Will's True Wish

by Grace Burrowes

  Not her Willow, but some quieter, more reserved fellow who’d forgotten how to smile.

  “I want to say you’ve taken leave of your senses,” she muttered, passing him his cravat pin. “But Effington isn’t… He isn’t a credit to his antecedents. He’s calculating. Shrewd and nasty.”

  Like the Mannering sisters, to whom Susannah had given too much deference.

  “Effington is also in want of coin,” Will said, sitting on the vanity stool to yank on his boots. “That combination bodes ill for all in his ambit.”

  Two hours ago, Susannah had been pleased with life, enjoying a sense of newfound calm and clarity. She’d excused herself from the duty of seeing Della married off, and had instead focused on ensuring Willow Dorning remained a part of her own future.

  “What are you planning?” Susannah asked.

  Will stood, all buttoned up, and produced a comb from a pocket. He put his hair to rights without even glancing in Susannah’s folding mirror, then tucked the comb away. He looked ready for a hand of cards at the club.

  Maybe even ready to walk out of Susannah’s life.

  “I face choices, my lady, none of them to my liking. If I leave matters alone, I’m essentially waiting for Effington to come along and snatch my business prospects, my good name, and possibly my blameless brothers away.”

  “But Ash hasn’t stolen anybody’s dog. Effington would have no witnesses, no proof.”

  The look Will gave Susannah was chilling in its pity. “My dear, Effington will regretfully swear, under oath, that he saw Ash Dorning leading Alexander away from the Marches’ mews. Effington will recollect Sycamore in conversation with a notorious bear handler, and recount money changing hands along with a large dog. Others will corroborate that testimony, or important parts of it. Effington is a rotter, and the more rotten he plans to be, the less we’ll grasp what he’s about until it’s too late.”

  Will spoke as if it was already too late. As if they were helpless but to read their lines in a tragedy, the ending of which had been fated before the curtain had gone up.

  “Then I will swear that Ash Dorning was with me,” Susannah said, “and Effington must have been mistaken.”

  Will’s palm cradled Susannah’s cheek. “Your testimony won’t hold up, because you are a paragon who could not possibly lie convincingly, but I love you for offering to protect my brother at the cost of your own reputation.”

  Dread swept away the pleasure Susannah took in having Willow Dorning in her bedroom avowing his love.

  “Are you saying Della must marry this cur?”

  “For her to marry Effington is one alternative, though I can’t, as a gentleman, support it.”

  Relief coursed through Susannah. Will was a gentleman, of that there had never been the slightest doubt. The truest gentleman she’d ever met.

  “Even if a marriage between Della and Effington would assure our own future, I can’t support it either, Willow.”

  This was…not how Susannah had felt even that very morning. Then, she’d been willing to ignore her own instincts regarding Effington, and she’d regarded any match for Della as better than no match. That’s how desperately she’d sought to put an end to her own social ordeals, how badly she’d craved the safety of spinsterhood.

  “So if Della isn’t to marry Effington,” Susannah said, “what other choices does that leave?”

  Susannah would loathe these choices. She knew that by Will’s shuttered expression, and how his hand fell to his side.

  “Ash, Cam, and I can leave London immediately. When dogs continue to turn up missing, we’ll have some evidence to exonerate us. Perhaps Effington would go after Casriel next, but that would require more boldness than even Effington has.”

  “Why can’t Effington simply marry some other young lady, one with fat settlements and a fondness for new bonnets?” Susannah asked, slipping her arms around Will’s waist. He’d already departed, in some sense, already gone over the balcony rail, into the dark night without her.

  Damn Effington and all his mangy ilk, for taking advantage of helpless dogs, who asked for little enough in life. For ruining honorable men because of a lack of coin. For destroying a young woman’s future out of simple spite.

  “Willow, I want you to know something.”

  His arms came around her, solidly, snugly. “I want you to know something too.”

  If he said he was leaving her, running back to Dorset with his tail between his legs, Susannah would…

  Try to let him go, though scurrying away would be wrong—for them, and also for him. Very wrong for the dogs nobody cared about the way Will did.

