In Knightsbridge, he’d negotiated a tidy sum to be paid to him upon delivery of several big, nasty dogs who could take on the nasty job of regularly worrying a big, nasty bear. The expense of keeping the dogs in Bloomsbury would be eliminated for the nonce. Jasper and Horace, a disgracefully greedy pair, could then—at Effington’s direction—find or steal more big, nasty specimens for eventual sale in Knightsbridge.
A profitable day thus far, and marriage settlements would go even further toward relieving the monetary anxieties that played such havoc with Effington’s nerves.
Effington’s horse chose that moment to relieve itself, and being a plodder who did not appreciate a day spent dealing with London traffic, this equine trip to the jakes meant coming to a complete stop. The horse grunted, lifted his tail, and deposited a steaming pile of manure on the cobbles.
The gelding was not the sort to hurry even that indelicate process, and thus Effington was standing in his stirrups in the shade of a plane tree when up ahead, across the next intersection of alleys, Lady Della emerged from a back garden on the arm of Mr. Ash Dorning.
Her ladyship was affixed to Mr. Dorning in a most familiar manner, though Effington didn’t begrudge any woman her flirts. Life was tedious, and flirting was harmless.
Mr. Dorning looked rather well put together for a morning call, and he certainly wasn’t objecting to Lady Della’s presumption. Perhaps the fool didn’t understand that her ladyship could compromise his honor with a word.
Though, of course, she wouldn’t. Della Haddonfield tried to hide it, but she was a shrewd little baggage. She knew the value of a title, and did not expect hearts and flowers from a prospective spouse beyond what was required by appearances.
The horse grunted again, and dropped one last, damp, stinking addition to the pile on the cobbles. The innocuous scents of a shady Mayfair alley acquired an acrid pungence.
Rather than urge the horse forward, Effington let the beast stand a moment, for a bit of spying was in order, and neither Lady Della nor her caller had taken notice of Effington—of anything, save each other.
She said something, then plastered herself against Mr. Dorning and kissed him. Mr. Dorning kissed her ladyship back, and because the horse had stopped groaning and shuffling about, Effington caught the last few words.
“Mischief,” Dorning said smugly. “I have no immediate prospects, I come simply as a friend, and I find myself subjected to irresistible mischief. For shame, my lady.”
Dorning kissed her nose on that towering understatement, and strutted into the stables whistling a snippet of the Hallelujah Chorus.
Dorning had no prospects at all, as every member of Polite Society knew, so perhaps he’d simply humored a forward young woman.
Effington was about to signal his horse to walk on—the lazy beast usually ignored any command the first three times it was given—when Lady Della turned her face up to the dappled sunshine pouring from the heavens.
“Why is it,” she asked nobody that Effington could see, “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, her words twisting a dagger into the belly of Effington’s future, and flitted away, back to the garden from whence she’d come.
Ash Dorning emerged from the stables a few moments later, blew a kiss across the alley, mounted his horse, and trotted off, probably to steal kisses from other men’s fiancées, all the while claiming mere friendship.
Effington sat in the saddle for some minutes, sorting alternatives, debating whether he might that very instant confront her fickle ladyship with an offer of marriage.
But no. She’d shown her true colors, and Effington had been patient long enough.
A prudent man, especially one in want of means, always had a strategy in reserve for those unfortunate times when matters did not unfold as that man had planned them. The dogs would disappear into the baiters’ pits before sunset.
That much hadn’t changed.
Effington would then attend the subsequent bear-baiting, and identify one of the unfortunate canines as stolen property—the duchess’s mastiff would do—and raise a hue and cry to pillory the fiend or fiends responsible.
The horse evidenced its usual inattention to its master’s wishes, so Effington jerked the beast’s head around and gave it a stout swat on the quarters. The horse tossed its head and planted its front hooves, which display of pique Effington thwarted with another smart whack with the crop, for the contingency plan was taking on an urgency.
Ash Dorning was ideally situated to steal dogs from aristocratic houses. His brother was a dog trainer, and Dorning had just admitted to a lack of funds. Ash Dorning thus had a motive for kidnapping canines either to sell them or to collect any offered rewards.
How…convenient.
“And then we’ll see who is kissing whom,” Effington muttered as he sent his recalcitrant horse trotting off in the direction of Bloomsbury.
Sixteen
Della returned to the garden looking entirely too pleased with herself, though her grin was a reproach to Susannah, who’d forgotten that Della could look pleased with herself.
“Please tell me Mr. Dorning didn’t kiss you in the very mews, Delilah Haddonfield,” Susannah said.
“He didn’t,” Della replied. “I kissed him. He bore up manfully under my shameless behavior. Susannah, I am in love.”
Susannah rose and collected her reticule. “Not a very dignified condition, is it?”
“You are in love too,” Della said, taking the place Susannah had vacated on the bench. The sun had warmed the stone, and if Susannah weren’t in a hurry, she would have tarried with Della and indulged in the literary pastime of describing what it meant to be in love.
Only the Bard had come close, and even he had occasionally struggled.
“Where are you off to?” Della asked.
