Will's True Wish

by Grace Burrowes

  Ash shot his cuffs. “You’re up to date on your rent at this fine establishment? The signed lease is available for inspection by the courts? When one has read law, such details plague one’s curiosity without mercy.”

  The larger handler wrestled Alexander into a stall, net and all. The other one led the horse out to the yard and tied it there.

  The animals, with the exception of Georgette, were safe.

  “You do know,” Will said, “I could command Georgette to attack you, and she’d probably get in a couple of good bites even if you managed to hit her with your single remaining bullet?”

  “Give the poor pup food poisoning,” Sycamore muttered. “She doesn’t deserve that.”

  Will would die to know his dog had been shot, likely killed, for no reason. Effington would not pay for that crime, not if he was tried in the House of Lords.

  Will would hold him accountable just the same.

  “I think you should let him shoot the dog,” Casriel remarked. “I will enjoy retelling the tale of how a peer of the realm, a man who paid others to steal pets from aristocratic homes, fired at a helpless dog who had the great effrontery to merely pant at his feet. Such courage and integrity should be the subject of endless discussion even if the courts don’t intervene.”

  “I never stole anybody’s dog,” Effington snarled. “I relieved the streets of Mayfair of a few dangerous strays.”

  Effington’s gun was pointed at Georgette, but the viscount himself remained two yards away from the dog. All Will needed was for Effington’s attention to waver for an instant, and Will could knock the gun aside, or put himself between Georgette and the bullet.

  “I saw this fellow ridding the streets of Mayfair of Lady March’s pet,” Sycamore sneered, gesturing to the man at Effington’s left. “Poor dog was on a stout leash and being beaten about the head. Tends to make me more dangerous, when I’m subjected to gratuitous violence.”

  “Lord March gave me that dog,” Effington shot back.

  “How inconvenient,” Tresham drawled. “His lordship must have neglected to inform Lady March of the dog’s good fortune. Did Lord March give you the Duchess of Ambrose’s dog too? The Earl of Hunterton’s?”

  They’d keep Effington talking, while Will waited for an opening, for the slightest indication Effington’s attention was not on—

  Behind Effington, the stall at the end of the aisle cracked open three silent inches, and Will’s heart lodged in his throat.

  “Was Yorick among those strays imperiling the good folk of Mayfair?” Will asked, knowing the pug would respond to the use of his name. “Did Yorick threaten the King’s peace, to deserve a remove to that wretched crate? Poor Yorick?”

  The dog’s whining escalated to barking, which would at least keep any creaky stall doors from notice.

  “Yorick must have lost the knack of cheating at cards,” Tresham mused.

  “Is Effington’s complexion puce?” Sycamore asked. “The ladies are always going on about puce, and raspberry, and such, and I’ve wondered what exactly puce is.”

  One of the minions snickered, while Susannah crept silently down the aisle. Not by a flicker of an eyelash did Will, Cam, Ash, Casriel, or Tresham reveal her presence behind Effington and his men.

  “I believe that qualifies as puce,” Casriel remarked. “Gin-soaked puce, perhaps. Not sure what to call that waistcoat, though.”

  “Cowardly puce for his lordship’s complexion,” Will replied, desperate to hold Effington’s attention. “Miser’s gold for the waistcoat. I’d hazard these stout fellows haven’t been paid their wages, and the stolen dogs likely haven’t been given enough to sustain poor Yorick.”

  The pug’s frenzy had escalated to shaking his entire crate as he threw himself at the door repeatedly in an effort to win free.

  “Who names their dog after a damned skull?” Ash asked. “Gives the little fellow a bad opinion of himself.”

  The other dogs were growing restive, and Georgette was looking at Will as if he’d forgotten the treat bag.

  Susannah had the damned parasol in her hand, as if she might bring it down on Effington’s head, or his arm, either of which could result in a bullet striking Georgette.

  Then she shifted her grip, and swept the parasol in a swift, silent upward arc. Effington’s wrist took the brunt of the blow, being knocked high as the gun discharged. Will dove for Effington, pinning him to the nearest post with his gun-hand pushed above his head.

