Currents of male power and innuendo shifted around Susannah. Tresham didn’t turn his back on Effington—who had little care for basic manners—but Tresham, Quimbey, and Will excluded him from the conversation nonetheless. Will held forth about rewards and attention, successive commands, and patience, while Quimbey beamed good-natured boredom in all directions.
And Susannah’s pride wrestled with her common sense.
She’d spent hours in the park with Will, much of that time focused on learning to communicate with a species she didn’t even like. She’d been as pleasant to Effington as she knew how to be, and still he was condescending, mean, snide…
And Susannah was trying to win his approval?
“Mr. Dorning, will you excuse me?” Susannah said. “I forgot to mention something to Della.”
“Are you well?” Will asked, very quietly.
Susannah loved him for asking, for having only concern in his eyes, not reproach or chilly disappointment. For gently and discreetly stopping her from turning a bad moment into an awful one.
She still wanted to wallop Effington and all of his ilk. “Yes, but…I need to talk to my sister. I’ll be on the terrace.”
“I’ll bring your drink to you.”
Susannah wanted to kiss him, wanted to surrender to his embrace with half of Polite Society gawking.
“I’ll escort the lady to the terrace,” Mr. Tresham said.
“Off with you, then,” Quimbey said. “Be patient with him, Lady Susannah. He has much to learn yet about panting and wagging his tail.”
Susannah accepted Tresham’s escort, though he exuded about as much warmth as the unicorn stranded in the punch bowl.
“I thought Effington was on the verge of making an offer for Lady Della,” Tresham said.
“I did too,” Susannah replied. “Now, I’m not sure what to think. One doesn’t court a woman by insulting her sister, or the entire feminine gender.”
“Some of us can’t help ourselves, my lady,” Tresham said. “Quimbey was born charming, while I was born unable to trust others unless they are acquaintances of long standing. You might convey that sentiment to Lady Della.”
Why couldn’t more men be like Willow Dorning? He said what he meant, he didn’t indulge in stupid posturing, and he was kind.
“You may tell her that yourself, sir,” Susannah said. “Della is tolerant and sensible, though she does not suffer fools.”
“Bodes ill for Effington, doesn’t it?”
Whatever that meant. “My thanks for your escort.” Susannah curtsied. Tresham bowed and left her several yards short of where Della stood talking with Ash Dorning.
“Is Tresham not speaking to me now?” Della asked as Tresham disappeared among the crowd.
“I think he’s shy,” Susannah said. “Certainly slow to trust, but you should ask him about that. Mr. Dorning, would you excuse us for a moment? I need Della’s assistance with a sagging hem.”
Mr. Dorning was a less substantial, younger version of Willow, and his eyes were not such an intense violet. He was nonetheless a handsome fellow, and he made a pretty picture bowing over Della’s hand.
“I’m to be denied my dance again,” he said. “I’ll keep instead the memory of a stolen peach, and claim the dance another night.”
And off he went in the direction of the card room, the same direction Tresham had taken.
“Do you suppose they’ll exchange words?” Della asked. “They’re both fierce, each in his way, but Mr. Dorning has more…”
“Yes,” Susannah said. “More.” Of Della’s interest. “Would you join me on the terrace, Della?”
“What about your sagging hem?”
Susannah linked arms with her sister, and smiled blandly at the Mannering twins lurking beneath a sconce. The flickering shadows made them look like something out of a discarded scene from Hamlet.
To perdition with the both of them. The Bard would have found a better way to say it, but Susannah simply—surprisingly—no longer cared what the Mannering twins, what anybody besides her friends and family, thought of her.
Are you well? Willow had asked. Susannah was different, and perhaps even well too.
She returned Trudy Mannering’s simper with a steady gaze, not offering a cut direct, but visually conveying the utter indifference of a mastiff who knows her own strength and is on her own territory.
Trudy tried for an arch smile, which wilted around the corners then disappeared. Susannah held her gaze until Trudy looked down, studying the toes of her dancing slippers. Her sister took to inspecting some portrait or other.
