Susannah would do Will an injury if he pulled that sort of maneuver, and yet a ducal heir needed to exercise caution where his private affairs were concerned.
Quimbey pivoted again, and an image came to Will’s mind: Tresham, in the same posture, hands behind his back, speechifying, every inch a duke in training.
Then another image: Lady Della, hands behind her back, every inch a lady from birth, speechifying… And Susannah confiding that Lady Della was the product of their late mother’s indiscretion.
Oh dear.
“Cousins occasionally marry, Your Grace,” Will said cautiously. Was this why Quimbey had remained single? Because he’d harbored a tendresse for Della and Susannah’s mama?
His Grace wilted onto the bench across from Will. “Cousins might marry, Mr. Dorning, half siblings do not. My brother was a hopeless romantic, his wife a hopeless thespian. They were in some senses well suited, but their son deserved steadier parents. I did what I could for Jonathan, but now… I did not foresee this situation with Lady Della, and yet Jon seems interested in her. It’s nearly farcical, but also unnerving, and something must be done.”
Will recalled Tresham expressing a wish that Della would leave London, just before glowering at the lady for the duration of an entire waltz.
“Tresham suspects some connection,” Will said, “though you needn’t worry he’s smitten. I’d bet Georgette on it, and I do not bet my dogs lightly. Lady Della might suspect a connection as well, but neither is she enamored of Mr. Tresham.”
Instinct said that was the case. Prudence suggested the matter was too delicate to leave to chance. Indifference could turn to fondness, as it had with Susannah and the dogs.
Georgette let out a rare bark, which set the other two off. Hector gave a few plaintive echoes from the stables.
“Georgette, come,” Will called. “Samson, you too. Come, now.”
Georgette trotted over, snout in the air, Samson following.
“Do I call Comus?” Quimbey asked.
“Yes, and praise him for obeying, though he’s simply aping his elders.” Will passed over a piece of cheese as Georgette leaned against his knee.
Comus sat at the duke’s feet without being asked, and Quimbey gave the dog a treat and a pat.
“Good fellow, Comus. You were a good boy when we called on the Duchess of Ambrose too, weren’t you?”
“All done, Georgette,” Will said, surrendering the cheese, then repeating the instruction with Samson. “All done. Down and stay. Good girl. Good boy.”
And good boy, Comus, for charming the duchess.
“Can’t you simply explain the facts to Tresham?” Will asked. “He had to know of his father’s amorous tendencies, and now that I consider the matter, Tresham and Lady Della have similar coloring.”
Similar coloring, similar glowers, similar gestures. Will would not be the last to remark the similarities. Even Effington might notice a resemblance—God help them all.
“You and Tresham have similar coloring,” Quimbey scoffed.
“I have more muscle, I’m taller, and I have the Dorning eyes,” Will said. “Shall I warn Tresham away?”
The notion was no more burdensome than paying off Cam’s vowels, or having a word with the housemaid in Dorset who’d taken a fancy to Cam. Part of looking after a pack mate.
“One doesn’t want to unnecessarily shock the young people,” Quimbey said. “Couldn’t you intimate to Jonathan that Mr. Ash Dorning has an inheritance that will allow him to offer for a young lady in a year or two?”
“I’m not comfortable dissembling, Your Grace. What if Tresham confronted Ash about this nonexistent inheritance? The truth is usually the best choice.”
“Spoken like a man with a clear conscience,” His Grace muttered. Comus put his chin on the duke’s knee, Georgette sighed, and from the stables came a lone, melancholy bark.
“My conscience is mostly clear,” Will said, “and I’m happy to have a private conversation with Mr. Tresham, but I’d like your views on another delicate matter if you have a moment.” Only a moment, for this new development made it imperative that Will return to Susannah’s side.
“I can be discreet too, Mr. Dorning. One can’t help but notice that Lady Susannah has caught your eye.”
“When did one notice this?”
