Will's True Wish

by Grace Burrowes

  “Susannah, might we sit for a moment? Samson is worried about you.” Samson worried easily. Will was worried too, though.

  Her ladyship marched to the bench, and perched as if the boards spanned a nest of vipers.

  “I need to make a public impression, Willow, so that all and sundry remark what a dog lover I am. I’ve come a long way, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Will took the place beside Susannah, but didn’t dare reach for her hand. “You have made great progress.”

  “Effington danced the good-night waltz with Della, but she said his mood was off.”

  Will’s mood was going more off by the moment. “The viscount lost at the card tables, my dear. His disposition is often wanting, for he loses frequently.” Unless Effington had Yorick with him “for luck.” Will had his suspicions about the variety of luck Yorick imparted.

  Susannah yanked the strings of her reticule closed. The bag was beaded and wouldn’t stand up to much rough handling.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Willow? We’re friends, right? Friends are honest with each other.”

  Will was not in the habit of pleasuring his friends in private alcoves, not in the habit of kissing them until his cock throbbed. He did not invite his friends to work with his young dogs, he did not—

  Susannah had asked him something.

  “Tresham and I found a green garter last night,” Will said. “Upstairs in the corridor that led to the retiring rooms. Somebody had placed it on the head of a bust of Cicero, as bold as you please. Tresham pocketed the garter, but that bit of bright green fabric had been sitting on old Cicero before Tresham and I stopped to chat, as Lord Mannering so happily informed half the world.”

  Georgette took up a lean against Susannah’s knees, while the humid breeze lifted the leaves in the surrounding trees. The air was warm, hinting of summer, and summer storms.

  “You’re saying somebody spotted that garter and left it in plain sight,” Susannah said. “Or worse, somebody placed that garter where all would see it, knowing Della’s wardrobe favors green.”

  “Somebody wants to ruin your younger sister.” That Susannah grasped the magnitude of the malevolence Lady Della faced was for the best. Will had considered bringing up the matter with Bellefonte, but the earl would either call somebody out or dismiss the situation as schoolgirl nonsense.

  Schoolgirls did not gossip around the men’s punch bowl.

  “That is so…so…so mean,” Susannah said. “This goes beyond talk to actions, premeditated, malicious actions. Willow, who would do such a thing?”

  More to the point, why would they do it, when Lady Della already faced a difficult first Season based on her patrimony?

  “What do you know of Jonathan Tresham, my lady?”

  “I know he’s Quimbey’s heir, and Della won’t say where they were introduced.”

  So Susannah had interrogated her sister. That did not make Will’s next suggestion any easier.

  “How would Lady Della feel about returning with you to the family seat for a few weeks?”

  “What? You want her to turn tail and run, as if she’s guilty of misconduct when she’s been a pattern card of probity? You want all these interminable evenings and awkward waltzes to be for nothing? Effington would drop her before a week was out.”

  Georgette put her chin on Susannah’s knee, and Samson whined.

  Will wanted to take Susannah in his arms, wanted to kiss the frown from her brow, but she’d probably bludgeon him with her reticule and use the leashes to tie him to a tree if he made those sorts of advances now.

  “I’ve done nothing but think about alternatives, Susannah, and a strategic retreat at least deserves consideration. I suspect one of three individuals has authored Lady Della’s difficulties, and she’s not in a position to take on any one of them, much less all three.”

  “Say on,” Susannah said, waving a hand. “I won’t like it, but if I mention anything about this situation to Nicholas, he’ll break heads first and apologize to his countess later.”

  As long as Bellefonte didn’t break Will’s head. “First, we must consider Tresham. He bears Lady Della antipathy, and told me last night he wants her gone from Town. I know not why, but those were his words.”

  “Perhaps he’s simply a disagreeable gentleman,” Susannah said, worrying a nail. “My fingers taste like dog.” She withdrew a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped at her fingertips, though that wouldn’t make any difference.

  “Tresham is a very wealthy disagreeable gentleman,” Will said. “One who could have his pick of the debutantes. Lady Della is no match for him.”

  Will was no match for such a man, not in terms of worldly consequence or coin of the realm.