“Bother my sagging hem,” Susannah said, moving along, and bending close to Della as if imparting a confidence. “I want to know what, exactly, you’re doing with Effington, because I’ve only now realized you have no intention of marrying him.”
Thirteen
“I bungled that,” Will said when he and Quimbey were both holding glasses of pink punch. Quimbey set his cup on a marble side table, took out a flask, and tipped a liberal portion into each serving.
“You were supposed to call Effington out?” Quimbey mused. “Maybe that’s what he sought. I’m surprised you didn’t interrogate him yourself about the missing dogs. Considers himself quite the authority on canines.”
Susannah had gone gamboling down that path, much like Georgette on the scent of a rabbit.
“The missing dogs are unfortunate,” Will said, “though I have no idea where they might be found. Very odd, that three dogs should go missing from wealthy households in such a short time.”
Quimbey took a sip of punch, grimaced, then set his glass aside. “Hostesses who demonstrate their wealth by heavily sugaring every dish and drink are an abomination. I wish some of the ladies were sweeter and the punch less so. You’re not attempting to locate these missing dogs?”
Will did not mistake the situation for small talk. Quimbey was genial, benevolent, and tolerant, but this was an interrogation.
“Are you concerned for Comus, sir?” Or perhaps concerned for Tresham, or some other wellborn fellow who’d taken up trafficking in dogs to cover gambling debts?
“Let’s enjoy the night air, Mr. Dorning.”
Will wanted to keep Susannah in sight, to ensure she didn’t take it upon herself to question anybody else about missing dogs or found garters. He and the duke chatted about the upcoming race meets, and who was betting on which horse, until they’d reached the garden walkways.
Smokers congregated on the downwind side of the terrace, leaving the garden to those inclined to stroll.
“The roses ought to be showing some color,” Quimbey observed.
The roses were at least three weeks from blossoming. “I do enjoy a precocious bloom,” Will said.
He and the duke admired daisies and snapped off sprigs of lavender, and still Quimbey remained merely convivial.
“Shall we sit for a moment, Mr. Dorning? Early mornings in the park take a toll on old bones, as does keeping up with a nephew new to the blandishments of Polite Society.”
Tresham likely had trouble keeping up with Quimbey, much as the old hounds could outhunt the younger fellows. Will twirled his sprig of lavender into a circlet.
“About the missing dogs,” Will began. “I’m not comfortable investigating the situation in any obvious way, but my brother Sycamore has come across a stray who might be Lady March’s missing pet. We’ve yet to lure the dog close enough to catch him, though if we do, I’ll have Cam simply adopt the dog as his own.”
Quimbey perched on a low wall, no longer the duke, but the hounds and horses man in excellent condition—for any age.
“The damned beast is better off in your brother’s care, or even on the streets,” Quimbey said. “Ernestine March is a dithering, flirting disgrace to her gender. Tried to get herself compromised with me even before she was properly out, then put her own daughter up to the same tactic years later.”
Will liked Quimbey, and more to the point, Comus liked the older fellow,
and Comus was in a position to assess character more accurately than Will could.
“Do you suspect Lady March is involved in the disappearances?” Will asked.
“She undoubtedly sold her dog, Mr. Dorning. I’m sorry if that behavior doesn’t comport with your estimation of the fairer sex, but I hold some of Lord March’s vowels. I don’t expect to collect on them anytime soon. I’ve recently learned that large dogs eat large quantities, and they absorb the time and efforts of at least a footman.”
Will had not considered that Lady March herself might be stealing dogs—or having them stolen.
He propped himself against the wall, common sense, honor, and regard for Lady Susannah making a hash of what ought to be a pleasant social evening.
“If the dogs have been stolen,” Will said, “and mind you, Your Grace, I’m not admitting they have been—then somebody is letting the thieves know which households can afford a reward—or a ransom—and which households have large, reasonably well-trained canines. I am loath to court the enmity of a person placed well enough to provide that knowledge. The Dorning family name is respected, but we have neither wealth nor extensive connections to lend us consequence.”
Will had his dogs, though, and they were enough to keep him happy—almost.
