“I heard about the reward,” Horace said. In this part of town, May-La-De-Da-Fair, parties and balls went on until dawn, and the great ladies obliged the less fortunate by keeping the ballroom draperies open. The strains of violins—the nancy kind, not good, honest fiddles—drifted through the fetid darkness like perfume over the stink of an unwashed whore.
“The Quality treat us like dogs,” Horace went on, “with their parties and dancing. We stand outside the windows like starving curs and gawk at them in their finery. I know ’ow the dogs feel, Jasper, and all I want is me money.”
All the dogs wanted was their freedom, because unlike Jasper and Horace, the dogs could find their own food, and paid nothing for a place to lay their ugly, stupid heads.
“You cease that talk about the reward,” Jasper said. Three rewards, two of them sizable. “Here’s how it works with the Quality, Horace, me lad. They post the rewards, and when their little doggies are returned to them, they’ll cry and carry on, and thank you until the next Frost Fair, but they’ll not pay you.”
Horace stopped walking in the mouth of the alley they’d just traversed. “That’s not fair, Jasper. If they say they’ll pay, they should pay.”
Loyal, simple, and half-drunk, Horace was twice the man his lordship would ever be.
“They should pay, but whoever finds the dog is supposed to refuse the reward because of his gentlemanly honor. He’s supposed to pretend he had great fun tracking down a slobbering, stinking hound, and then pretend he don’t need the money.”
“That’s cracked, that is.”
“Aye, that’s cracked, and I’ve had enough for one night. Let’s have a wee nip, and find our beds. We can try again tomorrow, if his lordship doesn’t want us to move the dogs to Knightsbridge.”
“Say, Jasper?”
Like a dog on a bone, that was Horace. “Aye?”
“What if a woman finds the dogs? A woman don’t ’ave no gentlemanly honor. Would a woman get the reward for finding the dogs?”
* * *
Susannah stood at Willow Dorning’s side, in charity with life—and with him. He’d shown her new intimacies, such as she’d not dreamed men and women could share. Later, in the privacy of her boudoir, she’d examine the emotions that had gone with the passionate sensations, and she’d decide what to do about them.
“They make a handsome couple,” she said as Mr. Tresham led Della to the middle of the dance floor. “He might try a smile, though.”
“Or Lady Della might.”
Was Will off balance too? His tone was cool, possibly annoyed. Worry nipped at the heels of Susannah’s well-being, for she hadn’t exactly set a good example for Della, had she?
“You’re tall enough to tell me if Effington’s here,” she said. “I want him to see that Della has attracted the notice of a ducal heir.”
“I don’t see Effington,” Will replied in that same composed, unreadable tone, “but he’ll hear of this dance. If the gossip at the punch bowl is to be believed, Lady Della is the first woman Tresham has led out this Season.”
The introduction began, with men bowing and ladies curtsying in a graceful choreography of manners and fashion.
“That is the best news,” Susannah said, her toe tapping. “Della deserves to be noticed in a positive sense, to have the hounds panting at her feet.”
Will took a half step back. “Susannah, this is not a horse auction, with the broodmares going to the highest bidders. Those are people on the dance floor, with hearts and lives and hopes.”
The orchestra was in good form, the first violin embellishing the melody with lively appoggiaturas and trills, while Will seemed determined to introduce a sour note.
“I know what you’re about, Willow Dorning,” Susannah said as the conversation around them grew louder in competition with the orchestra. “You are disconcerted by what happened earlier, and so you’re on your dignity. I should be on my dignity too, but I’m happy for my sister.”
Also worried, because Mr. Tresham’s expression hadn’t lightened in the least. He and Della were two lovely, grim dancers amid a sea of gaiety.
“I am not disconcerted,” Will said as a warm caress whispered over Susannah’s right shoulder blade. “I am in awe. Had the Bard shared passion with a woman like you, he would have written a hundred more sonnets, each so incendiary, the words would have caused the printing presses to spontaneously ignite.”