“I am expecting Mr. Willow Dorning to call, but my favorite version of the sonnets is growing worn. I thought I’d step around to Hanford’s bookshop and see if they know of somebody who can repair a binding grown weary with overuse.”
For the first time Susannah could recall, she had no plans to borrow more books for reading.
Another symptom of having fallen in love.
“Don’t tarry,” Della said, passing Susannah the purple parasol. “Effington is to call on me, and I’ll need to regale you with a recounting of that ordeal the instant I’ve sent him on his way.”
Susannah had been frank about Effington’s ability to damage innocent lives. “You will ask for time to consider your situation, and imply that if I can bring Mr. Dorning up to scratch, then you’d like my nuptials to precede your own.”
Della kicked off her slippers and sent them sailing across the grass. “I thought I was the devious sister. Off with you, and hurry back.”
Barrisford crossed the terrace, his gait stately, and yet conveying a sense of urgency. “A gentleman has come to call, my ladies. I’ve put him in the family parlor.”
Not Will, for Barrisford would have mentioned Georgette.
Della rose. “I know, Suze. Simper, bat my eyes, be flattering and inoffensive, but don’t commit to anything.” Off she marched to her fate.
“Della Haddonfield,” Susannah called. “Your slippers, dear. Martyrdom is more convincing if one is properly shod for the ordeal.”
Della stuck out her tongue, retrieved her slippers, and accompanied Barrisford into the house.
Susannah let herself out through the garden gate, the alleys being a much quicker route to Bond Street. Della hadn’t chastised her for going without a maid, which was fortunate when Jeffers had claimed to be suffering a megrim, and Willow would soon call.
Time was of the essence.
Had Susannah not taken a moment to fiddle with the mechanism of the parasol, she might have missed the commotion at the north end of the alley. A gentleman on
horseback was having an altercation with his mount, who apparently did not care to deal with the heavy traffic on the main thoroughfare.
“Ouch,” Susannah muttered as a riding crop came down on the horse’s quarters with significant force. The horse kicked out with both back legs and hopped sideways across the alley.
The dialogue continued in that fashion—bad behavior from the horse followed by an application of the crop, followed by more bad behavior—while a nagging sense of familiarity stole through Susannah.
“Effington,” she whispered, shrinking back against the garden wall. Della and Mr. Dorning had been kissing in this very alley not five minutes past, and there was Effington in a serious temper not a hundred yards away.
Oh, Della. Oh, no.
“God rot your stubbornness!” Effington bellowed as the horse came to a quivering standstill. “Take the damned alleys then, but get me to Bloomsbury or it’s the knacker’s yard for you.”
Bloomsbury, where Sycamore had last seen the dognappers.
Find the dogs, Will had said. Find the dogs, or risk injury to multiple reputations, and injury or worse to several beloved pets. Susannah tucked the parasol under her arm and stole after the viscount and his fractious horse.
* * *
“Mr. Dorning!” Lady Della beamed at Will across the parlor as if he’d brought news of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo. “I was expecting Lord Effington.”
While Will had expected Susannah to greet him. “You don’t seem disappointed, my lady.”
“Your brother Ash was here not fifteen minutes ago. He has a very cheering effect on a lady’s disposition. Disappointment is beyond me, though I’m to simper and sigh and blush when Effington tenders his suit.”
Georgette sighed and sat at Will’s feet.
“Then Lady Susannah has acquainted you with my suspicions regarding your—regarding Lord Effington?”
And where was Susannah? The last time Will had fallen prey to this nameless, pulsing dread, he’d come upon a missive from Jacaranda, informing her brothers she’d gone into service, where—according to her note of farewell—being a drudge for an ungrateful household would at least earn her some coin and a half day off.
Will had not seen his sister again for months afterward.
Lady Della went to the window which looked out across the back garden. High walls separated the earl’s property from those on either side, but from a second-floor vantage point, Will could see a milkmaid coming up the alley separating the garden from the mews.
“Susannah had a blunt talk with me at breakfast,” Lady Della said. “I have been a very great fool, but I had my reasons for coming to London, Mr. Dorning. We’ll resolve the situation with Effington, and then I’ll return to the countryside. I hope you and Susannah will invite me for frequent visits at times when your brother Ash is likely to call.”
The midday light revealed fatigue about her ladyship’s eyes, but determination about her mouth. Will suspected he knew why.
“Quimbey asked me to have a word with Tresham,” Will said. “We can discuss that topic later, my lady, but right now, I feel a pressing urgency to speak with Lady Susannah. Might you ask her to join us?”
Please.
“Susannah isn’t here, Mr. Dorning. She popped out to Hanford’s hoping to have a book rebound, but she knew you were coming, and said she’d be right back. Through the alleys, it’s only a few streets over.”
“She took a footman, I trust?” Three footmen would have been better, or Georgette.
“Susannah didn’t want to miss your call, Mr. Dorning, so she left without taking Jeffers with her. Jeffers is not exactly fleet of foot.”
The dread gnawing at Will’s belly grew claws to go with its teeth. Dognappers prowled Mayfair’s alleys, Effington’s proposal was about to meet with a less-than-enthusiastic response, Sycamore had gone off hunting for Alexander again, and Will needed to know Susannah was safe.
