Will's True Wish

by Grace Burrowes

  “He’s being Will,” Ash interjected, cuffing the back of Cam’s head. “Looking after everybody before he looks after himself. Your prospects are improving, Willow, and I’ve wondered if Lady Della is as keen on being married off as Lady Susannah is on marrying her off.”

  The park in the early evening was beautiful, despite the afternoon’s showers. The birds caroled their end-of-day songs in the leafy canopy above, the last of the sun’s light slanted through stately maples, and squirrels danced among the branches.

  And yet Hyde Park wasn’t Dorset, nor was it that perpetually sunny forest of Lady Susannah’s imaginings.

  “Lady Della is wellborn,” Cam said. “Of course she wants to get married, but she can do better than the likes of you, Ash-Can Dorning. You’ll recite the multiplication tables while you’re—”

  “Sycamore!” both older brothers shouted in unison.

  “—wooing her,” Cam went on, “and expect her to live in a poky little room in the City, darning your stinking socks and having your stinking brats, while you get squint-eyed and hunchbacked from— That’s a dog.”

  A deerhound-mongrel sort of dog trotted purposefully across the path ahead of them. No collar, and the animal wasn’t lost. Either an owner was somewhere close at hand, or the dog was in pursuit of dinner in a corner of the park that would yield game.

  “That’s not Alexander,” Will said, “and that dog is doing reasonably well for himself.” Unlike Will, who was so muddled after the day’s exchange with Susannah, he wanted to play fetch the stick with Georgette for hours.

  Which, in Dorset, he might have done.

  “Shall we leave that fellow some cheese?” Cam asked. “Handsome dog like that could probably use a home.”

  “We’re looking for Alexander,” Will said, “because Lady Susannah expects it of me. If a lack of coin prevents my offering for her, and finding the dog will yield coin, then find the dog, I must—according to her.”

  Cam kicked a pebble straight into a puddle, starting a series of concentric rings that quickly doubled back on themselves.

  “What about according to you, older-and-wiser-though-seldom-jolly brother?”

  Excellent question. Will paused in the middle of the path, for here in Hyde Park, at this hour, he had privacy with his brothers.

  “According to me, something is rotten in Denmark.”

  “Is Shakespeare contagious?” Cam asked.

  Ash ambled over to a bench—the very bench Will and Susannah often occupied—and sat. “What do you mean, Will?”

  “Three large dogs missing from aristocratic households,” Will began.

  “Three?” Cam said, tossing himself down beside Ash. “I’d only heard about two.”

  “Because you’re too busy wenching and gin-ing,” Ash said. “Worth mentioned something about this at luncheon. He heard it from another Alsatian owner he occasionally meets when he’s out walking Meda.”

  “The most recent one’s an Alsatian,” Will said, “and the owner is the Earl of Hunterton. His children are particularly fond of the dog; consequently, there’s—”

  “—another reward,” Cam said, helping himself to a bite of cheese from the sack Ash had carried. “This is getting out of hand, Willow. You’re the Duke of Dogs. Somebody is stealing canines from people who can afford to pay to have them returned. Ransoming dogs is heinous. Make it stop.”

  “And make me rich and Cam sensible, while you’re at it,” Ash muttered.

  “Are you in the wooing-but-not-courting business now too?” Cam asked, popping another bite of cheese into his mouth. “Maybe this is a new fashion: make violent love to the lady, but out of noble poverty, never offer for her.”

  “Sycamore,” Ash said, snatching the bag from him. “If you eat any more of this cheese, your bowels will seize, and the prodigious flatulence upon which you pride yourself will fail you when you most especially seek to embarrass your siblings with it.”

  “You sound like Will,” Cam said, punctuating his sentiments with an audible demonstration of the talent under discussion.

  “You smell like a dung heap,” Ash retorted.

  “Quiet, both of you,” Will said as another canine came down the path, sniffing at one bush, lifting a leg on another. Will took the cheese from Ash and remained standing. “That’s him. That’s the dog Susannah and I saw earlier. Neither of you move. Cam, is that the fellow you’ve seen behind the King’s Comestibles?”

