Will's True Wish

by Grace Burrowes

  “The duchess has posted a reward for her missing dog, you know,” Kettering said as they ambled toward the mews. “Her Grace is determined to find out what happened to her puppy.”

  Her puppy had been mean and starving when Will had found him. Her Grace, two years into lonely widowhood, had been in similar condition, though to outward appearances she’d been hale. She could still take a bite out of any who displeased her.

  “A reward will bring out all the charlatans and swindlers,” Will said. “Every retired coachman will be on her doorstep claiming his three-legged mongrel is her long-lost mastiff. I wish she’d asked me about this first.”

  “Willow, you can’t save them all.”

  Will stopped by a pot of pansies, snapped off a yellow one, and tucked it into his lapel. He was soon to call on a duchess, after all.

  “I can’t save them all, and I can’t ignore the ones who need saving most. I know about your opera dancers, Kettering, which is why I entrusted Meda to you. You have many wealthy clients, and I suspect if you put your mind to it, you could find comfortable homes for a lot of deserving dogs.”

  Will stated his agenda baldly. He was not at all ashamed of his motives. Aristocrats had time, means, and room for canine pets. Wealthy households had assets worth protecting, and most of the wellborn were damned lonely too.

  “My opera dancers?” Kettering mused, extracting the pansy from Will’s lapel, and choosing another, this one a deep purplish-blue.

  “Your opera dancers,” Will reiterated. “The ladies whose tiny sums you invest, patiently, relentlessly, as you ensure they understand finances, as you ensure they can do the math necessary to not be cheated. The ladies whom you quietly set to tatting lace during their rehearsals, or doing piecework in their idle moments.”

  “They’re Jacaranda’s opera dancers now,” Kettering said. “I’m allowed to help, but the project has outgrown my feeble vision for it. Do you ever read your financial statements, Willow?”

  Will patted his pockets. He still had a few bites of cheese in the right one, and the reports were in the left.

  “I’ll read them when I have a free moment. I have a question for you, Kettering.”

  Kettering brushed a hand over Will’s hair, smoothing it down. Cam and Ash weren’t that familiar with him, though Kettering owned a dog now, and would be more likely to pet all in his ambit.

  “You may trust my discretion, Willow.”

  “When you’ve bungled matters with a client, with one of your widows, say, how do you repair the damage?”

  Kettering took up a lean against the garden wall. “I don’t bungle matters, not financial matters.”

  He looked comfortable, elbow propped against the granite, pansies at his shoulder.

  “What about other matters, Kettering? Perhaps the sort of matters that might have come between you and a lady prior to your marriage.”

  Kettering had been a flaming hound prior to his marriage. Half the bored wives and merry widows of Polite Society had gone into a decline when he’d taken Jacaranda to wife. The other half had followed when it became obvious Sir Worth was smitten with his lady.

  “I never mixed business with that sort of bungling,” Kettering said, “but I was a disgrace nonetheless. One apologizes, I suppose, and makes a public display of whatever flattering sentiments one honestly harbors for the lady. A man might have no interest in a woman’s heart, but he must have a care for her pride. It’s…delicate, and a damned lot of work.”

  “Hard work can pay dividends,” Will said, finding a morsel of comfort in Kettering’s words, one he’d consider at another time, in another place. “I wish Casriel would let you assist with his finances.”

  “So do I,” Kettering said, pushing off the wall. “Keep at him, and we’ll wear him down, then set Jacaranda on him. See you next week, and give my regards to Her Grace.”

  Kettering and Meda strolled up the garden walk, while across the alley, Will’s mare was led out.

  From an inside pocket, Will produced a lump of sugar for her, then swung up. He still had time to cut through the park on his way to see the duchess, which was the more agreeable route for the mare. She was a country horse, and Town noise and traffic did not appeal to her.

  Of course, Will might also catch a glimpse of Lady Susannah reading on a bench at this exact hour, but that would be simply a coincidence.

  * * *

  Yorick trotted out from under the library sofa and licked Lyle Mannering’s boot. When Mannering ought to have kicked the dog for displaying such bad manners, he instead picked Yorick up.

