustenance, wasting his allowance on the usual vices.
He could distance himself from the entire issue of the succession, finishing university as some sort of adult orphan, pretending no familial obligations limited his choices.
Will’s father had disapproved of the typical occupations for a younger son, calling them either dangerous or frivolous, or both. The life of a tolerated wastrel was beyond Will’s comprehension, as was the pretense that his family was an inconvenience rather than the center of his world.
Which left…protectiveness, and here Will’s nature had long since settled his fate. He was protective of his siblings, their interests, and their ambitions.
He was not prepared for that protectiveness to pale in comparison to his regard for Susannah Haddonfield. In the dimly lit alcove, she clung to Will as if he were the mighty oak whose shelter would never fail her, as if in all the world, he alone held her trust.
The arousal throbbing through Will muted to something rarer and equally fierce, even as voices drifted around the corner and Susannah stirred in his arms.
“That’s Della,” she whispered. “That’s Della, and she’s talking to a man.”
Ballrooms were full of men. Every hostess ensured it was so, as did her bottomless punch bowl, congenial card room, and network of connections among the mamas and dowager aunts.
“She might be talking to Effington,” Will said, his arms ignoring his command to release the lady from his embrace.
“Effington drawls, and whoever he is, he’s not happy with Della. I must go, Will.” Susannah kissed his cheek, and might have danced off to her sister’s rescue, but Will detained her for a moment, tugging her glove up to her elbow, tucking a lock of golden hair over her ear.
“We were enjoying a bit of air on the balcony,” Will said. “In plain view from the
back terrace at all times.”
Those lovely, delicately traceable, kissable brows drew down. “Perhaps you should wait here.”
Not bloody likely. “Perhaps we should make haste. The conversation is turning acrimonious, and the retiring rooms are down the next corridor.”
Susannah’s posture shifted, shoulders back, chin up, expression serene. Will’s lover disappeared into a precise rendering of an aristocratic lady who need not answer to anybody for anything. She took Will’s arm and sauntered around the corner with him.
“I do not entirely agree that the sonnets are—oh, good evening, Della.”
The younger lady was not happy with the fellow glowering down at her. Her gloved hands were fists against her green skirts, her jaw set. Had she been a canine, her hackles would have been up, and her growl audible at twenty paces.
“Won’t you introduce us?” Lady Susannah asked. “Sir, you look familiar, but my memory fails me.”
Susannah was ignoring bad behavior, and making good behavior an attractive option for the combatants, one of the basic tenets of effective dog training.
“Jonathan Tresham,” the fellow said, bowing. “At your service.”
“My sister, Lady Susannah Haddonfield,” Lady Della bit out, “and our friend, Mr. Willow Dorning, of the Dorset Dornings.”
Tresham joined his hands behind his back, the gesture reminding Will of somebody. The name was damnably familiar too. Perhaps when Will’s blood had finished returning to its usual locations, his intellect might resume functioning.
“Pleased to meet you,” Tresham said, “my lady, and Mr. Dorning. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the ballroom.”
Tresham wasn’t even trying to pretend he was pleased, about the company, about anything.
“I’ll come with you,” Will said. Until Susannah sorted her younger sister out, Will would be de trop. Then too, Tresham had provoked Lady Della—or she had provoked him—and he thus wanted watching.
Tresham tossed off another crisp bow and marched away, while Will wanted to kiss his lady farewell—clear evidence of besottedness, when he’d see Susannah within the next fifteen minutes, and probably dance with her too.
“Did that contretemps amuse you?” Tresham asked, stomping along. “Or do you smirk for some other reason?”
Growling and snapping were posturing behaviors in many species. “I’m having a pleasant evening, Mr. Tresham, though you apparently are not.”
Tresham paused before they reached the main stairs. A bust of Cicero stared blankly at them from an alcove, though some wit had adorned the old fellow’s marble head with a lady’s green silk garter.
“What is your connection to the Haddonfields?” Tresham asked.
Such a fierce inquiry. “Friend of the family. What is yours?”
Tresham snatched the garter off Cicero’s head. “Total stranger, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“They are an agreeable group, and the earl is noted for his geniality—also for his size. The other brothers are formidable as well, but gentlemen all.”
Tresham looked as if he’d like to plant Cicero—or somebody—a facer. “Those brothers need to keep a closer eye on Lady Della, or send her back to the family seat on the next mail coach. She is a bold creature.”
Tresham was the bold one, accosting a young lady when she was unchaperoned in a corridor.
“Your observation, sir, is unfair and unwise,” Will said. “Lady Della is not bold. If she has been bold with you, then you did something to either encourage her or provoke her. She’s enduring an awkward first Season due to circumstances beyond her control. She’s been the butt of undeserved censure, rumor, and rude behavior, and I’ll not tolerate you adding to her burdens.”
Cheering thought—Cam, Casriel, and most of all, Ash would have agreed with Will.
“Who are you to be tolerating anything?” Tresham muttered. “She’s a thorn in my side, and the sooner she’s gone from Town, the happier I’ll be.”
“Are you the one circulating the unkind rumors about her?” Will asked, for he’d caught the barest breezes of talk in the club. Cam’s eavesdropping in the men’s retiring room, and Lady Della’s paucity of recent dance partners suggested those breezes were originating right here in Mayfair. “I will put a stop to your misbehavior if you are.”