All over again, Susannah’s knees went weak, her heart beat faster, and her mind gave up forming thoughts. If she’d had a tail, she would have wagged it against Will’s knees.
That caress came again, secret, soft, sweet.
“The world has gone daft.”
Ash Dorning’s unhappy observation several caresses later gave Susannah a start.
“Mr. Dorning, good evening. I hope you’re enjoying the gathering?” Susannah’s voice was even, but behind her, she could feel Will smirking, the rotter.
The handsome, passionate, imaginative rotter, whom Susannah could not wait to share a secluded alcove with again.
“Good evening, my lady, Will. And no, I am not enjoying myself. That’s Tresham doing the pretty with our Lady Della, and it’s my dance.”
Damn and blast. Why must somebody’s feelings always be hurt?
“I’m sure Lady Della will spare you another dance,” Will said. “Tresham’s invitation doubtless caught her off guard. Are we still in want of Sycamore’s company?”
The music was whirling through a crescendo, and Ash merely nodded, his gaze on the dancers.
Drat all younger siblings to the nursery. Susannah had wanted to waltz with Will, but not until Della had turned down the room with her ducal heir. Now, the Dorning men, en masse, would exit stage left in search of their youthful prodigal.
“Are they arguing?” Ash Dorning muttered. “A gent doesn’t argue with a lady. Perhaps Tresham needs a refresher on basic manners.”
Will’s hand clamped on his brother’s elbow. “The lady might be the one in need of the refresher, and that’s not your place.”
“Willow?” Susannah half turned at the annoyance in Will’s voice. “Della had little choice. If she’d refused Tresham, he would have taken that amiss.”
“Somebody has taken something amiss,” Ash said, shrugging off Will’s grasp. “The talk in the men’s retiring room is two cuckoos make a very interesting pair. Mannering mentioned seeing a green garter the same color as Lady Della’s dress in the corridor upstairs, and Tresham followed Lady Della up the steps earlier this evening like a hound on the scent of a bi—of an attractive lady dog.”
The violins broke into an ascending flourish followed by stirring, fortissimo down-bows, and Susannah abruptly wished she had stayed home.
A green garter the same color as Della’s dress? Found in a conspicuous location by no less gossip than Lyle Mannering?
“Mannering said that?” Susannah murmured. Green was an unusual color for a debutante, but Della looked well in it, and she was older than most debutantes. The color had almost become her signature, in fact.
“My lady, people will talk,” Will said in the same repressive tones he used on Comus when the dog was in an excitable mood.
“Men especially,” Ash added. “Idle talk, much of it. You mustn’t make anything of it, and I should not have spoken so freely.”
The music came to its final cadence as Tresham bowed, Della curtsied, and again, scandal beckoned.
“You will have Lady Della’s next dance, Ash Dorning,” Susannah said. “Will, if you would find her an earl, a marquess, a baronet, or even a colonel for the dance that follows. Anybody with consequence, a decent reputation, and two functioning feet. This is a disaster, for Della to be gossiped about by the men, and I cannot think, I can’t—”
Dread wrapped a cold fist around Susannah’s windpipe, and where all had been warmth and wonder, the evening turned rank and anxious. Again, she felt like the too-tall girl with the punch spilled down the back of her skirts at Lady March�
��s tea dance—bright red punch nobody had alerted her to until Willow Dorning had slipped her shawl around her shoulders and suggested she favor him with a turn on the terrace.
“It’s talk,” Will said quietly. “Nothing but talk. Lady Della has attracted an eligible bachelor’s notice, and talk is inevitable. Ash, fetch Lady Della. Susannah, breathe.”
Not as easy as it ought to be, but Susannah managed. No less person than the Duke of Quimbey was soon at her side, while Will slipped off who knew where to find more dance partners for another Haddonfield sister who did not deserve the unkindness and slander hurled in her direction.
* * *
“Your brother Will might tell you to speak to me in a stern tone, then turn away,” Sir Worth Reverence Kettering informed his wife. “I have been a naughty knight.”