  Mannering and the pug wore the same anxious, uncertain expression. They both had hopeful brown eyes too.

  “I did what you asked, Effington,” Mannering said, thumping the dog on its head. “Spread rumor, gossip, and innuendo in every available ear. Poor chit was left swilling punch and looking thoroughly bereft. A good night’s work, eh?”

  “An utter failure, I’d say,” Effington countered, turning the page of his newspaper. “Put the dog down, Mannering.” The society pages reported Lady Darlington’s ball as a great success, a veritable crush, a lavish and lovely affair, et cetera, et cetera.

  Effington remained seated, while Yorick planted himself at Mannering’s feet—out of rolled-up newspaper range.

  “What exactly did you say to people last night?” Effington asked, leafing past the financial pages. Never any good news there.

  “Pity about the girl’s situation,” Mannering said, wandering along the mantel, Yorick at his heels. “Such a shame people are so cruel about matters that are truly of no moment. Puts her family in an awkward position, but one must admire their loyalty to her.” He peered at the painting above the mantel, an image of a fellow wearing a plumed hat and a lot of velvet, flirting with a portly wench. “Is this a Caravaggio?”

  The morning was sunny and cool, as spring could be. Effington had not ordered a fire lit, the London coalmen having no sense of how to deal with their betters regarding accounts owed.

  “Of course it’s a Caravaggio.” Or had been, before Effington had sold the genuine article and hung a copy in its place. “How did people react to your insinuations?”

  “Odd about that.” Mannering ran a gloved finger over the mantel, then wrinkled his nose at the resulting gray spot on the pale leather. “They mostly didn’t react. Some made the predictable noises of false sympathy, others changed the subject. I gather Lady Della Haddonfield is well liked.”

  Too well liked. Effington began rolling the newspaper into a stout bat. Yorick scooted under the sofa, but Mannering wasn’t as smart.

  “Her dance card filled,” Effington said, rising with the newspaper in his hand. “The plan was for Lady Della to be ostracized and pathetic, such that I could salvage her evening by dancing the last set with her. I didn’t even approach her, once the Dornings started lining up.”

  “Bloody lot of Dornings, you’re right about that. They left half the regiment back in Dorset too. I went to school with—ouch!”

  Effington smacked Mannering again with the newspaper, and again and again. To hit something stupid and helpless felt good, as good as hearing Yorick whining under the sofa.

  “I say, Effington,” Mannering groused, rubbing his arm. “I followed your orders to the letter, despite having no call to speak ill of the lady, and this is your thanks? Are you mad?”

  “You failed, Mannering. Your job was to ensure Lady Della was made pathetic, a pillar of bewildered shame. She became the toast of the bachelors instead.”

  “She’s pretty,” Mannering retorted, jerking down a peacock blue and green waistcoat that must have cost a fortune in embroidery alone. “In case you haven’t noticed, she’s also amusing to talk to, and she dances well. Not only that, she has a pack of enormous brothers, all in good health. What do you have against her, anyway?”

  Mannering was proof of nature’s whimsy. He was wealthy, handsome in a blond, pleasant way, rode well, and was universally tolerated. Effington h
ad seldom met a stupider soul of any species.

  “I have nothing against the woman and might well end up married to her, not that you need concern yourself with my motives. Concern yourself with redeeming your vowels, Mannering, in the coin of my choosing.”

  Mannering got down on his hands and knees and peered under the couch. “Yorick, there’s a lad. You can come out now. It’s just us fellows here, after all.”

  “He’ll cower under there until Domesday unless I bid him come out,” Effington said. “You are to renew your assault on Lady Della’s character. Enlist the aid of your sisters if you must, intimate that Lady Della has a gambling problem, a fondness for the poppy, a weakness for handsome footmen. By this time next week, she must be a pariah.”

  Mannering sat up, but didn’t get to his feet. “This is not how you treat a woman you seek to marry, Effington. You ought to be raising her in the esteem of others, not wrecking her good name.”

  The greatest stupidity of all was good moral character, for those afflicted with that virtue attributed a similar weakness to everybody around them.