Tresham might be a handsome fellow if he ever bothered to smile. He looked positively thunderous now.
“Who in their right mind would circulate rumors about an earl’s daughter who has five older brothers, any one of whom might meet a man on the field of honor?”
Will propped an elbow on the top of Cicero’s head. “Interesting question, but the fact remains, rumors have made the rounds about Lady Della’s antecedents. Unkind rumors that mean her ladyship is lucky to fill her dance card, and lately must rely on the good offices of family friends to get through every ball, musicale, and Venetian breakfast. I account myself among those friends, and you slander her at your peril.”
Where was Susannah, and what would she think of this discussion?
“Rumors about her antecedents?” Tresham asked, twirling the green garter on the end of a gloved finger.
Will maintained a politic silence. He’d got Tresham’s attention, and with the stronger light of twin sconces to aid him, Will recalled where he’d last seen Tresham. This was Quimbey’s heir, the younger man who’d shared dinner with the duke at the club.
Lady Della had vexed Tresham sorely. Not well done of her, when her reputation already hung by a thread.
“The rumors are not my doing,” Tresham said, “but I thank you for calling them to my attention. Whatever my private differences with the young lady, she is a lady, and deserving of every public courtesy.”
“Every private courtesy too.”
Tresham stuffed the garter into a pocket. “You won’t say a word about my discussion with Lady Della, sir, or I’ll let the world know Mr. Willow Dorning was sharing very personal liberties with the woman’s sister. I took a wrong turning in my search for Lady Della, and happened upon a couple in a shocking embrace.”
Will straightened and patted Cicero’s head, for nothing and nobody would ruin Will’s good mood tonight.
“Being a gentleman and a duke’s heir,” Will said, “you also took note that the lady was enthusiastically reciprocating the gentleman’s attentions, and thus you did not intervene. Lady Susannah would probably have done you an injury otherwise. The Haddonfield women are nothing if not fierce.”
And passionate, though where was Will’s fierce, passionate lady? The musicians were tuning up after their last break, and Will needed to hold his lady in his arms.
“You’re courting Lady Susannah?” Tresham asked.
“Yes, so don’t come near her unless your manners are in excellent repair.” Interesting—snorting and pawing could be great fun, something Cam was born knowing, and Casriel had yet to discover.
“I will maintain all possible distance from—ah, Lady Della, Lady Susannah.” Tresham’s tone was about as civil as a Highland winter night.
“Mr. Tresham,” Lady Della said, twining her arm with Susannah’s.
Will sensed Susannah was waiting, letting the young dogs sort themselves out, while the elders maintained an air of calm control.
“If you have the next set free, Lady Della,” Tresham said, “I would be honored to partner you.”
“Oh, do, Della,” Susannah said. “If memory serves, Mr. Tresham has neglected to dance all evening, and his uncle, dear Quimbey, will be pleased to see a lady has taken pity on his nephew and turned down the room with him.”
Oh, neatly done. Lady Della’s smile boded ill for Mr. Tresham, but she snagged him by the arm before he could dodge off to glower amid the potted palms.
“I believe I shall,” Lady Della said. “Even a man short on grace deserves the occasional turn about the dance floor. Come along, Mr. Tresham, and I’m sure we’ll find something to talk about.”
Tresham looked
nearly amused, and oddly enough, so did Lady Della.
“My lady,” Will said, sweeping a bow. “May I have this dance?”
“I think not,” Susannah replied. “I don’t trust myself if you take me in your arms again, Mr. Dorning, but let’s keep an eye on Della and Mr. Tresham, shall we? Effington will be beside himself, and it’s about time.”
Before Susannah could abandon Will in the empty corridor, he kissed her fleetingly on the mouth. She could not trust herself in his arms, but she could trust him enough to make that admission.
How very exceedingly lovely.
Ten
“We almost had him,” Horace moaned for the fortieth time. “Great big bugger going at that bone like a dog on a—well, going at it nineteen to the dozen, and some toff has to come along and warn him off. Why’nt the Quality piss in the convenience, and leave the alleys to the regular folks?”
Because the alleys afforded privacy, and even the toffs needed privacy. What did the scent of the dung heaps and rotting kitchen slops matter when a man wanted to take a piss or parlay with a streetwalker?
“Toffs are stupid,” Jasper replied as a skinny orange cat went streaking past and scrabbled straight up a brick wall. “The fancy gents don’t know the alley’s the most dangerous place to be. No matter. The brute comes around our alley regular, and the King’s Comestibles serves good ale. We’ll snabble the mutt, see if we don’t.”
They ambled through the night, keeping to the twisted lanes and side streets rather than the main thoroughfares. Far less chance of being spotted in the shadows, and far more likelihood of coming across a sizable stray, or even a poor doggy left tied in a nabob’s garden. Mastiffs, terriers, Alsatians, wolfhounds—the baiters had jobs for them all.
“When do we get paid, Jasper? Me missus doesn’t like me being out ’alf the night when I don’t bring ’ome any pay.”
These nocturnal rambles gave Horace time to sober up, and when he was sober, Horace was the sort to ask questions. Complaining he could do drunk, sober, and every place in between.
“We’re paid when the baiters pay us,” Jasper replied. “I’ve told you and told you, but his lordship says we’re not to move the dogs until the baiters are willing to pay decently for them. We tried to deliver that big black devil to them, and look how that turned out.”
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