  Dogs barked madly, while from the open stall door an enormous mastiff came bounding forth with the remains of a book in its jaws, and both of Effington’s handlers took off at a dead run.

  “Georgette, Caesar, drop ’em!” Will yelled as Cam, Ash, Georgette, and the mastiff all bounded off after the departing pair.

  “I’ll fetch you a rope,” Casriel said. “Don’t let Effington go until we have him bound hand and foot.”

  Safe, was all Will could think through the rage and relief misting his vision red. His lady, his brothers, Tresham, Georgette, the stolen dogs, all safe.

  Susannah came swishing into his line of sight, her expression severe. Her hat had come loose, and her blond hair streamed about her in glorious golden disarray.

  “Mr. Dorning, apologies for my unseemly display,” she said. “I see you have matters in hand, as usual.”

  “My lady.”

  Casriel bustled over and secured Effington’s hands as Yorick’s fussing muted to whining and worrying his crate door.

  “Mr. Dorning,” Susannah said, “if I recall your training methods, when a dumb beast has misbehaved, it should be corrected immediately. A sharp word will usually do, but for the particularly dim souls, a more explicit lesson is in order.”

  “I would never argue with a lady,” Will said, especially not this lady, with that light in her eyes. “And I’ve yet to meet the dog who benefited much from repeated displays of violence.”

  “Nor have I,” she said, slapping the parasol against her palm, “but a peer of the realm who takes advantage of unsuspecting households”—whack! A blow landed on Effington’s shoulders—“and betrays the loyalty of trusting beasts”—whack! Another blow, this one to his middle—“and houses those poor animals in deplorable”—whack!—“conditions”—whack!—“while he tarnishes the good name of an innocent young lady”—whackity, whack, whack, whop!—“clearly cannot grasp even the simplest concepts of honor without having them beaten into him.”

  She swung the last blow hard, connecting with a portion of Effington’s anatomy Will could not have envisaged the prim, bookish Lady Susannah Haddonfield aiming for.

  Effington went down in a ball of suffering viscount, his complexion shifting toward dyspeptic green. Will stepped over him and took Susannah in his arms.

  “My lady, I could not have put it better myself.”

  Yorick’s cage door burst open, and the little dog capered around Susannah’s skirts, then trotted over to Effington.

  “Yorick,” he gasped. “There’s my little—”

  Yorick lifted a stubby back leg and relieved himself right on the viscount’s gold waistcoat, then trotted away, tail held high.

  * * *

  Susannah had grown up around older brothers. She was accustomed to their noise, to how their sheer size could make even a large space feel crowded and a mere sister off in a corner reading Shakespeare insignificant.

  Only a ducal family parlor was spacious enough to house the gathering surrounding Susannah now, and thus she found herself in Quimbey’s town residence.

  Her hair had come down, and her braid had disintegrated. Her boots had been consigned to the dogs, and on her feet were a pair of men’s wool stockings. Her hems bore testimony to the alleys she’d traversed earlier that day.

  Susannah was exhausted, disheveled, drained, and hungry, and yet no queen enthroned among her courtiers had ever felt more cherished.

  Casriel had sent a footman to procure the wool stockings from Bond Street, and Will’s coat was about
her shoulders. Quimbey had found her a cashmere lap robe that had belonged to the dowager Duchess of Quimbey, and Sycamore Dorning had poured Susannah’s tea from a service that had once belonged to the King of France.

  “It’s good to be the heroine, isn’t it?” Susannah whispered to Georgette, who sat panting gently at Susannah’s side. Caesar was stretched out at their feet, while Alexander, Comus, and Yorick lounged beneath an open window across the parlor. Hunterton’s Alsatian had been taken to the garden by two stout footmen.

  “Hunterton will be along shortly to claim his pet,” Worth Kettering announced.

  Sir Worth had apparently been hosting a meeting between Casriel, Tresham, and Quimbey when Ash Dorning had tracked them down. Will had sent his sister, Jacaranda, to retrieve the Duchess of Ambrose, then he’d dispatched Tresham to fetch Della to Susannah’s side.

  “Much to-ing and fro-ing,” Will said, stepping between and around dogs to take the place next to Susannah. “How are you?”