  “Della should also be of no matter to Tresham,” Susannah said, cramming her handkerchief into the reticule. “Who else do you suspect?”

  “Lyle Mannering, though again, I’m at a loss for a motive. Mannering’s sisters have antipathy toward you, they’ve been vicious in the past for the pleasure of bullying an innocent, and Mannering was in the vicinity of the men’s punch bowl last night. He gossiped about Lady Della, but he’s such an empty-headed gudgeon, no one much listens to him.”

  Will plucked Susannah’s reticule from her grasp, extracted her handkerchief, folded it neatly, tucked it back inside, then returned the bag to its owner.

  “I would skewer my brothers for such presumption as you just showed,” Susannah said.

  “Lucky for me, I am not your brother.”

  That observation earned Will not a hint of a smile, as Susannah stroked Georgette’s head again.

  “Who is your final suspect?” she asked.

  Now for the delicate part. “Lord Effington.”

  Susannah shot off the bench, and Georgette trotted after her. “Willow, have you taken leave of your senses? Effington is the only man to show Della marked notice. He was the first to waltz with her other than Nicholas’s handpicked stable of married titles, and he’s— Your theory is preposterous.”

  No, it was not, but expecting Susannah to view the matter objectively had been.

  “Effington has allowed Della to suffer the nasty talk, to stand alone, when he might have stood by her side, literally and figuratively. Effington is, not coincidentally, Mannering’s bosom bow. Effington has not championed Della’s cause when she has badly needed a champion, nor has he set Mannering to doing the same.”

  Susannah muttered something from three yards away, her back half turned.

  “I beg your pardon?” Will asked, rising.

  “I said, perhaps Effington hasn’t been as forthright as he might have been because that would only fuel more talk, and perhaps somebody else was already at Della’s side.”

  Samson whined again, while Will wanted to kick something. “You imply that when Effington abandons the lady, and my brother Ash waltzes into the breach, Effington is to be accorded points for gentlemanly discretion, while Ash—what? I’m not fabricating the sequence of events, Susannah.”

  But Will was arguing with a lady.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m upset, and that’s upsetting the dogs. Lord Effington is by no means an ideal suitor, but he’s all Della has, and I’ve not endeared myself to him.”

  “You’re reasoning with me,” Will replied, letting Susannah lead him back to the bench, upon which he was heartily sick of sitting.

  “Irksome, isn’t it?” Susannah said. “You and I are the ones typically reasoning with our siblings. Tell me again why you think Viscount Effington is sabotaging Della’s Season.”

  Because Georgette hadn’t liked Effington, because Yorick didn’t trust his own master not to deal him a blow when no blow was warranted. Because Effington used his innocent dog to cheat at cards.

  “Effington says he cares for Lady Della,” Will said, “then he leaves her to slay dragons on her own, then castigates her for accepting the help of the knights who come to her aid. I cannot abide a hypocrite. If Effington truly h
as Lady Della’s best interests at heart, he ought to be thanking the other fellows, and never leaving the lady’s side. He ought to be offering for her, in fact.”

  Nonetheless, Will did not want to see any woman shackled to a husband who’d needlessly beat a small dog.

  Though Lady Susannah apparently regarded even Effington as better for her sister than no husband at all.

  Eleven

  To Susannah’s relief, Will apparently grasped the central issue: Effington must offer for Della.

  “You bring me to my original point,” Susannah said. “The time has come for me to impress the world with my affection for dogs. Effington issued a challenge, and I’m ready to answer it.”

  Will tugged gently on Samson’s ears—probably to comfort himself as much as the dog.

  “Susannah, you have learned a great deal about how to interact with a canine, but if you had to choose between spending time with Georgette or with your volume of Shakespeare—for you are never without a volume of Shakespeare—which would you choose?”

  “What a question, Willow.” Unfair, really, to compare a dog with the greatest talent ever to put pen to paper, though Susannah was without the Bard at that moment. “I’d choose Georgette over Titus Andronicus.” Old Titus was not Mr. Shakespeare’s best work, of course.

