“I’ll steal his brother’s dogs,” Effington said, downing the second brandy. “That enormous creature who tried to piss on my leg is due for a comeuppance, and the earl’s town house is not three streets over. They won’t be posting any tiresome rewards, either, because all the world knows the Dornings need every coin they can beg, borrow, or steal.”
Or marry. That thought, for reasons the brandy put just beyond Effington’s reach, was not cheering.
“Out of my way,” he said, shoving Yorick aside with his foot. “I’ve arrangements to make and calls to pay, and when I’m done, you, my boy, and those other canines eating me out of house and habiliment will find your situations vastly changed for the worse.”
While Effington’s would change for the better. He upended the brandy bottle, delivering the last, sweetest drops straight down his gullet, snapped his fingers, and repaired above stairs, where he’d puzzle out how to tie his own cravat.
How hard could that be, after all?
Fifteen
Dogs survived as a species, despite wars, disease, famine, and man’s violence, in part because dogs naturally gravitated toward their own kind. In the wild state, they dwelled in packs, so the best hunters were free to hunt, the young were protected, the alert stood guard, and the powerful did battle.
Will came to this realization watching Samson and Georgette play with Hector in the town house garden. That Hector could play at all was progress, for the dog had been the slowest to trust, the most ready to see every overture as at threat. Hector’s own kind could coax him into playing again far more quickly and exuberantly than Will could.
“At the rate you’re going, we’ll have you to the park before the Season is out,” Will said when all three dogs were panting on the grass. “Samson once wanted confidence, as you do, and he’s coming right.”
Lady Susannah had a lot to do with that, for she settled Will in a way he could not settle himself, and when the owner was settled, the dog could be calm.
Last night had left Will both settled and unsettled. At peace and ready to go to war.
“She is part of my pack,” Will said. “Has been for years, but we’re only now realizing that.”
“Ah, so I’m not the only man who talks to my dog.”
The Duke of Quimbey stood several yards away on the terrace. Comus was with him, looking well-groomed and very much on his manners.
“Georgette, Samson, come. Hector, sit.” Will shook the treat bag, because Comus was not a stranger to Hector, but they hadn’t seen each other for some time and Hector was focused on the newcomer.
“You could pull a curricle with those three,” Quimbey said. “I don’t recognize the fawn-colored fellow. Is he new?”
Hector stared straight at Comus, who glanced from Will to Georgette to Quimbey. Hector’s staring was the behavior of a dog who intended to remain in charge of a situation, and Comus, without a growl or a bark exchanged, signaled his willingness to allow Hector the upper paw, as it were.
“Hector, sit,” Will said, making the hand sign.
Hector remained on all fours.
“Hector’s training isn’t very far along.” Will fished out a treat and held it before Hector’s nose. “Hector, sit.” Will drew the treat up to a point between Hector’s ears.
The dog ignored the treat and growled.
“I can’t chide Hector for his behavior, because Comus is arguably an intruder,” Will said. “If Your Grace will wait for a moment, I’ll put Hector in the stables.”
Will put a leash on Hector, who grumbled at that indignity as Will led his fractious beast across the alley to the stables. The stable boys did not handle Hector—nobody handled Hector save Will—so it fell to Will to put Hector in his stall.
“Hector, sit,” Will instructed when the leash was off.
Hector sat. No tail thumping, no embellishing the moment with pleasantries. The dog was well aware of Quimbey and Comus over in the garden.
“Good boy,” Will said, “and for today, that’s enough. You weren’t exactly top wrangler for social skills, but you didn’t disgrace your training, either. I’m proud of you, and we’ll play again before supper. All done, Hector.”
Hector offered a single thump of his tail in exchange for a final treat, some commands being easier to learn than others.
Will rejoined the duke, who’d taken a seat by a dry fountain.
“You can let Comus off the leash,” Will said. “Samson and Georgette will enjoy more playtime.”
“We all enjoy playtime,” Quimbey replied. “One tends to forget that. Tresham has certainly forgotten it.”
“You’re worried about your nephew,” Will said, touched that the duke would confide such a woe to a mere trainer of dogs. Comus sniffed noses with Samson and Georgette, then various other parts were sniffed, until Comus lowered his front end and woofed.
Several hundred pounds of overgrown puppies soon went rolling and yelping across the grass, a sight Susannah would have enjoyed.
“I am worried about Tresham,” Quimbey said, “and you’re the canny sort who notices more than others. I trust your discretion to the utmost, Mr. Dorning.”