Fair was more stupidity, usually. If Effington had played fair, he’d never have been able to put Mannering in his debt.
“Of course, Mannering. I always keep my word and I do esteem the lady very much. Sometimes needs must when the devil drives, though. By the end of the month, she’ll be wearing my ring, provided you don’t bungle your assignments. Yorick, come.”
A single snap of Effington’s fingers and the dog scurried, head down, tail tucked, to his master’s side.
“I tell myself you can’t be all that awful a fellow if little Yorick likes you,” Mannering said. “But this is the most peculiar means of winning a fair lady I’ve ever come across. I’ll be glad when Lady Della is safely wed to you, and I can explain to all and sundry that I must have been mistaken about her situation.”
“I’ll be glad to have my ring on her finger too, Mannering. Now, come upstairs with me while I choose the day’s waistcoat. You always have such exquisite taste. Did you hear that the Duchess of Ambrose’s dog has been stolen?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Poor old dear is beside herself. Fellows in the park this morning say she’s offered a reward too. Quite sizable, but then it was a sizable dog.”
A sweet shaft of cheer pierced Effington’s outlook, which had been rank since his last meeting with his man of business.
“A reward? A sizable reward? That’s pathetic.”
“I find it touching, though only a rogue would collect a reward for finding an old woman’s dog, don’t you agree?”
No, Effington did not agree. “The dog is probably larking around at some shambles,” he said, “gorging himself on pig entrails when it’s not humping every bitch in the alley. I am endlessly fond of even the lowest canine, but they’re like that, you know. That dog will come home to Her Grace when he’s done being randy and sick.”
*
Nicholas had dragooned Leah into accompanying him to the card room, leaving only Susannah on guard duty, again.
“I know Leah’s strategy,” Della said, swaying gently to the evening’s first minuet. “You mustn’t blame them for it, Suze.”
“We’re abandoned here in the wilderness together,” Susannah said, “because nobody will come near you if Nicholas is glowering like the Wrath of Haddondale come to London.”
“Nicholas is the Wrath of Haddondale, also its biggest kitten. Oh my, don’t they look lovely?”
All four Dorning brothers approached in their evening finery.
Susannah had sat that morning reading in the park for more than two hours, or pretending to read. She’d come to a sorry pass when As You Like It couldn’t hold her focus. Nonetheless, her attention had wandered all over the park.
The Dorning brothers, by contrast, would turn any lady’s head, and apparently had, for half the ballroom—dancers, musicians, wallflowers, everybody—watched them.
“Oh no,” Della moaned. “Effington is coming this way too. Susannah, what do I do?”
“You enjoy them all. You be witty and charming, and let the gentlemen compete for your notice.”
Though how tedious was that? Watching grown men flirt, flatter, and fawn?
“My ladies,” the Earl of Casriel said, bowing over Susannah’s hand, then Della’s. “We’re having a dispute, and Ash suggested you might resolve it for us. Willow says we shouldn’t burden you with our squabbles, but I also need a lady to take pity on me for the supper waltz, so here we are.”
Casriel was convincing in his charm, his grave smile genuine, but Susannah had the impression he was setting an example for his younger brothers rather than showing a real interest in her or her sister.
“Explain your dispute to us,” Della said. “We’ll happily sit in judgment of the lot of you.”
Cam and Ash smirked while Will… Will was studying an enormous, feathery potted fern. He was so handsome, and so miserable in this ballroom, but he would not leave his brothers unguarded.
“We were talking about the Duchess of Ambrose’s missing mastiff,” Cam explained. “I said I don’t think large dogs make good pets for ladies. Ash, of course, disagrees with me, and says a protective dog is an excellent companion for the frail sex. Casriel says the only good dog is a dog with a real job, such as hunting or birding, and Willow says we’re all ridiculous.”
“A conundrum, indeed,” Della said, “when each man’s opinion has something of sense in it, but none of you is entirely right—except for Mr. Willow Dorning. There, your dispute is solved, and somebody may now fetch me a glass of punch.”
Della was managing, but like the Earl of Casriel’s charm, her riposte was a performance. Susannah’s head began to ache, and still Will had not so much as looked at her.
“I’ll fetch drinks for both of you ladies,” he said, bowing and withdrawing.