  “I don’t like the look of that sky,” Will said, rising and offering Susannah his hand. “Let’s get you home, and please consider my suggestion. If Lady Della spent a few weeks in absentia, whoever has taken her into dislike might aim their spite elsewhere.”

  Now Will’s tone was reasonable, and Susannah’s mood took on the quality of the sky. Unsettled, unpleasant. Had he really expected her to choose Georgette over the Bard?

  “Instead of leaving Town, tail between my legs,” she said as she rose, “I’d like to show Effington that he was in error. I’m entirely comfortable around canines, and I will make him an ideal sister-in-law. The issue isn’t the dogs, it’s my willingness to bend to Effington’s expressed preferences.”

  Last night, as Susannah had tossed and turned with anxiety for Della, insight had struck:

  Effington was presenting Susannah with another version of the Mannering twins’ challenge: fit in, duck, dodge, avoid the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” such as those that were hurled about by members of Polite Society.

  A willow tree could live for decades, through storms that felled oaks, because the willow had broad roots and supple branches. Susannah lacked the roots, but she could be accommodating for a good cause.

  Though the notion angered her in a way it hadn’t seven years ago.

  Will settled Susannah’s hat upon her head—she would have marched off without it—and was tying the ribbons into a modest bow when Georgette growled. Samson rose from his haunches and aimed a glare at the undergrowth where Susannah had kissed Will only days ago.

  “Willow, why are they upset?” Was everybody’s mood unhappy today?

  “I don’t know.”

  The answer presented itself a moment later, as an enormous mastiff emerged from the bushes, head down, hackles up, a healing gash over its left eye.

  “That is Sycamore’s stray,” Will said. “Cam borrows my clothing indiscriminately, and my scent must have attracted the dog from whatever hiding place it bides by day. Stay behind me, Susannah. Georgette, Samson, sit.”

  Both dogs sat, slowly, as if coiling for a launch at the intruder.

  Susannah understood the male gender as well as any woman with five brothers could. “The poor thing is starving,” she said, picking up Will’s bag of cheese.

  “Susannah.” Will’s pleasant tone sounded as if he’d forced her name through gritted teeth. “Please put the cheese down right now. If the dog wants the cheese, he’ll hurt you to get it.”

  The mastiff hung back, uncertain and woebegone at the edge of the foliage. “No, he won’t. He’s a good dog, Will. Somebody’s pet fallen on hard times.”

  Will slipped leashes on Georgette and Samson, though if both dogs charged at once, even he might not be able to control them.

  “Stay,” Susannah said, making the hand sign where both Georgette and Samson could see her. “We’ll share with the less fortunate.”

  “Susannah, don’t you dare go near that animal.” Again, Will’s tone was pleasant, while Georgette’s sentiments were more honestly expressed in a low, rumbling growl.

  “Maybe you’d like a snack,” Susannah said to the stray, tossing a bite of cheese in the dog’s direction. “I’m easily vexed when I’m peckish. We all are. Willow, mightn’t you lead Georgette and Samson down the path? I’ll follow when I’ve shared our cheese with the hungry fellow.”

  The cheese disappeared and the dog looked up, his gaze hopeful. Susannah hated to see a noble creature brought low, and yet the beast was not begging and wasn’t threatening, either.

  “Feed him one piece at a time,” Will said, “and make him wait between nibbles. Toss them a few feet from where he’s sitting, so he has to look for each one. When I’ve got Georgette and Samson out of here, toss several bites at once, and leave a few more where he can find them while you follow me to safety.”

  Georgette growled again, and the stray sat. Not a growl, not a bark—and not a retreat to the undergrowth either. Susannah approved of this dog, though she couldn’t fault Georgette’s protectiveness.

  “I’ll be along in a moment,” Susannah said. “My new friend and I will pass the time while Georgette and Samson take the air.”

  Will did not want to leave, Susannah knew that, but she couldn’t control Georgette if Will’s pet turned up headstrong; therefore, Will must be the one to remove Georgette and Samson.

  “Don’t approach him, Susannah,” Will said, leading the dogs to the path. “Don’t pet him, don’t make friends with him. He seems healthy enough, but if he’s rabid, even his saliva on your skin could mean your death.”