“She nearly knocked me from her path last night. Like her mama, Lady Susannah knows what she wants and goes after it—or after him. My brother had occasion to admire Lady Bellefonte’s determination.” And Quimbey didn’t judge a woman for being determined on an objective, even if that objective had been his fickle brother.
“I esteem Lady Susannah above all others,” Will said, “but matters have grown complicated.” Will explained his marital aspirations, his suspicions regarding Effington, and the need to find the dogs. “As soon as my brother Sycamore is awake and sentient, I’ll explain the situation to him, Ash, and Casriel too.”
Sycamore had reported no dogs answering to Caesar’s description at the bear garden as of last evening, which meant the missing dogs might be as close as Effington’s mews.
“Good fellows, your brothers,” Quimbey said, rising. “Though I’m sure the younger one, Sycamore, will give you some bad moments. Puts me in mind of myself as a lad. You’re off to scour London for missing mastiffs, then?”
As soon as Will called on Susannah. “I am, and if you have suggestions, I’m happy to hear them.”
“Suggestions. Here’s what I suggest, Mr. Dorning: find the dogs, the sooner the better. Effington was at the club last night, making bold proclamations about securing the succession and filling his nursery.”
Georgette, in the manner of dogs, unceremoniously deposited the contents of her belly at Will’s feet.
“I’ll also have a very quiet word with Tresham,” Will said. “Excuse Georgette, Your Grace. Her digestion becomes unsettled when she plays too hard.”
Quimbey fastened Comus’s leash to a handsome braided collar. “Georgette has the right of it. A man who cheats at cards and enlists the aid of an innocent dog in his chicanery ought not to have a chance to fill a nursery. Comus agrees with me. Come, Comus. We must pen the duchess a note thanking her for this morning’s hospitality.”
* * *
“I’m here to pass along something you should know,” Ash Dorning said as he stood beside Della, looking out over a back garden coming to its glory.
To Della, his eyes were his most interesting feature. Their color was intriguing, more purple than blue, between lilac and gentian, like the pansies growing in pots at the top of the terrace steps. Those beautiful eyes held Della’s attention, not for their hue, but for their sincerity.
“I know I like kissing you, Ash Dorning.”
“I more than like kissing you, but that was… I’m not here to kiss you, my lady.”
He at least sounded regretful, though he looked far too handsome in the midday sunshine. Susannah would join them any minute, and that would end even talk of kissing, so Della made her words count.
“I would like to kiss you again, sir, and then some. You’ll think me bold, but kissing you was illuminating.”
He looked down, possibly hiding a smile. “Illuminating in what sense, my lady?”
“You were right,” Della said, plucking a pansy and threading it through the buttonhole in his lapel. “I deserve to feel like a queen when somebody kisses me. I am not responsible for my antecedents, and I should stop feeling as if I owe my family a quick exit from Polite Society’s stage. I want more kisses from you, Mr. Dorning, and I want to walk in the park with you, debating the merits of reform or Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s theories, instead of hanging on your arm and hoping everybody sees me there.”
Mr. Dorning removed the pansy from his lapel and tucked it behind Della’s ear. “I’m in favor of reform, actually, in moderate degrees. The alternative is revolution, and we’ve seen the state that left France in.”
For a moment, the sensation of Mr. Dorning’s fingers brushing
against Della’s hair robbed her of rational thought. Warmth trickled through her, and remembered joy. Mr. Dorning had kissed her, thoroughly, and here he was, not twenty-four hours later, calling upon her without benefit of his brothers’ company.
“My point,” Della said, taking his arm and leading him down the steps, “is that I can’t sacrifice my happiness for anybody’s convenience, and with that in mind, you should know that I intend to pester Jonathan Tresham until he returns certain letters my mother wrote to his father.”
Mr. Dorning said nothing, so Della plowed ahead, though she knew she might be forever ruining her chances of having more of his kisses. That would be sad—very sad—but not a tragedy.
“Certain very personal letters, Mr. Dorning.”
“That’s what you’re about with Tresham, my lady? You’re bothering him to return some old correspondence?”
