“I will share something with you gentlemen in confidence, for our conversation has unwittingly touched on a sensitive matter,” Effington said, tidying the deck into a neat stack. He shuffled the cards, when he’d rather have flung them into the fire.
For the last hour, he’d been winning. For the hour before that, despite Yorick’s slavish cooperation, he had lost.
“I’m for my penance,” Fenwick said, rising. Had an inconvenient decent streak, did Fenwick. No uninvited confidences would keep him awake later tonight. “Gentlemen, good night. Yorick, pleasant dreams.”
Fenwick patted the dog, and earned Yorick’s signature hopeful look, which was doomed to failure, of course. Yorick would do the job he’d been trained for until Effington no longer had a use for him.
“We spoke earlier of Lady Della,” Effington said, dropping his tones to the regretful register as Fenwick departed. “I favor the lady with my attentions because she’s burdened by unfortunate antecedents, and most of Polite Society treats her accordingly. As an earl’s daughter, they can’t ignore her, but she’s in truth her mother’s by-blow, and the ladies will never let her forget it. One feels compelled by gentlemanly honor to champion such a creature.”
Sympathetic murmurs followed, for women in search of a well-placed husband were not permitted unfortunate antecedents.
“Good of you to take notice of her,” one older man said. “She should be appreciative.”
“Her family probably is,” another noted. “Not so easy to find a match for the bastards.”
“You will keep this in strictest confidence, of course,” Effington murmured, thus guaranteeing that every man present told at least one other fellow and two women by morning.
“Of course,” came the general reply. No one questioned where Effington had come by this “confidence,” which was fortunate. Lady Della’s dark coloring, her petite stature, and her siblings’ protectiveness had fueled some unkind talk, and the rest was nothing more than nasty speculation.
“Then I leave you,” Effington said, rising with the dog in his arms. “And bid you all good night. Yorick, my darling, it’s past your bedtime.”
Effington made his exit, stroking and patting his dear little doggy, and kissing endearments to the top of Yorick’s head, while nobody seemed to recall that the evening’s winnings and losings had yet to be totaled.
The other men were probably too preoccupied deciding where to share the juiciest gossip of the evening. Well done, if Effington did say so himself.
*
Georgette picked up the stick at Will’s feet and dropped it again, directly onto the toes of his boots. He grasped the stick as she’d requested and pitched it off into the hedgerow thirty yards to the right. When Georgette came trotting back several minutes later, tail waving, stick clutched in her jaws for the two-dozenth time, Will gave up the outing as a failure.
“They’re not coming.” He produced the bit of cheese that signaled an end to the game. “All done, Georgette. All done for today. Perhaps because Lady Susannah has a marriageable sister to show off, she no longer reads on the most secluded bench in the—”
A flash of purple stilled Will’s hand on Georgette’s head. Lady Della, possibly, who had a penchant for borrowing parasols and twirling them conspicuously—but, no. The figure coming down the path was too tall, and she had her nose in a book.
She was also unaccompanied by her younger sister.
For years, Will had known that during the London Season, he’d be able to catch the occasional glimpse of Lady Susannah Haddonfield in this quiet clearing in a vast and busy park. Lady Susannah also frequented Hanford’s bookshop on Bond Street, though she never noticed the gentleman in the corner pretending to be absorbed in some zoological text.
“She has become part of my pack,” Will said to Georgette. “One keeps an eye on pack mates. Simple biology. No harm in it.”
And yet this Lady Susannah was different from the version Will had first noticed at Lady March’s tea dances years ago. More confident, also more reserved, more brisk and sure of herself.
“Prettier too, or pretty in a different way?”
Georgette cocked her head. To greet the lady or not?
“Wish her good day, but watch out for that parasol.”
Georgette licked Will’s gloved hand and trotted away toward Lady Susannah. The dog woofed once, an unusual exuberance for her.
Also a happy greeting, but still Lady Susannah trundled along, absorbed in her book. Will took a moment simply to behold her, so focused on her stories and poems that even the glory of Hyde Park on a spring day could not deflect her attention.
“My goodness,” she said, stopping abruptly. “Georgette? Is that—it is you.” Though her ladyship was wearing a bonnet, she shaded her eyes with her book and peered about. “Mr. Dorning, greetings.”