  “The very pup,” Cam said. “He’s healing too.”

  “Alexander,” Will called, opening the cheese bag. They were downwind of the dog, but this fellow was astute enough to recognize the bag, or perhaps to recognize Will.

  “He knows his name,” Ash said as the dog’s gaze riveted on Will.

  “He knows the smell of cheese,” Cam retorted. “My boy is no fool.”

  Very likely, the beast knew the smell of Cam. Will shook the cheese bag. “Sit, Alexander.”

  Something distracted the dog, for he looked worriedly off to the left.

  “Alexander,” Will said again, more firmly. “Sit.”

  Alexander—if it was Alexander—turned in a circle, then lay down.

  “A right genius,” Ash observed. “Cam’s dog to the life.”

  Will tossed the dog a treat. “Good boy, Alexander.” The dog’s training had probably been haphazard in the March household, so a reward for paying attention—for trying—was in order. “Sycamore, do not think of getting out that leash. If the last time Alexander was leashed, he was also beaten, injured, and dragged from his home, then a leash is the last—”

  Alexander got up, his gaze going to the undergrowth. A rabbit, perhaps, and this dog could not afford to be indifferent to rabbits.

  Will tossed three pieces of cheese at the dog’s feet. “You’d have to work to bring down the rabbit, while the cheese is yours for the asking.”

  “Will is spouting courtship analogies,” Cam said. “Or something.”

  “Will speaks dog, while you speak only nonsense,” Ash retorted. “It’s getting dark, in case either of you failed to remark the obvious. We need to either capture that dog, or live to befriend him another day.”

  “Ash wants to pant at Lady Della’s delicate feet again tonight,” Cam said. “I’m not leaving without my puppy.”

  Will worked steadily closer to the dog, the whole time talking to him, tossing out treats, and trying to establish a rapport. Alexander’s owner had been a woman, while his trust had been abused by men, so progress was slow.

  “There’s a lad,” Will said, taking two steps closer. “You’re in need of sustenance, my boy. You’d best eat all the cheese I toss at you, because on Cam’s allowance, you won’t enjoy many feasts.”

  “What allowance?” Ash asked. “Cam owes every penny of it to you, me, or the corner pub.”

  Will extended a gloved hand a few inches toward the dog. The gash above the left eye ought to have been stitched, but appeared to be healing cleanly. The scar would disfigure an otherwise handsome countenance.

  “Shall we be friends?” Will asked, scanning the undergrowth. “Casual acquaintances will do, provided you let me take you back to my stables. A few meals, a few sessions with the hand signals and the treats, and you’ll be—damn.”

  The deerhound had come into the clearing, and Alexander’s response was to look away, fleetingly at Will, then up the path.

  The deerhound growled, and Alexander, being a sensible soul, loped off at a smart clip.

  “Willow, you let him get away!” Cam yelled, coming off the bench. “You let that poor, injured, helpless dog simply run off. And, you”—he turned to the deerhound—“you’re no help at all. Don’t expect any treats from me, you great lout. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, acting the bullyboy to a fellow who’s down on his luck.”

  The deerhound cocked its head, as if Cam were some incomprehensible creature that fit into neither predator nor prey categories. In the next instant, the dog was off through the undergrowth, runnin
g in the opposite direction Alexander had gone.

  “And you,” Will said, shoving the cheese at his brother, “ensured neither dog will come back for a good long while. Thank you for making the outing not only a complete loss, Cam, but a setback. Alexander might be fifty yards away, but he can hear you, and hear your threatening tone of voice. Badly done of you.”

  “I behold a miracle,” Ash said, sauntering over from the bench. “Sycamore Dorning is silent, which happens occasionally when he sleeps, and—Willow, you are my witness—he’s holding food without consuming it. Signs and wonders on every hand. Shall we be off, gentlemen? Casriel might be hiding at his little card party, but I intend to go dancing tonight with a dark-haired lady. She owes me a waltz, and I always collect my debts.”

  Susannah would expect a report on the evening’s outing, and Will purely wanted to see her.

  “The Breadalbane ball is tonight,” Will said, though maybe it was the Henningtons’. “Cam, you’ll doubtless want to pay homage to the punch bowl.”