  The look in the dog’s eye was entirely sane. Sad, bewildered, and tired—Susannah knew exactly how that felt—but sane.

  “I won’t lay a hand on him,” Susannah said. “Tell Georgette not to growl. She’s setting a bad example for Samson.”

  Will led the dogs off, but of course he didn’t chide Georgette. Mastiffs were protective by nature, as apparently was Susannah.

  She wanted to pet the injured dog, wanted to promise him that if he gave her an ounce of trust, she’d make sure he had a cozy stable to sleep in and a juicy bone to gnaw on.

  “You haven’t done anything to deserve this rough patch,” Susannah said as more cheese met its fate. “I’m sorry for that. Della hasn’t done anything to deserve such a difficult start to her come-out, either. If you and I meet again, I’ll do what I can to make matters come right for you.”

  The dog sat, as if somebody had instructed him that treats were only dispensed to canine gentlemen. Susannah did as Will instructed, and threw several bites at once, then sprinkled a few more in the grass nearer where she stood.

  “He’s ravenous,” Susannah said, when she’d rejoined Will. “I strongly suspect that is Lady March’s missing dog. His name was Alexander, if I recall correctly.” A great warrior who’d died much too young.

  “Yes, Alexander,” Will said, blinking as a drop of rain hit the side of his nose. Susannah wiped the raindrop away with her fingers, for there wasn’t another soul in sight. “I will remind Cam of the dog’s name, in case you’re right, my lady. Now, all I want to do is get you, my dogs, and myself home.”

  Will was being polite, straining at the leash of good manners. Susannah suspected he’d rather lecture her about repairing leases, stray dogs, and Effington’s shortcomings.

  About which, Susannah would think later.

  “The temperature has dropped,” she said. “I hate to think of that poor dog out in the storm, lost and hungry.”

  “Hold this,” Will said, passing Susannah a leash and taking the treat bag from her. He passed her the second leash, and told both dogs to stay. “We can at leas
t make sure he won’t be hungry, if that’s Alexander. I’ll be but a moment.”

  Susannah waited, both dogs panting gently against her skirts, and more raindrops speckling the path at her feet. She’d become fond of her old straw hat, and a downpour would ruin it, but Susannah’s mood had improved for meeting Will in the park.

  She wanted to prove to Lord Effington that she’d become a dog fancier, and Willow Dorning, trainer of the Regent’s spaniels, had just entrusted her with two of his most beloved canines.

  Surely even Will had to admit Susannah was ready to meet Effington’s challenge?

  * * *

  “Lady Susannah has taken it into her head that Effington must offer for Lady Della,” Will fumed as he walked along with his younger brothers. “Somebody else has decided that Lady Della’s chances of a match must be thoroughly blighted, and thus my chances of a match with Lady Susannah, while not blighted, are certainly not uppermost in her mind. Where’s Casriel off to tonight?”

  A look passed between Cam and Ash, one that spoke to the novelty of Will asking them about anything to do with the earl, when Will had the job of keeping Casriel organized.

  “Casriel is playing cards at the home of that Scottish earl, MacHugh,” Ash said. “An excuse to dodge the matchmakers under the guise of gentlemanly bonhomie.”

  “Playing for farthing points, then,” Will said as they crossed into the park. The fashionable hour had ended, and soon the park would become the playground of pickpockets, streetwalkers, and footpads, but light yet remained in the sky, and Cam and Ash were insurance against petty thieves.

  “Have you offered for Lady Susannah?” Ash asked, ever so casually.

  “I have not,” Will replied. “Not that it’s any of your business. My prospects are limited, and she’s much taken with the idea of launching her younger sister first.”

  Will could not afford to offer for Lady Susannah. Should he dismantle the lucrative scheme of some aristocratic dognapper, he’d be lucky to afford Georgette’s cheese snacks, and yet Susannah expected him to do just that.

  “Coward,” Cam said, giving Will an affectionate shove that nearly sent him sprawling on his arse. “The ladies usually marry in age order, oldest to youngest. If you’d like a few pointers, I’ve made a study—”