Jacaranda passed him the baby, who was blissfully asleep after her last meal of the day. The sight of the infant at the breast provoked a riot of feelings in her papa. Tenderness, protectiveness, and a touch of…well, jealousy. Worth Kettering had admired those breasts before they’d provided sustenance to his daughter, and part of him longed to be their exclusive admirer again.
“Ready to go nighty-night?” he asked the child, nuzzling her downy crown while Jacaranda did up bows and ribbons and other armaments of maternal modesty. “Papa’s ready to go nighty-night, and all those fussy, frilly distractions your mama thinks will keep him from having the sort of thoughts that resulted in you will only inspire him to prodigious feats of persistence. Papa can be a very determined fellow when he’s missing Mama’s special kisses.”
“Worth Kettering, fatherhood has made you daft,” Jacaranda said, kissing his cheek. “Let’s tuck in your princess, and you can tell me all about your latest misbehavior. Come along, Meda.”
While Jacaranda had dealt with the baby, Worth had taken Meda out for her last garden visit of the day. His little family had a routine now, though once upon a time, routine had loomed before Worth like durance vile, the tribulation a man tolerated for growing successful enough to misbehave with impunity at least some of the time.
“That child is always so good for you,” Jacaranda observed as they reached the nursery, “and you never lose patience with her.”
“Like your brother Willow never loses patience with his dogs? I wish wealthy dukes were as canny and self-disciplined as Will. But, no, Their Graces as a species expect the laws of finance do not apply to ducal coin.”
Worth laid the sleeping child in her bassinet, and Meda curled up on the carpet. He put an arm around his wife, and took a moment to simply behold the little miracle they’d made.
Though the child wasn’t so little anymore. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. If she kept growing, then someday, long before Worth was ready for such a trial, their daughter would have beaus and wear ball gowns.
Fatherhood had made him daft, indeed.
“You usually enjoy the company of your ducal clients,” Jacaranda said. “The Regent earns your most colorful language.”
Jacaranda was absorbed with motherhood, with her opera dancers—they had once been Worth’s opera dancers—with organizing the social lives of his clerks and his business associates, with organizing him. Had she studied on the matter, she would have realized the royal dukes and princes were more bothersome than the Regent himself.
Worth escorted his wife across the corridor, leaving both the nursery door and their bedroom door open a few inches. If the child stirred and Worth was slow to fetch her to her mother, Meda would wake him. When Worth was naked behind an almost-closed door, he drew Jacaranda’s dressing gown off her shoulders and led her to the bed.
“A certain pair of wealthy dukes accosted me at the club this afternoon,” Worth said, turning back the covers.
“Wealthy dukes are always accosting you,” Jacaranda muttered, climbing into bed. “If you didn’t make them even wealthier, they might leave you in peace.”
“My besetting sin,” Worth replied, joining his wife under the covers. “I like making money. Dukes want me to invest a sum and make it grow. Royal princes want me to conjure money from thin air, instantly. These dukes were looking for something different to invest in, not the usual French winery or Italian olive grove. My love, what are you doing all the way over there?”
Worth hopped and flopped across the bed, until he could tuck his wife against his side. Because Jacaranda was no delicate flower, and he no small fellow, the fit was marvelous.
“Well, if isn’t my own husband,” Jacaranda said, tugging her braid from between them and tossing it over her shoulder. “How very friendly you’ve become since the baby showed up.”
“My friendliness is part of why she arrived sooner after the nuptials than strictest propriety would have allowed, my love.”
“I’ve never heard it called friendliness,” Jacaranda said, brushing a hand over Worth’s chest and settling in with her head on his shoulder. “You want to help these dukes, don’t you? They’ll get up to mischief otherwise, and then their duchesses will expect me to have a word with you, and I do miss the country, Worth. We were not plagued by mischievous peers there.”
“We all have our little crosses to bear,” Worth said. “Dukes are mine, and—” His mind went blank as Jacaranda’s hand moved lower, then lower still.
“You were saying?” Jacaranda prompted.