  “Right,” Cam said, tossing a bit of cheese into the air, then catching it in his mouth. “Punch bowls and I get along famously. Alexander and I will get on famously too, starting tomorrow night.”

  While Will and Susannah were getting on…reasonably well, when she expected the impossible of him, and he knew not how to refuse her.

  * * *

  “What do you mean, you ran into a slight difficulty?” Effington asked, stroking a hand over Yorick’s bony head. “All I asked you to do was put a green garter in a location above stairs where it would be easily found, then remark upon it, and point out the similarity to Lady Della’s dress.”

  Last evening had gone well, but the afternoon had been beyond tedious. The solicitors were coming at Effington in twos and threes now, armed with figures and innuendos about another firm being a better match for the Effington family’s priorities in the coming years.

  The lawyers were jumping ship, in other words, and that would signal the creditors, when everybody knew the trades weren’t to be paid until December.

  Soon, Yorick would have to go back to working for a living.

  “I did what you asked,” Mannering said, patting Yorick and tugging on a doggy ear. “Exactly what you asked. Green garter in a prominent location, remarks at the punch bowl. Drat the luck, m’sisters have stuck their oar in. I was trying to avoid that.”

  Effington put Yorick down, and gestured to the table near the windows. The drawing room was chilly, because a fire had become a luxury.

  “Shall we play a few rounds of vingt-et-un, Mannering? Let you get back some of your own?”

  “I have done my bit, Effington,” Mannering said, taking a seat and flipping out the tails of an exquisitely stitched morning coat. “The little Haddonfield woman has been muttered about, gossiped over, and subjected to narrow-eyed glances from every corner of a half-dozen ballrooms. How about you hand over my vowels?”

  Effington really should, but Mannering was both gullible and wealthy, a combination hard to come by among the beau monde.

  Effington snapped his fingers. “Yorick, sit.”

  Down went a little doggy bottom with gratifying alacrity. Effington took the seat nearest the windows, and riffled through a deck of cards. The edges were minutely patterned, so Effington would know exactly how many points Mannering’s hand held.

  “Come here, Yorick,” Mannering said, patting his knee. “You’re a lucky little fellow, and I can use some luck. My sisters saw me leaving the garter about last night, and that wasn’t lucky at all.”

  Effington shuffled, taking his time because the markings on the cards were subtle and not easily read. Yorick leaped into Mannering’s lap, and looked entirely happy to be there.

  “A gentleman occasionally keeps a garter as a memento of a pleasant encounter,” Effington said. He’d had an encounter or two with Mannering’s sisters, and what they lacked in scruples, they made up for in stamina and inventiveness.

  While all of the virtue and coin and none of the brains in the Mannering family sat across from Effington, now wearing dog hair on a beautifully tailored pair of doeskin breeches.

  “Keep a lady’s garter?” Mannering asked. “What a peculiar notion. Anyhow, I’d put the garter on a bust of some old Roman fellow—Socrates, I suppose—and here come the harpies, full of questions and sly remarks. If we’re to play cards, hadn’t you ought to deal a few my way?”

  Effington had been shuffling in hopes of putting a poor combination before his guest. He ended up dealing Mannering a pair of sevens.

  “I’m sure you told your sisters to mind their own business, and Socrates was Greek.” Two kings smiled up at Effington, hearts and diamonds.

  “Poor fellow’s dead, in any case,” Mannering said, scratching Yorick’s shoulders. “My sisters, by contrast, took a keen interest in why their brother was leaving garters about other people’s corridors. Nosy pair, those two.”

  Nosy, but not overly concerned with propriety. “Another card, Mannering?”

  “Yorick, what do you think? Shall Uncle Lyle have another card?”

  Yorick gazed adoringly at Mannering, tail wagging.

  “Yorick says one more card, please,” Mannering said. “As I was saying, my sisters got to pesterin’ me, and there we were in the corridor, and rather than be found arguing with a pair of perishin’ females, I told them you had instructed me to leave the garter about, and it was all in aid of gaining a good match for Lady Della. They got quiet then. When those two get quiet, a man should worry.”