  “I want you to know, Mr. Willow Dorning, that the moments I’ve shared with you, on the dance floor, in the park, in that bed, I have felt more alive, and more like myself, than at any other time. I love you, I will always love you for those moments.”

  She felt the shock of her words go through him, and they’d surprised her too. Her declaration lacked the Bard’s finesse, but she’d never expressed herself more sincerely.

  “I want much more than moments with you, Susannah.”

  She hadn’t expected Will to say that, and for the space of a sigh, Susannah simply basked in his assurances. His embrace was firm, his words unhesitating.

  This was the true Will too. Tenacious, relentless, tirelessly patient.

  “If Della isn’t to marry Effington,” Susannah said, “if you’re not to take your brothers back to Dorset, and Effington isn’t to ruin anybody, then what are we to do?”

  For Will had made a choice. Susannah could feel that in him too. The certainty he enjoyed about so much of life had not failed him now.

  “The course is simple, though not easy. All I have to do to thwart Effington is find the dogs and ensure that the guilty party is held responsible for stealing them, and I must do this before Effington suspects Lady Della’s affections are not engaged.”

  He was quivering with eagerness to begin that quest, ready to bound away in hot pursuit of a nearly impossible goal.

  “Willow, it might already be too late. Della was prepared to give Effington a rousing set-down before she left the ball tonight.”

  * * *

  In Effington’s opinion, last night’s ball had ended well. Lady Della had been tongue-tied and unforthcoming during their waltz, such as a lady might become when growing uncertain of a suitor’s affections. That notion cheered him considerably, but not enough for him to overlook a serious lapse on his housekeeper’s part.

  “What do you mean, we’ve not a single headache powder in the house?” Effington asked pleasantly. The menials knew to be terrified when he scolded in mild tones. Yorick crouched beside Effington’s slipper, the poor fellow nearly shivering with dread.

  Wentworth did not so much as twitch at her skirt. “When we ran out of chocolate on Thursday, your lordship, your mother decided she’d pay a visit to Lady Mannering, and her ladyship has been there since. She took the last two headache powders, and the only bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial.”

  Wentworth’s tone suggested Mama might also have made off with the silver. Mama would do it too. The viscountess was a right bitch when she was in a taking, which generally lasted until her allowance ran out.

  “Then I suggest you either retrieve that bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial from her, or procure more,” Effington said, picking up Yorick. “A household without remedies is a household with a lax housekeeper.”

  He stroked the top of Yorick’s head and met Wentworth’s gaze. She was desperate to retort that the marketing money wouldn’t cover an excursion to the apothecary, desperate to suggest that her employer retrieve the medicinals from his wayward mother. Too bad for Wentworth, a lax housekeeper was one step away from being turned off without a character and without the wages due her.

  “I’ll send a note to Lady Mannering’s housekeeper, your lordship, and let the viscountess know you’re asking for the return of a few small items.”

  Cleverness was tedious in the
help. “You’re excused, Wentworth. Send Bolton to me, for it’s time I tended to my social obligations.”

  Wentworth was a tall, thin woman, all bustling energy and nervous disposition. She looked like she was about to wet herself in her desire to quit the room.

  “Mr. Bolton is apparently under the weather, your lordship.”

  Bolton was an indestructible terrier of a valet, and if his skill with a needle and his knowledge of fashion weren’t faultless, Effington would have tossed him out on his presuming ear long ago.

  “What sort of under the weather, Wentworth?”

  “He went to visit his mama this morning, sir, it being his half day. He didn’t come back at midday, which is his usual habit. We’ve sent a note inquiring after his health.”

  Yorick whined, for which Effington smacked him on the snout, and that passing gesture of reproof caused the housekeeper to flinch.

  None of which would soothe a suffering man’s pounding head.

  “Send another note, and tell Bolton his services will no longer be necessary. That will be all.”

  She curtsied and scurried out, while Effington poured himself a tot of brandy. “Hair of the dog that bit me,” he muttered. “The most useful of the canine allusions.”