“Don’t feel compelled to sit here with me swilling tea and getting crumbs on the carpet,” Lady Della said. “Effington is late, though he’s been none too reliable in the past. If he appears, I’ll keep the door open, and ensure Barrisford alerts my brother and sister-in-law to the identity of my caller.”
“Don’t leave the house with Effington,” Will said. “Plead sore feet, a megrim, female indisposition, anything, but don’t let him take you from the safety of your brother’s home.”
Will kissed Lady Della’s forehead, and with Georgette at his heels, ran for the door.
The milkmaid, fortunately, had stopped outside the stable to flirt with the Haddonfield groom, and Will quickly discovered that, yes, Lady Susannah had gone haring off alone, right after the toff on the cranky gelding had raised such a ruckus closer to the street.
The groom didn’t speak as if he’d been raised in London, but rather, had Kent in his vowels and intonation, suggesting he was staff who traveled with the family. The horse had been tired and troublesome—“truu-blesome”—but the gent whackin’ and whalin’ on the beast hadn’t helped.
Della had said Effington was late to call on her. Effington was a toff, and he’d be stupid enough to beat a tired horse in expectation of making it more obedient.
Worse and worse. “Can you describe the gentleman?” Will asked.
“Blond, not overly big, fancy gold waistcoat, and lots of lace,” the groom said. “Told the beast to get him to Bloomsbury. Half Mayfair would have heard the row.”
Effington, then, damn and blast the luck. “Did Lady Susannah hear the altercation?”
The groom squinted down the shady lane. “She might have. I was sitting on yon bench, and I heard it. I don’t think her ladyship saw me but from where she stood, she would have seen down the alley.”
Had Susannah followed the viscount, or kept to her original itinerary and gone to Hanford’s? Will had told her finding the dogs was the imperative next step, but would she have trailed Effington on her own?
The Haddonfield mews sat on the corner of two alleys, one route leading northeast to Bloomsbury, one southeast to Bond Street. While Will debated in which direction to travel, Georgette nosed at the weeds along the northbound alley.
“Georgette, we haven’t time to explore now.”
She ambled back to Will’s side and dropped a printed page at Will’s feet.
“Come, Georgette,” Will said, taking the southeast direction. “I will be much more willing to admire your treasures when I know our Susannah is safe and firmly—”
Georgette picked up the paper again and brought it to Will. “Woof.”
Will wanted to speak very sternly to his dog indeed, for now was not the time for her to cast aside years of training, and yet—
Instinct, or something like it, prodded him to study the mastiff. Georgette was looking at him the way he often looked at Sycamore. Will you never learn?
“What have you got there?” Will asked, crouching to take the page from Georgette.
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, until his height be taken.
“Woof.” Georgette had found this page of sonnets several yards in the direction of Bloomsbury rather than Bond Street, which meant…
Susannah had gone after Effington without an escort, but she’d brought both the Bard and a full ration of cleverness, for this page had been neatly parted from its binding.
“To Bloomsbury, then,” Will said, giving Georgette a pat and addressing the groom. “Would you please have Lady Della send a note asking my brother Ash to meet me at the King’s Comestibles.”
“Your brother Ash,” the groom repeated, “the King’s Comestibles. Aye, sir.”
Will strode off along the alley leading north. “Georgette, come.”
B
ut the dog was already several yards ahead of him.
* * *
Susannah was destroying her most treasured book, page by page, even as she knew that paper lying in an alley was probably the least obvious means of leaving a trail for Will.
She tore out number sixty-five—“In black ink, my love may still shine bright”—as Effington paused to sample the contents of a silver flask. Either his horse was tired, or Effington himself lacked fitness for travel on horseback, because Susannah had managed to keep up with him through several turnings and crossings.
Effington knew the alleys, and he had a specific destination in mind.
Find the dogs, Will had said. Everything depended on finding the dogs before Effington could use the poor beasts to hurl accusations and lay information.
Or just as bad, consign innocent pets to a brutal, undeserved fate.
Effington gave his horse a stout kick, and the gelding plodded on.
Susannah’s doubts and misgiving were proceeding at a dead gallop: I should have sent for Willow. I should have let Della know what I was about. I should have alerted Nicholas—no, that could not have ended well.
Effington was working his way north and east, and though Susannah was tiring, though she was second-guessing herself, though Will would be wroth with her, the thought of the feckless dogs, consigned to suffering they did nothing to deserve, drove her on.
* * *
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate…
“I do not curse myself, or my fate, but I am heartily out of charity with Effington,” Will said.
They’d come to another crossroad, and Georgette had again found the requisite evidence before Will could spot it. Effington was heading straight for the neighborhood of the King’s Comestibles, which, as luck would have it, was where Sycamore was likely searching for Alexander.
“When we find them, no heroics from you, my girl,” Will said, stroking Georgette’s head. She was panting, but also clearly eager to continue this new and interesting game. When Will paused, Georgette went looking for Shakespeare, and thus another leg of the journey was saved from turning into a goose chase.
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