  Effington laid the newspaper on his desk. “Violate my confidence at your peril, Mannering. I want Lady Della to have the most generous, outlandishly lavish settlements this side of Cleopatra’s arrangements with Caesar. Her family must be strongly motivated to send her into my keeping. If I’m paying addresses to just another pretty, virtuous young lady, that won’t be the result, will it?”

  Mannering looked disgruntled, as if an application of logic disagreed with his digestion. “If she’s in love with you, then the settlements won’t matter to her.”

  In love. The two most ridiculous words ever used. “She’s the daughter of an earl. The settlements will matter, particularly when she’s one of several daughters not yet married off. If the family is shamelessly relieved to be rid of her, they’re more likely to dower her handsomely, and that is entirely in the lady’s best interest.”

  Mannering popped to his feet and dusted off his knees. “Then I’m away to assassinate the poor dear’s character in the clubs, but I want my vowels back, Effington. Fair is fair.”

  Fair was more stupidity, usually. If Effington had played fair, he’d never have been able to put Mannering in his debt.

  “Of course, Mannering. I always keep my word and I do esteem the lady very much. Sometimes needs must when the devil drives, though. By the end of the month, she’ll be wearing my ring, provided you don’t bungle your assignments. Yorick, come.”

  A single snap of Effington’s fingers and the dog scurried, head down, tail tucked, to his master’s side.

  “I tell myself you can’t be all that awful a fellow if little Yorick likes you,” Mannering said. “But this is the most peculiar means of winning a fair lady I’ve ever come across. I’ll be glad when Lady Della is safely wed to you, and I can explain to all and sundry that I must have been mistaken about her situation.”

  “I’ll be glad to have my ring on her finger too, Mannering. Now, come upstairs with me while I choose the day’s waistcoat. You always have such exquisite taste. Did you hear that the Duchess of Ambrose’s dog has been stolen?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Poor old dear is beside herself. Fellows in the park this morning say she’s offered a reward too. Quite sizable, but then it was a sizable dog.”

  A sweet shaft of cheer pierced Effington’s outlook, which had been rank since his last meeting with his man of business.

  “A reward? A sizable reward? That’s pathetic.”

  “I find it touching, though only a rogue would collect a reward for finding an old woman’s dog, don’t you agree?”

  No, Effington did not agree. “The dog is probably larking around at some shambles,” he said, “gorging himself on pig entrails when it’s not humping every bitch in the alley. I am endlessly fond of even the lowest canine, but they’re like that, you know. That dog will come home to Her Grace when he’s done being randy and sick.”

  * * *

  Nicholas had dragooned Leah into accompanying him to the card room, leaving only Susannah on guard duty, again.

  “I know Leah’s strategy,” Della said, swaying gently to the evening’s first minuet. “You mustn’t blame them for it, Suze.”

  “We’re abandoned here in the wilderness together,” Susannah said, “because nobody will come near you if Nicholas is glowering like the Wrath of Haddondale come to London.”

  “Nicholas is the Wrath of Haddondale, also its biggest kitten. Oh my, don’t they look lovely?”

  All four Dorning brothers approached in their evening finery.

  Susannah had sat that morning reading in the park for more than two hours, or pretending to read. She’d come to a sorry pass when As You Like It couldn’t hold her focus. Nonetheless, her attention had wandered all over the park.

  The Dorning brothers, by contrast, would turn any lady’s head, and apparently had, for half the ballroom—dancers, musicians, wallflowers, everybody—watched them.

  “Oh no,” Della moaned. “Effington is coming this way too. Susannah, what do I do?”

  “You enjoy them all. You be witty and charming, and let the gentlemen compete for your notice.”

  Though how tedious was that? Watching grown men flirt, flatter, and fawn?

  “My ladies,” the Earl of Casriel said, bowing over Susannah’s hand, then Della’s. “We’re having a dispute, and Ash suggested you might resolve it for us. Willow says we shouldn’t burden you with our squabbles, but I also need a lady to take pity on me for the supper waltz, so here we are.”

  Casriel was convincing in his charm, his grave smile genuine, but Susannah had the impression he was setting an example for his younger brothers rather than showing a real interest in her or her sister.