  Yorick didn’t so much as wiggle to be let down, but hung motionless on Effington’s arm. He set the dog on the carpet, which needed a good beating, much like his mother and half the help.

  “You’re for the badger pits,” Effington informed his dog. “You’re losing your lucky touch, my boy, for I lost last night.”

  Before Effington had settled in at his club, he’d made arrangements to call on Lady Della, which had been prudent of him. He’d lost every penny due him from Mannering, drat the luck.

  The time had come to plight his troth. Mama’s defection was inconvenient, but if word got out that Viscount Effington was managing without a valet, or reneging on debts of honor…

  “Not to be borne,” Effington said, downing his brandy and pouring another. “At least Lady Della assured me she’d be home this afternoon, should I care to call.” Assured him emphatically, almost as if she were desperate to have a private moment with him.

  Which she ought to be. The time had come to sample Lady Della’s charms. One didn’t buy a horse without trying its paces.

  The second brandy was the last available, some incompetent having forgotten to refill the decanters.

  “Just as well,” Effington said. “Something I ate last night disagreed with me, or something I drank.”

  He’d drunk rather a lot, otherwise that Tresham fellow with the cold gaze wouldn’t have won so much from him. Ash Dorning had won a fair bit too. Bothersome vermin, younger sons, and the Dornings had those odd, overly blue eyes.

  “I’ll steal his brother’s dogs,” Effington said, downing the second brandy. “That enormous creature who tried to piss on my leg is due for a comeuppance, and the earl’s town house is not three streets over. They won’t be posting any tiresome rewards, either, because all the world knows the Dornings need every coin they can beg, borrow, or steal.”

  Or marry. That thought, for reasons the brandy put just beyond Effington’s reach, was not cheering.

  “Out of my way,” he said, shoving Yorick aside with his foot. “I’ve arrangements to make and calls to pay, and when I’m done, you, my boy, and those other canines eating me out of house and habiliment will find your situations vastly changed for the worse.”

  While Effington’s would change for the better. He upended the brandy bottle, delivering the last, sweetest drops straight down his gullet, snapped his fingers, and repaired above stairs, where he’d puzzle out how to tie his own cravat.

  How hard could that be, after all?

  Fifteen

  Dogs survived as a species, despite wars, disease, famine, and man’s violence, in part because dogs naturally gravitated toward their own kind. In the wild state, they dwelled in packs, so the best hunters were free to hunt, the young were protected, the alert stood guard, and the powerful did battle.

  Will came to this realization watching Samson and Georgette play with Hector in the town house garden. That Hector could play at all was progress, for the dog had been the slowest to trust, the most ready to see every overture as at threat. Hector’s own kind could coax him into playing again far more quickly and exuberantly than Will could.

  “At the rate you’re going, we’ll have you to the park before the Season is out,” Will said when all three dogs were panting on the grass. “Samson once wanted confidence, as you do, and he’s coming right.”

  Lady Susannah had a lot to do with that, for she settled Will in a way he could not settle himself, and when the owner was settled, the dog could be calm.

  Last night had left Will both settled and unsettled. At peace and ready to go to war.

  “She is part of my pack,” Will said. “Has been for years, but we’re only now realizing that.”

  “Ah, so I’m not the only man who talks to my dog.”

  The Duke of Quimbey stood several yards away on the terrace. Comus was with him, looking well-groomed and very much on his manners.

  “Georgette, Samson, come. Hector, sit.” Will shook the treat bag, because Comus was not a stranger to Hector, but they hadn’t seen each other for some time and Hector was focused on the newcomer.

  “You could pull a curricle with those three,” Quimbey said. “I don’t recognize the fawn-colored fellow. Is he new?”

  Hector stared straight at Comus, who glanced from Will to Georgette to Quimbey. Hector’s staring was the behavior of a dog who intended to remain in charge of a situation, and Comus, without a growl or a bark exchanged, signaled his willingness to allow Hector the upper paw, as it were.

  “Hector, sit,” Will said, making the hand sign.

  Hector remained on all fours.

  “Hector’s training isn’t very far along.” Will fished out a treat and held it before Hector’s nose. “Hector, sit.” Will drew the treat up to a point between Hector’s ears.