“Not even that,” Della said as they descended into the knot garden. This part of the garden was near the alley, but visible from the house too, so propriety would not be offended if they tarried here. Della took a seat on the marble bench, lest she escort Mr. Dorning behind a huge, leafy maple. “I intend to offer Mr. Tresham a trade, if he’ll ever condescend to have a discussion with me. Brothers are the very worst when they’re feeling stubborn.”
Mr. Dorning flipped out the tails of his riding jacket and came down beside Della uninvited. She liked that he didn’t stand on ceremony with her, for a man who stickled over manners was a man who’d avoid the company of a countess’s by-blow.
“I have six brothers,” Mr. Dorning said. “One of them is Sycamore, and he ought to count triple. Tresham is your brother?”
Four little words, and from Mr. Dorning, they were only mildly curious words. A weight eased off Della’s heart and fluttered away on the spring sunshine.
“Tresham is my half brother, considerably my elder, and I gather my existence has been kept from him. He did not respond to my letters, has refused my conversational overtures, and glowers certain death at me when our paths cross.”
Della waited, though waiting was hard. Mr. Dorning could still bow politely and stride out of her life, or change the subject.
“Tresham may not have all the puzzle pieces,” Mr. Dorning said. “Have you told him you’re his sister?”
Or Mr. Dorning might get to the very heart of the matter. Della pulled the pansy from behind her ear.
“One doesn’t put that in writing,” she said, twirling the flower by its fragile stem. “I informed him I had some documents written by a late member of his family, and asked him to make an opportunity to discuss them with me. He’s been dreadfully stubborn, and unforthcoming. Also nimble as a hare at eluding my company.”
And that…hurt, that her own brother, the only brunet sibling she had, the only one who wasn’t a shining blond giant or giantess, should turn his back on her without even a fair hearing.
Della had waited years to make Jonathan Tresham’s acquaintance, only to find he was a condescending blockhead. How like a brother.
“You’ve frightened the poor man,” Mr. Dorning said. “He probably thinks you’re a by-blow of Quimbey’s, or an avaricious blackmailer. He’s not thinking you’d like to give him letters his father wrote, despite what you told him.”
“Tresham’s father was so proud of him,” Della said, which was more unfairness. “I want to know what Mama wrote to our papa, if she even told him I was on the way. There’s much I don’t know.”
Mr. Dorning’s arm came around Della’s shoulders. “Your Haddonfield family has no idea you’ve carried these questions on your own, all these years. Your looks are deceptively slight. I told Tresham that last night.”
Tresham who? Della was too pleased to find herself in Mr. Dorning’s embrace, too soothed and comforted by his affection. She’d fret over her idiot half brother some other time, or maybe give up on him as a hopeless case.
“Effington took issue with my estimation of you,” Mr. Dorning went on. “That’s why I’m making so bold as to call on you, my lady.”
Della wanted Mr. Dorning to hush, to simply hush and let her enjoy the sense of acceptance he offered.
Or maybe he could kiss her again?
“I honestly do not care one whit for what Lord Effington says, Mr. Dorning. He’s a buffoon who has made the early weeks of my Season tedious in the extreme. I made excuses for him—he’s reserved, he’s busy, he has much on his mind, he’s a convenient escort—but mostly he’s a bully who singled me out for his attentions because he grasped how insecure I was.”
“You’re not insecure,” Mr. Dorning said, nuzzling Della’s temple. “You’re cautious. There’s a difference. I ought to be cautious too, but you smell of honeysuckle and mischief, and I’ve spent too much time with Sycamore to be on my best behavior.”
Bless Sycamore.
“I would have remained in Kent,” Della said, “except I wanted to meet my brother and my uncle. Quimbey is a dear old fellow, though Mr. Tresham lacks charm.”
The arm fell way from Della’s shoulders. “Tresham is a fine card player,” Mr. Dorning said. “He and I ended up at the same table with Mr. Effington, and you will please not kiss me again until I tell you the rest of it.”
“Speak quickly, Mr. Dorning.” At any minute, Susannah would come out of the house, and then nobody would be kissing anybody.