“Prudent of you,” Quimbey said. “Dogs are one thing, the family escutcheon quite another.”
The garden was quiet, but not silent. Laughter and the low hum of conversation came from the terrace, a carriage jingled past in the nearby alley, and in the ballroom, a violinist was repeatedly practicing an ascending scale that turned into an aggressive glissando.
Quimbey was not finished with Will though, so Will waited, wondering where Susannah had got off to, and if he’d have a chance to dance with her before the evening ended.
“Do you know,” Quimbey said, “Comus has taken to napping in the evening when I’m working on my accounts. He curls up by the fire and closes his eyes. Let me get up from my desk, or even open a drawer, though, and he’s awake.”
“Dogs have very acute senses, Your Grace.” Will stripped another sprig of lavender and tied it in a circle. “I sometimes believe Georgette can hear me thinking.”
“Comus is barely half-grown, I know, but last night, I was remembering my brother Harold, how he despaired of Jonathan, how he regretted not being a steadier father to the boy. Comus brought me a leash, and put his chin on my knee.”
Good boy, Comus. Every dog had strengths, and areas that did not come easily in training, but Will had yet to find the dog born with a cold heart.
“Georgette interrupts me similarly when I’m at my accounts,” Will said. “She seems to know when I’m at my limit with the figures, and in need of fresh air.”
Quimbey pitched his lavender into the bushes. “Right, and because you insist that I care for my own dog, or my brother’s dog, I took Comus out to the garden. He led me straight to the honeysuckle. Such a lovely, soothing scent.”
A hint of the same scent lingered beneath the smoke of the torches, and the lavender Will had crushed with his fingers.
“Perhaps honeysuckle is soothing to the dogs too,” Will said.
“Howard adored honeysuckle, said it reminded him of the love of his life, of the happiest spring he’d ever spent in Town. I recalled my brother’s regrets, and Comus reminded me of Howard’s joys. I would hate for anything untoward to happen to my dog, Mr. Dorning. He’s been through enough for a young fellow of limited intellect, and is settling into the household very nicely.”
My dog. Quimbey had referred to Comus as the dog, or my brother’s dog, the canine ruffian, Howard’s dubious bequest. In the space of one walk in the garden, Comus had become the Duke of Quimbey’s dog, and a lonely old man’s friend.
A high calling, indeed.
“As long as you have Comus at your side,” Will said, “he should be safe from thieves and miscreants. Not many would steal from you, sir, and Comus won’t leave your side willingly.”
Except for a juicy steak, perhaps.
Or true love.
Or a slow rabbit on a boring afternoon.
Comus was young, and his training far from complete. Once again, Will pushed aside the thought of Caesar in the hands of the bear-baiters. The Duchess of Ambrose had earned Caesar’s trust only slowly. Subjected to rough treatment, he’d soon lose heart all over again.
Unless Will found him first. Him, Alexander, and who knew how many others.
“I’ve been thinking,” Quimbey said, shoving off the wall. “D’you suppose Tresham could do with a dog? The boy is lonely, and you’ve had good luck attracting a lady through your canine friends. Jon’s like Comus, unsettled, too handsome for his own good, but basically a good-hearted fellow.”
Will’s estimation of Tresham would not have been half so charitable. “I place dogs only with people who want them, and with people who will return them to me if the dog doesn’t settle well with the new owner.”
Quimbey dusted off his backside as unceremoniously as Cam might have. “If you pursue your courting as conscientiously as you do your canine business, Lady Susannah ought to be wearing your ring directly, Mr. Dorning. Best of luck, but if you’ll take the advice of an old hound, there’s a time for stealth and subtlety, and a time to leap into the chase.”
Also a time to kiss among the ferns. “Yes, sir, and, Your Grace?”
The duke tucked his hands behind his back. “Mr. Dorning?”
“Arabella, Duchess of Ambrose, knows a lot about training dogs, and has a soft spot for the larger breeds. A visit from Comus might console her on the loss of her Caesar.”
“Now that is a woman of sense and wit, and you say I’m to take Comus calling?”
