“I have other matters to manage besides assassinating the character of your beloved,” Mannering said, affixing the leash to Yorick’s collar. “M’sisters are forever plaguing me, and then Mama starts in. All very vexing.”
“Get a wife. She’ll bring wealth to the family coffers and manage your womenfolk, if you choose wisely.” Effington was looking forward to the clashes between Lady Della and his own mother. Too bad he couldn’t take bets, the way bets were taken in the bear gardens and cockpits.
Lucrative places, both. Thank heavens.
“I shall get a wife,” Mannering said, setting Yorick on the carpet and rising. “I look forward to it, in fact. This business of playing cards at all hours, waltzing with the wallflowers, and pretending politics interests me more than the ladies do is tedious. Yorick agrees with me.”
Yorick agreed with anybody whose boots were within dog-kicking range.
“Let’s start with the Duchess of Ambrose,” Effington said. “She’s always glad to see me.”
She was always glad to see Yorick. Fed the little beast tea cakes and held him in her lap.
“I like Her Grace,” Mannering said. “Plainspoken, doesn’t suffer fools. Always a fine quality. She’s nice.”
Her Grace had a nasty streak to go with her weakness for dumb animals.
Effington headed for the door. “Yorick, come.” He snapped his fingers, but the stupid dog remained sitting at Mannering’s feet.
“I don’t suffer fools either,” Effington said, snapping his fingers again. “Mannering, come. When I’m done trotting you around Mayfair on a leash, we’ll pop down to the cockfights in Kensington. I can always use a bit of the ready, and I have an instinct for which bird is likely to win.”
Lady Della, alas, would be left without an escort for her afternoon stroll in the park. Such a pity.
Mannering made a face. “Cockfights. Don’t care for ’em. Not the best company. Bloody lot of noise, bloody lot of bloody feathers.”
Bloody lot of money changing hands too. That thought kept Effington smiling as he endured the snappish and trying company of the Duchess of Ambrose, who appeared to have no idea what might have become of her dear Caesar.
Yet another great pity. Effington consoled her effusively, as did Mannering. She served excellent cakes, and made delicate mention of the reward she was offering for her missing darling.
Effington pulled Mannering away from the tea tray after half an hour of that tripe, and steeled himself for more of same from Lady March. Her Grace’s butler escorted them to the front door and waited, nose in the air, while the footman found their hats and walking sticks.
“One feels sorry for the duchess,” Mannering said. “Who would have thought she set such store by a dog?”
“Many do,” Effington murmured, tapping his hat onto his head, then tilting it a half inch to the left. He scratched Yorick’s ears, mindful of the butler. “I certainly value my canine friends. Always have. People are fickle, but a dog’s loyalty is the genuine article.”
Before the butler could open the door for them, a knock sounded. The gentleman admitted was tall, broad shouldered, and dressed with about as much style as an impoverished Quaker, though he looked familiar.
He took off his hat and passed a card to the butler. “Her Grace should be expecting me, Pinkney. Mannering, Effington, greetings.”
The gentleman bowed, and Yorick’s little tail wagged furiously.
“Dorning,” Mannering said, extending a hand. “A pleasure. Is Her Grace already on the hunt for another dog?”
Dorning. One of the Dorset Dornings. The troublesome lot who’d made it their mission to dance Della Haddonfield off her feet.
“I doubt anybody will replace Caesar in Her Grace’s affections,” Dorning said. “I flatter myself Her Grace won’t mind me occasionally stopping by until Caesar is found.”
Dorning’s face was not friendly, though he wasn’t exactly bad looking. Serious, certainly, and his eyes were an odd color.
“We must be on our way, sir,” Effington said. If Mannering had worn a leash, a stout tug would have been in order. “Come, Mannering. Our next destination lies five streets over, and time is flying.”
After the requisite bowing and farewelling, Mannering came along, Yorick at his heels.
“Why would a Dorning be calling on a duchess?” Effington asked. “They’re sheep farmers, aren’t they? Not much blunt, and even less consequence.” Which was why Casriel’s attentions to Lady Della were not worth fretting over—much.
“Effington, for a fellow who professes to adore dogs, you surprise me,” Mannering said, stopping so Yorick could lift his leg on a lamppost. “Willow Dorning does magic with dogs. His collies are famous throughout the realm for working with sheep. He’s trained the Regent’s spaniels, and he’s the fellow who matched Caesar up with the duchess.”
“He’s an earl’s spare and he trains dogs—himself?” Effington didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled.