“The damned beast is better off in your brother’s care, or even on the streets,” Quimbey said. “Ernestine March is a dithering, flirting disgrace to her gender. Tried to get herself compromised with me even before she was properly out, then put her own daughter up to the same tactic years later.”
Will liked Quimbey, and more to the point, Comus liked the older fellow, and Comus was in a position to assess character more accurately than Will could.
“Do you suspect Lady March is involved in the disappearances?” Will asked.
“She undoubtedly sold her dog, Mr. Dorning. I’m sorry if that behavior doesn’t comport with your estimation of the fairer sex, but I hold some of Lord March’s vowels. I don’t expect to collect on them anytime soon. I’ve recently learned that large dogs eat large quantities, and they absorb the time and efforts of at least a footman.”
Will had not considered that Lady March herself might be stealing dogs—or having them stolen.
He propped himself against the wall, common sense, honor, and regard for Lady Susannah making a hash of what ought to be a pleasant social evening.
“If the dogs have been stolen,” Will said, “and mind you, Your Grace, I’m not admitting they have been—then somebody is letting the thieves know which households can afford a reward—or a ransom—and which households have large, reasonably well-trained canines. I am loath to court the enmity of a person placed well enough to provide that knowledge. The Dorning family name is respected, but we have neither wealth nor extensive connections to lend us consequence.”
Will had his dogs, though, and they were enough to keep him happy—almost.
“Prudent of you,” Quimbey said. “Dogs are one thing, the family escutcheon quite another.”
The garden was quiet, but not silent. Laughter and the low hum of conversation came from the terrace, a carriage jingled past in the nearby alley, and in the ballroom, a violinist was repeatedly practicing an ascending scale that turned into an aggressive glissando.
Quimbey was not finished with Will though, so Will waited, wondering where Susannah had got off to, and if he’d have a chance to dance with her before the evening ended.
“Do you know,” Quimbey said, “Comus has taken to napping in the evening when I’m working on my accounts. He curls up by the fire and closes his eyes. Let me get up from my desk, or even open a drawer, though, and he’s awake.”
“Dogs have very acute senses, Your Grace.” Will stripped another sprig of lavender and tied it in a circle. “I sometimes believe Georgette can hear me thinking.”
“Comus is barely half-grown, I know, but last night, I was remembering my brother Harold, how he despaired of Jonathan, how he regretted not being a steadier father to the boy. Comus brought me a leash, and put his chin on my knee.”
Good boy, Comus. Every dog had strengths, and areas that did not come easily in training, but Will had yet to find the dog born with a cold heart.
“Georgette interrupts me similarly when I’m at my accounts,” Will said. “She seems to know when I’m at my limit with the figures, and in need of fresh air.”
Quimbey pitched his lavender into the bushes. “Right, and because you insist that I care for my own dog, or my brother’s dog, I took Comus out to the garden. He led me straight to the honeysuckle. Such a lovely, soothing scent.”
A hint of the same scent lingered beneath the smoke of the torches, and the lavender Will had crushed with his fingers.
“Perhaps honeysuckle is soothing to the dogs too,” Will said.
“Howard adored honeysuckle, said it reminded him of the love of his life, of the happiest spring he’d ever spent in Town. I recalled my brother’s regrets, and Comus reminded me of Howard’s joys. I would hate for anything untoward to happen to my dog, Mr. Dorning. He’s been through enough for a young fellow of limited intellect, and is settling into the household very nicely.”
My dog. Quimbey had referred to Comus as the dog, or my brother’s dog, the canine ruffian, Howard’s dubious bequest. In the space of one walk in the garden, Comus had become the Duke of Quimbey’s dog, and a lonely old man’s friend.
A high calling, indeed.
“As long as you have Comus at your side,” Will said, “he should be safe from thieves and miscreants. Not many would steal from you, sir, and Comus won’t leave your side willingly.”
Except for a juicy steak, perhaps.
Or true love.
Or a slow rabbit on a boring afternoon.
Comus was young, and his training far from complete. Once again, Will pushed aside the thought of Caesar in the hands of the bear-baiters. The Duchess of Ambrose had earned Caesar’s trust only slowly. Subjected to rough treatment, he’d soon lose heart all over again.
Unless Will found him first. Him, Alexander, and who knew how many others.