Worth’s body was saying please, please, please. “They want something different, these two, something they can boast of in the clubs to the other dukes. Something besides the usual canal or— Madam, I caution you that unless you desist…” Worth’s lady had the loveliest, most confident grip on the part of Worth most in need of gripping. “Jacaranda, what are you about?”
“Tell me about the dukes, Worth.”
What dukes? “Compound interest,” Worth nearly gasped. “They’ve finally got the notion of compound interest through their thick heads and… That is lovely, Jacaranda.”
“I’ve missed you,” she said, setting up a rhythm with her hand. “I do not want our daughter to be an only child, you know.”
“Perish the notion. One of twelve, at least. Children, that is. Of…ours.” For the next twenty minutes Worth spoke mostly in single words. “Please… Damn… Again…” figured prominently, as did the undifferentiated moan of pleasure, and then the more singular groan of satisfaction.
“You’ve slain me,” Worth murmured when Jacaranda was dozing in his arms, and whole sentences, short ones at least, were once more within his abilities.
“One should regularly slay one’s spouse,” Jacaranda replied. “Puts one in a grand humor. What were you prattling on about earlier, regarding compound interest and the dukes?”
Worth cast back over their precoital conversation, as a man casts his line over a placid trout stream. At first no mental fish bit at the lure, then he grasped the thread of their conversation.
“My dukes want a profitable novelty, a project that’s gentlemanly, but not in the common way. A gold mine, perhaps—there’s gold in Scotland—a successful portrait artist to sponsor.” A glimmer of an idea quivered in the undergrowth of Worth’s imagination, but fatigue and the pleasurable muddling of a happily married man dulled his ability to flush the idea into the open.
An investment scheme was like a wife. Timing counted for much, and most did not thrive when harried, bothered, or rushed.
Jacaranda yawned, stretched, and ran her toe up Worth’s calf. “Twelve children is a lot of children, Sir Worth. Do you know how many grandchildren we might have? How many great-grandchildren?”
Worth knew, for this was the biological equivalent of compound interest, like Willow Dorning’s collies or the King’s dozen living progeny.
“I can’t do the math right now,” Worth said. “Heaps and hordes of little darlings. Somebody must set an example for your backward brothers in this regard.” Not a one of whom had wed yet, which Worth knew was a source of worry for Jacaranda. “Are you falling asleep on me?”
“Half o
n you. You’re very warm, if rather bony in places.”
Worth was very married, thank a merciful Deity. “Go to sleep, Jacaranda. Something suitable for keeping a pair of wealthy dukes in pin money will come to me by morning. Meanwhile, I’ll dream of siblings for my princess, and compound interest.”
Jacaranda’s toe made another trip along the ragged border of Worth’s sanity. “I’ll dream of you.”
“Why dream,” Worth whispered, “when I’m here in the same bed, and your every wish is my dearest command?”
* * *
“I intend to cause gossip,” Lady Susannah announced.
Georgette’s ears twitched at her ladyship’s tone, while Samson sat at Will’s side, bumping Will’s hand with his nose. Susannah paced before the bench in the park, her hems swishing. The day was overcast, much like Will’s mood, and thus the park was less crowded. Beyond the secluded clearing, no children yelled, no nursery maids called to their charges.
“We nearly did cause gossip,” Will replied, stroking Samson’s head. “I owe you an apology for that.”
Susannah came to a halt, her skirts settling around her half boots. “You’d apologize for those private, shared moments?”
The grass at her feet apparently fascinated her. Her reticule and straw hat sat on the bench beside Will’s leashes and his bag of cheese. Quimbey would not disturb them today. Will hoped His Grace was too busy scolding Tresham to spare time for training Comus.
“I do not apologize for private shared moments of bliss,” Will said, “but I apologize for risking your good name. Until I’m in a position to offer for you—”
“Exactly,” Susannah said, a finger jabbing the air. “A lady’s good name is her most prized possession, and Della needs to bring Effington up to scratch before she has to endure another evening like last night.”
Last night had been wonderful, until Lady Della and Tresham had begun their little drama.
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