“Mr. Tresham and I decided you should be told that Effington cheats at cards.”
This confidence was significant and shocking, such as might restore a blockheaded brother a bit in Della’s eyes. Men called each other out over such foolishness, and the ladies were never given any details. A “mishap with a gun” befell a man, and in a young lady’s hearing, nothing more was ever said.
“This is bad, isn’t it?” Della asked. “That Effington cheats, and that both you and Mr. Tresham realized it.”
“Sooner or later, Effington will be called out. Fortunately, he’s a bad cheat, and both Tresham and I won significant sums from him, though I doubt Effington will pay. We thought you should be warned, because if he’ll cheat at cards, then his honor is not to be trusted.”
That observation was another sort of kiss, a declaration that Della deserved to be treated with respect and honesty. She kissed Mr. Dorning’s cheek in agreement.
“Thank you, Mr. Dorning. I suppose I’m in Tresham’s debt as well.”
“If you have the letters his father wrote, I can take them to him, and explain the situation, if you like. He won’t avoid me, and he can give me your mother’s letters more easily than he can pass them along to you.”
Sitting beside Mr. Dorning in the sunny garden, Della felt a piece of her heart come right, and yet she ached too, because this offer of assistance had been so freely given.
“I had never thought to enlist another’s aid.” She wanted to tuck the pansy back with the other blossoms before it wilted, but of course, that would not serve. “You make this exchange of letters sound easy. A quiet chat. No drama, no scandal, which is all I wanted and what I was sure I couldn’t have.”
“Sycamore says being near the bottom of the sibling heap is hard, that one must cultivate drama simply to assure any notice at all.”
“I like Sycamore.” Della liked all of the Dornings she’d met so far, including Georgette. “If you would be so kind as to explain matters to Mr. Tresham, I leave it to him whether he and I converse, or whether he gives me Mama’s letters. I’ll bring my father’s letters to Mama along with me when—Susannah, good day.”
Mr. Dorning stood and bowed, his movements elegant and unhurried. “My lady, good day. Is that the infamous parasol of apology?”
“Mr. Dorning, greetings. I brought it for Della, if she insists on sitting in the sun. The day is so pleasant, I might tarry here for a moment myself before seeing to an errand.”
Bless Susannah, she was being conspiratorial, asking if Della wanted company, not insisting on chaperoning at close quarters.
“I will take my leave,” Mr.
Dorning said. “Lady Della, I trust we’ll speak further soon.”
“I’ll see you to your horse.”
Susannah pretended to absorb herself in the intricacies of opening the parasol, but Della knew a sisterly smirk when one was barely contained. Della nonetheless walked Mr. Dorning to the garden’s back gate and across the alley, where he signaled a groom to bring his horse around.
“Please do speak to Mr. Tresham,” Della said. “And call again soon, Mr. Dorning.”
“Ash,” he said. “When we’re private, I invite you to call me Ash, though my brothers will refer to me as Ash-heap or Ash-pidistra.”
“Brothers can be inventive.”
So could Della. She went up on her toes and kissed Mr. Dorning on the mouth, knowing she’d ambushed him. He tasted good, of peppermint and promises, and his arms around Della felt like home.
“Mischief,” he said, pulling on his gloves when Della had stepped back. “I have no immediate prospects, I come simply as a friend, and I find myself subject to irresistible mischief. For shame, my lady.”
He kissed her nose, and went whistling into the stables.
“Why is it,” Della asked the lovely spring day, “Lord Effington’s conceit and condescension, his title and all his silly manners, appeal to me not at all, while Mr. Dorning, who has a good heart and no immediate prospects, has stolen my fancy?”
She twirled once, for the sheer joy of making her skirts bell around her ankles, then scampered off to rejoin Susannah in the garden.
* * *
Effington’s horse was a plodder, but because his lordship’s afternoon had started with a jaunt to Knightsbridge, and the next errand after proposing to Lady Della would take Effington all the way to Bloomsbury, Effington was on horseback as he came up the alley behind the Haddonfield town house.
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