Will stopped by a pot of pansies, snapped off a yellow one, and tucked it into his lapel. He was soon to call on a duchess, after all.
“I can’t save them all, and I can’t ignore the ones who need saving most. I know about your opera dancers, Kettering, which is why I entrusted Meda to you. You have many wealthy clients, and I suspect if you put your mind to it, you could find comfortable homes for a lot of deserving dogs.”
Will stated his agenda baldly. He was not at all ashamed of his motives. Aristocrats had time, means, and room for canine pets. Wealthy households had assets worth protecting, and most of the wellborn were damned lonely too.
“My opera dancers?” Kettering mused, extracting the pansy from Will’s lapel, and choosing another, this one a deep purplish-blue.
“Your opera dancers,” Will reiterated. “The ladies whose tiny sums you invest, patiently, relentlessly, as you ensure they understand finances, as you ensure they can do the math necessary to not be cheated. The ladies whom you quietly set to tatting lace during their rehearsals, or doing piecework in their idle moments.”
“They’re Jacaranda’s opera dancers now,” Kettering said. “I’m allowed to help, but the project has outgrown my feeble vision for it. Do you ever read your financial statements, Willow?”
Will patted his pockets. He still had a few bites of cheese in the right one, and the reports were in the left.
“I’ll read them when I have a free moment. I have a question for you, Kettering.”
Kettering brushed a hand over Will’s hair, smoothing it down. Cam and Ash weren’t that familiar with him, though Kettering owned a dog now, and would be more likely to pet all in his ambit.
“You may trust my discretion, Willow.”
“When you’ve bungled matters with a client, with one of your widows, say, how do you repair the damage?”
Kettering took up a lean against the garden wall. “I don’t bungle matters, not financial matters.”
He looked comfortable, elbow propped against the granite, pansies at his shoulder.
“What about other matters, Kettering? Perhaps the sort of matters that might have come between you and a lady prior to your marriage.”
Kettering had been a flaming hound prior to his marriage. Half the bored wives and merry widows of Polite Society had gone into a decline when he’d taken Jacaranda to wife. The other half had followed when it became obvious Sir Worth was smitten with his lady.
“I never mixed business with that sort of bungling,” Kettering said, “but I was a disgrace nonetheless. One apologizes, I suppose, and makes a public display of whatever flattering sentiments one honestly harbors for the lady. A man might have no interest in a woman’s heart, but he must have a care for her pride. It’s…delicate, and a damned lot of work.”
“Hard work can pay dividends,” Will said, finding a morsel of comfort in Kettering’s words, one he’d consider at another time, in another place. “I wish Casriel would let you assist with his finances.”
“So do I,” Kettering said, pushing off the wall. “Keep at him, and we’ll wear him down, then set Jacaranda on him. See you next week, and give my regards to Her Grace.”
Kettering and Meda strolled up the garden walk, while across the alley, Will’s mare was led out.
From an inside pocket, Will produced a lump of sugar for her, then swung up. He still had time to cut through the park on his way to see the duchess, which was the more agreeable route for the mare. She was a country horse, and Town noise and traffic did not appeal to her.
Of course, Will might also catch a glimpse of Lady Susannah reading on a bench at this exact hour, but that would be simply a coincidence.
*
Yorick trotted out from under the library sofa and licked Lyle Mannering’s boot. When Mannering ought to have kicked the dog for displaying such bad manners, he instead picked Yorick up.
Mannering and the pug wore the same anxious, uncertain expression. They both had hopeful brown eyes too.
“I did what you asked, Effington,” Mannering said, thumping the dog on its head. “Spread rumor, gossip, and innuendo in every available ear. Poor chit was left swilling punch and looking thoroughly bereft. A good night’s work, eh?”
“An utter failure, I’d say,” Effington countered, turning the page of his newspaper. “Put the dog down, Mannering.” The society pages reported Lady Darlington’s ball as a great success, a veritable crush, a lavish and lovely affair, et cetera, et cetera.
Effington remained seated, while Yorick planted himself at Mannering’s feet—out of rolled-up newspaper range.