  Nobody ever asked Lady Susannah Haddonfield how she was, but after she’d wielded her parasol in that Bloomsbury stable, her welfare had apparently become the concern of every person in the room. She and Georgette had been bundled into Tresham’s crested barouche, Will on one side, Casriel on the other, and the ducal heir himself at the reins.

  They’d trotted through Mayfair at a smart clip, collecting stares and curious glances, though Susannah had been too busy holding Will’s hand to care.

  “I am—” She’d been about to say she was fine. Lady Susannah Haddonfield was always fine, unless she’d gone for an entire day without sticking her nose in a book, in which case she was fidgety and cross.

  I am in love. Susannah hadn’t read anything to speak of for nearly a week.

  “I am happy,” Susannah said, kissing Will’s cheek. “Also relieved, tired, pleased for the dogs, and so very impressed with you, Mr. Dorning.”

  Will was exhausted too. Susannah would never forget his expression when Effington had trained a gun on Georgette, and Will had remained so outwardly casual and civil. His eyes had told a different tale, silently pleading with Susannah to be careful, to preserve her own welfare even if it meant the dog—or the man Susannah loved—took a bullet.

  “I merely made small talk with a scoundrel,” Will said, “while you plotted his downfall, my lady. You will be the toast of the Season after this. Hunterton has already sent you flowers.”

  Will’s words were pleased and proud, though his gaze was on the bouquet of irises Susannah hadn’t noticed on the sideboard.

  “I beg you to spare me the ordeal of being toasted,” Susannah said. “Once upon a time, being the toast of the Season would have been a dream come true. Now that fate looms as a tedious waste of time.”

  She’d surprised Will, but just as the first glimmer of a smile bloomed in his eyes, the Duchess of Ambrose burst into the room, Lady Worth at her side.

  “Oh, my dearest, dearest Cee-Cee. Come to Mama!”

  Pandemonium ensued of a variety Susannah was coming to know. Large barking dogs, effusive emotions, flourished handkerchiefs, concerned gentlemen, and an eventual lessening of the din.

  Sycamore Dorning—“what a dear, darling young man”—served the duchess two restorative brandies and had poured her a third by the time every dog was back to sitting or lying on the carpet.

  “Quimbey, I won’t have it,” Her Grace said. “You will not return such a dear puppy to that dreadful Ernestine March. Her idiot of a husband will simply sell the dog again and tell his imbecile wife the dog has run off. Alexander has already been through enough of an ordeal.”

  Sycamore, in a display of reticence Will probably had to see to believe, merely petted Alexander’s head.

  “You are not to worry, my dear,” Quimbey said. “I hold Lord March’s vowels and will accept Alexander in payment for some of them. Comus will adjust, if need be, but I suspect Alexander has other options.”

  Sycamore’s ears turned red.

  “I’ll just take Alexander to the garden for a moment,” Sycamore said. “Ordeals leave a fellow with a need to stretch his legs. Yorick, come along.”

  “Take Comus too,” Quimbey said. “Make sure the footmen haven’t been licked into oblivion by Hunterton’s pet.”

  Quimbey took a nip of Her Grace’s brandy, which earned him a swat on the hand. Caesar exchanged a look with Georgette suggesting humans were tiresome but dear.

  Some humans.

  “What about Effington?” Susannah asked, tugging gently on Georgette’s ear, when she wanted instead to tug on Will’s. “He deserves to be pilloried.”

  Susannah had wanted to put an end to the Effington succession, and this, as much as anything else, had apparently earned her the approval of every man, dog, and horse in the Bloomsbury stable.

  Bullies understood blunt displays of authority, a lesson Susannah wished she’d learned earlier.

  “Effington shall be pilloried,” Her Grace said. “No hostess will receive him, and no young lady of any means will accept his addresses. His debts will come due immediately, and he’ll either pay them, be called out, or take a repairing lease on the Continent.”

  Beside Susannah, Will shifted.

  “Mr. Dorning, have you something to add?” Susannah asked.

  “We’ll have the sworn statements of his two henchmen,” Will said. “Even the baiters apparently had little regard for him. Effington won’t return to England, ever. I know several large dogs and a half-dozen fellows who’ll be happy to remind him what a purple parasol can do, when wielded by the right hands.”