  The dog ignored the treat and growled.

  “I can’t chide Hector for his behavior, because Comus is arguably an intruder,” Will said. “If Your Grace will wait for a moment, I’ll put Hector in the stables.”

  Will put a leash on Hector, who grumbled at that indignity as Will led his fractious beast across the alley to the stables. The stable boys did not handle Hector—nobody handled Hector save Will—so it fell to Will to put Hector in his stall.

  “Hector, sit,” Will instructed when the leash was off.

  Hector sat. No tail thumping, no embellishing the moment with pleasantries. The dog was well aware of Quimbey and Comus over in the garden.

  “Good boy,” Will said, “and for today, that’s enough. You weren’t exactly top wrangler for social skills, but you didn’t disgrace your training, either. I’m proud of you, and we’ll play again before supper. All done, Hector.”

  Hector offered a single thump of his tail in exchange for a final treat, some commands being easier to learn than others.

  Will rejoined the duke, who’d taken a seat by a dry fountain.

  “You can let Comus off the leash,” Will said. “Samson and Georgette will enjoy more playtime.”

  “We all enjoy playtime,” Quimbey replied. “One tends to forget that. Tresham has certainly forgotten it.”

  “You’re worried about your nephew,” Will said, touched that the duke would confide such a woe to a mere trainer of dogs. Comus sniffed noses with Samson and Georgette, then various other parts were sniffed, until Comus lowered his front end and woofed.

  Several hundred pounds of overgrown puppies soon went rolling and yelping across the grass, a sight Susannah would have enjoyed.

  “I am worried about Tresham,” Quimbey said, “and you’re the canny sort who notices more than others. I trust your discretion to the utmost, Mr. Dorning.”

  “And well you should,” Will replied as the dogs started a game of chase-my-neighbor
around the sundial at the center of the garden.

  “You know I’ve admonished Tresham to take a wife. He’s my heir, I’m getting on, and he’s lonely.”

  Will knew no such thing. “I’ve suggested Casriel find a countess, Your Grace. He needs an heir other than myself, and he’s lonely too.” Though Will hadn’t realized that until the words had left his mouth.

  “So, there I am,” Quimbey said, getting up to pace, “exhorting the boy to marry posthaste, and the only woman he takes an interest in is Lady Della Haddonfield. I tell myself this is of no moment, for Lady Della is all but spoken for by that Effington buffoon.”

  Will hoped that as he and the duke were speaking, Susannah was having a delicate conversation with Lady Della. The younger Haddonfield sister must play out the line with Effington, neither making promises nor rejecting his offers. A note from Susannah at breakfast assured Will that Lady Della had yet to send the viscount packing, though Effington could be paying a visit that very afternoon.

  “Effington has shown an interest in Lady Della,” Will said. “Nothing more—yet.”

  Georgette caught up with Comus and began the game of catch-me-if-you-can all over in the opposite direction, with Samson woofing encouragement from the rear.

  “I saw Lady Della last evening with your brother, Mr. Ash Dorning,” Quimbey replied, turning on his heel and putting his hands behind his back. “Effington doesn’t stand a chance, Mr. Dorning, and I hope Lady Della’s family is relieved as a consequence. I cannot see Mr. Ash Dorning making an offer, though, being the impecunious extra spare, and a gentleman.”

  Will felt a growing urgency to call on the Haddonfield ladies, while Quimbey seemed content to pace off the metes and bounds of ballroom gossip.

  “Ash hasn’t confided any plans to me,” Will said, “but he knows my own circumstances are constrained by a lack of coin. If I’m not proposing marriage in the near future, I doubt Ash would be.”

  “Precisely!” Quimbey rocked forward on his toes, then settled back into his pacing. “Precisely, Mr. Dorning. I knew you were the perceptive sort. You saw to it that Comus and I got off to a good start, after all. So, there we have it. Lady Della will reject Effington, she won’t get an offer from your brother, and the only other fellow who’s up to her weight, so to speak, is my nephew. He’s set a man to keep an eye on Lady Della, and that does not bode well at all.”