“I’ve been thinking,” Quimbey said, shoving off the wall. “D’you suppose Tresham could do with a dog? The boy is lonely, and you’ve had good luck attracting a lady through your canine friends. Jon’s like Comus, unsettled, too handsome for his own good, but basically a good-hearted fellow.”
Will’s estimation of Tresham would not have been half so charitable. “I place dogs only with people who want them, and with people who will return them to me if the dog doesn’t settle well with the new owner.”
Quimbey dusted off his backside as unceremoniously as Cam might have. “If you pursue your courting as conscientiously as you do your canine business, Lady Susannah ought to be wearing your ring directly, Mr. Dorning. Best of luck, but if you’ll take the advice of an old hound, there’s a time for stealth and subtlety, and a time to leap into the chase.”
Also a time to kiss among the ferns. “Yes, sir, and, Your Grace?”
The duke tucked his hands behind his back. “Mr. Dorning?”
“Arabella, Duchess of Ambrose, knows a lot about training dogs, and has a soft spot for the larger breeds. A visit from Comus might console her on the loss of her Caesar.”
“Now that is a woman of sense and wit, and you say I’m to take Comus calling?”
“He’s ready, sir.” And so was the duke. With his heir finally putting in an appearance in the ballrooms, and even dancing, Quimbey could afford to make a few social calls.
“I’ll talk it over with the pup,” Quimbey said. “Boy might need a bath first, and a new collar. Doesn’t do to go calling on the ladies in anything less than one’s best finery. Good night, Mr. Dorning. Comus and I will see you Tuesday at eleven in the usual location.”
His Grace strode off into the night, leaving Will to ponder whether Samson was ready to take on a new owner, and whether Will trusted Jonathan Tresham to rise to such an honor.
*
Will had gone strolling by with the Duke of Quimbey several yards from where Susannah sat. The men had been deep in a discussion of horse racing. The topic reminded Susannah that the Season, in its exhausting, interminable fashion, was inching forward, and time was running out for Della to make a match.
Or not.
“Why do you say I’ve no intention of marrying Effington?” Della asked, keeping her voice down. “He’s eligible.”
This discussion wasn’t one anybody should overhear, and yet, if Susannah didn’t press Della now, with Effington’s nasty remarks still making the rounds in the ballroom, Della would likely continue to prevaricate.
“Come with me to the conservatory,” Susannah said. “Quimbey is more eligible than Effington. Jonathan Tresham is more eligible. Casriel is more eligible. Eligible has little to do with anything unless you’re enamored of the fellow.”
While Willow Dorning did not consider himself eligible, and Susannah was certainly enamored of him.
“Not the conservatory, please,” Della said. “I notice you don’t mention Mr. Ash Dorning among the eligibles.”
The omission had been deliberate. “But you do, so why this nonsense with Effington?”
“One needs a gallant,” Della said, wandering away from the lighted path. “One needs a flirt, a fellow to walk with in the park, to stand up with for the waltzes. I look like a child dancing with our brothers because they are so blasted tall. Effington isn’t overly tall, he isn’t quick. He’s so absorbed with himself and his little dog that I needn’t do more than smile and say ‘yes, my lord’ or ‘whatever you think best, my lord.’”
Susannah followed Della into the shadows until they came to a secluded fountain. The swan sculpted in the middle sat serenely under a perpetual delicate cascade of water. The sound of the trickling water soothed the soul, the moonlight on the water pleased the eye, and yet Susannah longed to be away from this contrived replica of nature.
“You’re using Effington as a decoy?” Susannah asked. “As long as he’s sniffing about your skirts, you’re escaping the notice of the other fellows.”
Except for Ash Dorning, apparently.
Della sat on the edge of the fountain, not a graceful settling of skirts, but an inelegant perching of tired bones on a handy seat.
“I hate London,” Della muttered. “I thought I would, and I was right, but you, Kirsten, and Leah were excited for me to make my come-out, and Nicholas was determined, and so here I am.”
Susannah dusted off a spot on the fountain’s rim and sat beside her sister. “You didn’t protest, Della Haddonfield. With Kirsten and Nita finding their fellows, you could have waited another year.”
“I wanted to get the business over with,” Della said, toeing off a dancing slipper and crossing her ankle over her knee. She commenced rubbing her silk-clad arch, while the fountain trickled quietly, and a violinist practiced a cadenza inside the ballroom.