  The parasol held pride of place on the mantel, though it was missing some of its lace.

  “Such a lovely shade, that parasol,” Susannah said. The same shade as Will’s eyes, when he was content or amorous. He was neither at the moment, which was the pea under the mattress of Susannah’s happiness.

  “Oh, Suze! Suze, you are all right!” Della cried, dashing through the parlor door. “You saved the day, and the dogs, and, oh, I am so proud of you, and so jealous. Are you all right? Of course you’re all right. I want to hear every detail, from the beginning. Hold nothing back, and use as much colorful language as you dare.”

  Della held out her arms, clearly expecting a sisterly embrace, so Susannah left Will’s side, stepped over Georgette, and hugged her sister.

  Ash Dorning hovered on Della’s right, smiling indulgently. Tresham stood on Della’s left, hands behind his back.

  “I’m managing,” Susannah said, hugging her sister tightly. “There isn’t much to tell. Effington was a scoundrel of the first water. Willow gathered up these good fellows to take Effington and his dognappers in hand, I assisted in wresting Effington’s weapon from him, and the dogs are fine.”

  “All’s well that ends well?” Della said, sniffing and blinking.

  “A volume of the sonnets suffered a noble end,” Susannah said, “but I saved Papa’s dedication page. I also have five other copies, and had memorized the ones I enjoy most. Shall you have a seat, Della?”

  “I shall have a brandy. Jon, if you’d oblige?”

  Jon? Well, apparently yes, Jon. For Tresham was soon passing Della a glass while Ash Dorning took the place beside Della on the settee.

  Della drew the gentlemen into a discussion of the afternoon’s events, the duchess had Quimbey’s staff bring around trays of ham, buttered bread, cheddar, and—in honor of the momentous day—sliced pineapple, while Susannah resumed her place at Will’s side.

  He was unsettled, as was she, but simply being beside him, feeling his warmth, breathing in synchrony with him, restored her spirits. Dogs did this, kept close company, no need for words, no need for activity. They had each other, and that was pleasure enough.

  And yet Susannah could sense in Will a discontent too. She kissed his cheek as Della prattled on and on—Della was in fine form today—though Susannah wanted to tug gently on his ears, and wanted him to once again tug on hers.

  Eighteen

 
Gratitude, fatigue, pride in his lady, and impatience dogged Will’s steps as he accompanied Susannah up the walk to her home. He once again carried the purple parasol, though Georgette had elected to remain at Quimbey’s, where the shameless beast cast die-away glances at any who’d toss her a bite of ham—and at Caesar.

  Will knew how that felt, to be the one going hungry at the feast.

  “I gather Mr. Tresham and Della are in charity with each other?” Susannah asked.

  “I haven’t all the details,” Will said. “That appears to be the case.” He and Susannah would discuss what details Will had on some other, less fraught day, if Lady Della didn’t make familial announcements soon.

  The door opened, the butler bowed, and Will accompanied Susannah upstairs, though he might have bade her farewell at the door. He’d taken a moment when changing his clothes and washing to tend and bandage the blister on his heel, but that meant his boots chafed in other places.

  Susannah hadn’t dismissed him, though, so up the steps he trudged.

  “You are so quiet,” Susannah said, wrapping her arms around him at the top of the stairway. “I was furious, Willow, to see Effington holding a gun on an innocent dog. Come with me, please. I cannot part with you just yet.”

  Nor did Will want to part with Susannah, ever, and yet the sun was setting and much was still unresolved.

  Susannah led him not to the family parlor, but in the other direction, through a quiet house to her sitting room.

  “I thought I’d put all that nonsense when I was younger behind me,” Susannah said. “The nasty gossip, the sly tricks, the spilled punch, and the way all that made me feel.”

  “You rose above it.” Seven years ago, Will had also had a word with Susannah’s brothers. They’d mustered their friends to fill her dance cards, and made sure she was escorted in the ballrooms at all times.

  Guard dogs of the titled variety.

  “You lifted me above that pettiness,” Susannah said, closing the door, locking it, and returning to Will’s embrace. “I still carried the memories, and the feelings.”