  “Explain your dispute to us,” Della said. “We’ll happily sit in judgment of the lot of you.”

  Cam and Ash smirked while Will… Will was studying an enormous, feathery potted fern. He was so handsome, and so miserable in this ballroom, but he would not leave his brothers unguarded.

  “We were talking about the Duchess of Ambrose’s missing mastiff,” Cam explained. “I said I don’t think large dogs make good pets for ladies. Ash, of course, disagrees with me, and says a protective dog is an excellent companion for the frail sex. Casriel says the only good dog is a dog with a real job, such as hunting or birding, and Willow says we’re all ridiculous.”

  “A conundrum, indeed,” Della said, “when each man’s opinion has something of sense in it, but none of you is entirely right—except for Mr. Willow Dorning. There, your dispute is solved, and somebody may now fetch me a glass of punch.”

  Della was managing, but like the Earl of Casriel’s charm, her riposte was a performance. Susannah’s head began to ache, and still Will had not so much as looked at her.

  “I’ll fetch drinks for both of you ladies,” he said, bowing and withdrawing.

  Lord Effington neatly took Willow’s place in the semicircle that had formed around Della, his golden good looks contrasting with the darker Dornings at his side. Behind Effington, Lyle Mannering shifted from foot to foot, and even tried a little hop to see past the taller Dorning brothers.

  “We’re discussing the best breed of dog to serve as a lady’s pet,” Casriel said. “Your thoughts on the subject are, of course, welcome, Effington.”

  Effington studied Della, his expression pensive. The immediate company grew quiet, but Susannah realized others were also monitoring the conversation. Effington was unrelenting and vocal about his affection for dogs, so of course, his opinion would be noted.

  The throb at the base of Susannah’s neck threatened to climb higher, and if it reached her temple, then the entire evening was doomed.

  “Not every woman is suitably matched with a noble canine companion,” Effington observed. “Dogs are sensitive creatures, and a woman so absorbed with her own consequence that she neglects the adoration of a loyal defender—a fellow who is at her side through all the vicissi
tudes of life, one who asks virtually nothing of her in return—that woman is sure to be unworthy of his devotion.”

  Murmuring reached Susannah over the bewilderment threatening her composure. Effington was apparently feeling peevish, and willing to vent his feelings publicly. A rotten whiff of disaster wafted on his languid condescension.

  Others heard Effington’s comment, though Susannah was at a loss to decipher its entire meaning. Behind Ash Dorning, the Mannering twins were fanning themselves, their gazes hard and eager.

  “Seems to me,” Ash observed, “if a fellow is truly a loyal defender, noble, handsome, and all that other twaddle, then his lady’s happiness ought to matter more to him than the occasional pat on the head or kiss on his ear.”

  Casriel’s eyebrows shot up, and another chorus of murmurs rose.

  “Seems to me,” Cam Dorning said, glaring at Effington, “if a man is a true devotee of the canine, then he ought to occasionally take his dogs to the park to run and enjoy themselves as dogs ought. That man should not be perpetually foisting his dear pets off on the footmen and grooms for quick trips to the mews, and he most certainly shouldn’t treat the poor beasts as if they were interchangeable fashion accessories.”

  Figurative fur would be flying any moment.

  “Gentlemen,” Susannah said, “your opinions are all very interesting, but you’re supposing every lady enjoys the company of dogs. I regret to inform you that assumption is in error. Perhaps we should discuss what sort of pets appeal to ladies who don’t care for canines at all?”

  Casriel put a gloved hand on Cam’s shoulder and squeezed firmly. “Excellent question,” the earl said, a bit too heartily.

  “Irrelevant question,” Effington countered. “If a lady has no respect for the companionship of canines, if she has no affection for the species that has been man’s loyal companion since the dawn of time, the staunch defender of his hearth and family, then I have to wonder why anybody would associate with such an unfortunate woman. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Della?”

  Five

  In the silence following Effington’s languid inquiry, Susannah was certain of only one thing: his lordship was offended. He was mortally, lethally offended, and Susannah’s efforts to deflect his ire had only made matters worse. Where was Nicholas, where was anybody who might salvage a situation that had gone so wrong so quickly?