“He’s ready, sir.” And so was the duke. With his heir finally putting in an appearance in the ballrooms, and even dancing, Quimbey could afford to make a few social calls.
“I’ll talk it over with the pup,” Quimbey said. “Boy might need a bath first, and a new collar. Doesn’t do to go calling on the ladies in anything less than one’s best finery. Good night, Mr. Dorning. Comus and I will see you Tuesday at eleven in the usual location.”
His Grace strode off into the night, leaving Will to ponder whether Samson was ready to take on a new owner, and whether Will trusted Jonathan Tresham to rise to such an honor.
* * *
Will had gone strolling by with the Duke of Quimbey several yards from where Susannah sat. The men had been deep in a discussion of horse racing. The topic reminded Susannah that the Season, in its exhausting, interminable fashion, was inching forward, and time was running out for Della to make a match.
Or not.
“Why do you say I’ve no intention of marrying Effington?” Della asked, keeping her voice down. “He’s eligible.”
This discussion wasn’t one anybody should overhear, and yet, if Susannah didn’t press Della now, with Effington’s nasty remarks still making the rounds in the ballroom, Della would likely continue to prevaricate.
“Come with me to the conservatory,” Susannah said. “Quimbey is more eligible than Effington. Jonathan Tresham is more eligible. Casriel is more eligible. Eligible has little to do with anything unless you’re enamored of the fellow.”
While Willow Dorning did not consider himself eligible, and Susannah was certainly enamored of him.
“Not the conservatory, please,” Della said. “I notice you don’t mention Mr. Ash Dorning among the eligibles.”
The omission had been deliberate. “But you do, so why this nonsense with Effington?”
“One needs a gallant,” Della said, wandering away from the lighted path. “One needs a flirt, a fellow to walk with in the park, to stand up with for the waltzes. I look like a child dancing with our brothers because they are so blasted tall. Effington isn’t overly tall, he isn’t quick. He’s so absorbed with himself and his little dog that I needn’t do more than smile and say ‘yes, my lord’ or ‘whatever you think best, my lord.’”
Susan
nah followed Della into the shadows until they came to a secluded fountain. The swan sculpted in the middle sat serenely under a perpetual delicate cascade of water. The sound of the trickling water soothed the soul, the moonlight on the water pleased the eye, and yet Susannah longed to be away from this contrived replica of nature.
“You’re using Effington as a decoy?” Susannah asked. “As long as he’s sniffing about your skirts, you’re escaping the notice of the other fellows.”
Except for Ash Dorning, apparently.
Della sat on the edge of the fountain, not a graceful settling of skirts, but an inelegant perching of tired bones on a handy seat.
“I hate London,” Della muttered. “I thought I would, and I was right, but you, Kirsten, and Leah were excited for me to make my come-out, and Nicholas was determined, and so here I am.”
Susannah dusted off a spot on the fountain’s rim and sat beside her sister. “You didn’t protest, Della Haddonfield. With Kirsten and Nita finding their fellows, you could have waited another year.”
“I wanted to get the business over with,” Della said, toeing off a dancing slipper and crossing her ankle over her knee. She commenced rubbing her silk-clad arch, while the fountain trickled quietly, and a violinist practiced a cadenza inside the ballroom.
“Matters have grown complicated,” Susannah said, feeling elderly, but also glad to be beyond the ordeal Della was enduring. “You’ve allowed Effington to develop expectations, and that will have consequences.”
Della switched feet. “My feet hurt, that’s a consequence. I’m an object of gossip, which we knew might happen. You’ve met Willow Dorning, and taken to spending time with him and his dogs. I think that’s more a blessing than a consequence.”
That dog, as Willow might say, would not hunt. “You are not enduring this Season for me, Della. I’ve known Will Dorning for years, and been through this exercise a half-dozen times. Nobody remarks my presence in Town at all.”
Della wiggled her feet back into her slippers, her demeanor young and bored. “I needed to come to Town, you’re right. To see what a Season was, to meet the eligibles and dance. I will be glad to get back to Kent, though. I’m told Kirsten managed to turn her ankle one year and develop a cough another. I understand why.”
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