  Effington tossed a card across the table. A two, by the feel of the edge and the design along the border.

  “Mannering, you will not get your vowels back at this rate. In fact I ought to double the interest rate on your debt.”

  “Interest? Now see here, Effington. Those vowels ain’t thirty days old, and they’re debts of honor, not a mortgage on the ancestral pile. Let’s have no mention of interest. Yorick doesn’t like nasty talk like that.”

  More tail wagging, drat the beast, but Effington was nothing if not resourceful, and the Mannering twins were well placed to aid his cause.

  “You may tell your sisters whatever you please,” Effington said, “as long as you remind them that old friends generally guard one another’s interests if they know what’s good for them. Does Trudy still have that darling mole on her right hip?”

  Mannering put down his cards and covered Yorick’s ears. “How the deuce should I know? Really, Effington. My sisters aren’t exactly nuns, but a gentleman ought never to tell. Will you have another card?”

  Effington made a show of perusing his kings, though he’d be a fool to try for an ace when Mannering was holding sixteen points. The chances were greater that Mannering would go over twenty-one, or do no better than tie the dealer, who won all draws.

  “Shall we make this round interesting?” Effington said. “If you win, the amount you owe me is cut in half. If I win, it doubles.”

  Mannering held Yorick up before him. “What say you, lucky dog? Shall I chance my fate on the turn of a card?”

  Yorick yipped and squirmed.

  “Yorick says I’m lucky today. I accept the wager and with what I have in my hand.”

  “A deal then,” Effington said, smiling at his kings. “I have a pair of handsome fellows, for a total of twenty. When shall I expect payment?”

  “I’ll send my man around tomorrow,” Mannering said, “for I’ve twenty-one.” He kissed Yorick’s head. “Three sevens. What could be luckier than that?”

  Well, damn. Either the seven of hearts had acquired an extra nick along the edge, or Effington’s focus had been distracted by the memory of Trudy Mannering’s ample breasts.

  “The loser gets a boon,” Effington said, collecting the cards. “You had the benefit of my lucky dog, after all.”

  “We can be generous in victory, can’t we, Yorick?” Mannering asked, holding the dog to his cheek. “Yorick says yes. What boon would you like?”


  Half an amount paid in the next day was, at present, better than the whole amount paid at a future date, and some favors were worth more than money.

  “Tell your sisters that I don’t care what venom they spew regarding Lady Della, provided they spew it in Jonathan Tresham’s direction. I don’t trust him, and can’t think he means well by my intended. If he takes Lady Della into dislike, she’s the better for it.”

  Mannering cuddled Yorick against his chest. “Damned confusing, if you ask me. You don’t protect a lady by spreading talk about her. If you put your ring on her finger, then Tresham wouldn’t have anything to say to it, would he?”

  “Tresham is a ducal heir, Mannering, and reportedly quite wealthy. His interest in the lady does not bode well for my plans, or for her future.”

  What boded ill for Effington’s plans was the notion that Tresham might become fond of Lady Della, or worse, enamored of her. Tresham could afford to be indifferent to the settlements, while Effington could hardly afford good black tea anymore.

  “I’ll say something to the twins,” Mannering allowed. “They’ll be at the Henningtons’. See that you dance with neither of them, if you please.”

  Mannering’s tone was pleasant, his caresses to Yorick’s head gentle, and yet Effington was touched to think genuine fraternal protectiveness had inspired that warning. The twins, oddly enough, could turn up protective of Lyle too.

  “You are a good brother,” Effington said, rising. “And you shouldn’t begrudge the ladies a bit of fun. It was all long ago, and hardly worth mentioning now.”

  Mannering stood and set Yorick on the chair by the card table. “Then don’t. Mention it, that is. My sisters need marrying too, Effington, and sooner rather than later. Yorick, thanks for your assistance.” He blew the dog a kiss. “See you tonight, Effington.”

  Without so much as a bow, Mannering was on his way, Yorick trotting to the door in his wake.

  “You were no help at all,” Effington informed the dog. “Three sevens, indeed.” He aimed a halfhearted kick in Yorick’s direction, but the little beast was nimble.