Casriel made a study of the wine bottle’s label, though Will doubted the earl could decipher much German in the limited candlelight.
“Can you find these dognappers, Willow? Allow me to remind you that thief-taking is hardly a respected or safe profession.” Casriel spoke with the distaste of a man was has a reputation to consider, siblings to provide for, and a prospective countess to locate, court, and marry.
“Finding the thieves is simple,” Will replied, for he’d studied on the matter for two entire sessions of fetch the stick. “I’d simply put it about that I’m pockets to let—typical Dorning, you know—and have a bad-tempered dog or two I would sell for a good sum.”
Casriel’s wince was subtle. “That sounds like Cam’s idea of a strategy. You’ll use your dogs as bait, and then snabble the thieves. What if you don’t catch the thieves and then your dog is condemned to some bear garden in Manchester?”
Then Will would die a thousand deaths, though thinking of Caesar in that bear garden had already cost him much sleep.
“It won’t come to that,” Will said, “because I can’t be the one to earn those rewards.”
Casriel left off pretending to read the bottle’s label and tipped his chair back on two legs.
“Willow, dearest, you are not making sense. Gentlemanly scruples aside, you need money, you’re the fellow who can find these unfortunate brutes, you detest the spectacle of the bear gardens, and Lady Susannah is expecting you to muster the old derring-do. What am I missing here, besides the opening sets at the Windhams’ ball?”
Casriel was missing the entire point, probably because he was focused on a young lady’s dance card—now, when Will needed his brother’s attention.
“Think, Casriel. Somebody knows which aristocratic households have these large dogs. Somebody knows which owners have either a need for funds, or a lack of security where the dogs are concerned. Somebody knows household schedules.”
The earl’s expression turned to a frown, but clearly, he hadn’t put the puzzle pieces together.
“Somebody knows a lot of specifics,” Will went on, “enough details to pluck large dogs from the middle of Mayfair and cart them off to short and violent careers making money from a lot of bloodthirsty toffs. Who could such a somebody be, and how would my consequence compare to his?”
The earl’s chair settled onto all four legs with a thunk. “You could bring scandal and ruin on some scheming, impecunious lordling,” Casriel said slowly, “and thus…on your untitled and relatively impecunious self.”
“The Duke of Quimbey sits over there,” Will said, “in all his finery, not a care in the world, but I depend on him and his ilk to buy my collies, and refer me business. London is full of men like him, and any one of them can ruin me, or ruin anybody associated with me, if I spoil the wrong titled fellow’s little dognapping business. If I don’t spoil that business, then innocent animals suffer a miserable fate, and Lady Susannah will think I’m indifferent to their suffering.”
“And yet you risk ruin from a titled quarter if you search for the dogs,” Casriel said. “That assumes you—and Georgette—survive to endure that scandal, and aren’t instead sent to a premature reward by some wealthy peer who thinks violence is great entertainment.”
Both brothers spoke in unison. “Shite.”
*
“Where the hell have you been?” Ash muttered, under the lilting elegance of the Duchess of Moreland’s orchestra.
“Good evening to you too,” Cam replied, shooting his cuffs. “I was on an errand of mercy. Dispensing alms to the deserving, living up to the nobility of character for which I would soon like to become—”
No wonder Willow wore a constant air of vexation. Ash swiped Cam’s cup of punch, sniffed it, then took a drink.
“You can’t be foxed already, Sycamore. You just got here, and you’re too cheap to pay for your drink when you can get it for free.”
“I would not disrespect my hostess by arriving to the ball inebriated. Where are the elders?” Cam asked, taking back his cup of punch. “I can’t believe they’d leave us here without supervision.”
Ash had lost track of Casriel and Will. He was too busy with his own concerns.
“Willow was here, but he might be off in some corner with Lady Susannah. Last I saw Casriel, he was making sheep’s eyes at the Windham ladies and trying not to be obvious about it.” Which was touching, in a way, or pathetic.
“Willow would be pleased,” Cam said, scanning the ballroom. “Casriel is over by the ferns, in full view of the dowagers, no less. Which Windham lady has caught his eye?”
“How should I know? Between the Duke of Moreland and his brother, there’s an entire cricket team of them.”
Cam set his glass of punch aside, then glowered at Ash’s cravat. “You stole my stickpin, you plundering Visigoth.”