“And well you should,” Will replied as the dogs started a game of chase-my-neighbor around the sundial at the center of the garden.
“You know I’ve admonished Tresham to take a wife. He’s my heir, I’m getting on, and he’s lonely.”
Will knew no such thing. “I’ve suggested Casriel find a countess, Your Grace. He needs an heir other than myself, and he’s lonely too.” Though Will hadn’t realized that until the words had left his mouth.
“So, there I am,” Quimbey said, getting up to pace, “exhorting the boy to marry posthaste, and the only woman he takes an interest in is Lady Della Haddonfield. I tell myself this is of no moment, for Lady Della is all but spoken for by that Effington buffoon.”
Will hoped that as he and the duke were speaking, Susannah was having a delicate conversation with Lady Della. The younger Haddonfield sister must play out the line with Effington, neither making promises nor rejecting his offers. A note from Susannah at breakfast assured Will that Lady Della had yet to send the viscount packing, though Effington could be paying a visit that very afternoon.
“Effington has shown an interest in Lady Della,” Will said. “Nothing more—yet.”
Georgette caught up with Comus and began the game of catch-me-if-you-can all over in the opposite direction, with Samson woofing encouragement from the rear.
“I saw Lady Della last evening with your brother, Mr. Ash Dorning,” Quimbey replied, turning on his heel and putting his hands behind his back. “Effington doesn’t stand a chance, Mr. Dorning, and I hope Lady Della’s family is relieved as a consequence. I cannot see Mr. Ash Dorning making an offer, though, being the impecunious extra spare, and a gentleman.”
Will felt a growing urgency to call on the Haddonfield ladies, while Quimbey seemed content to pace off the metes and bounds of ballroom gossip.
“Ash hasn’t confided any plans to me,” Will said, “but he knows my own circumstances are constrained by a lack of coin. If I’m not proposing marriage in the near future, I doubt Ash would be.”
“Precisely!” Quimbey rocked forward on his toes, then settled back into his pacing. “Precisely, Mr. Dorning. I knew you were the perceptive sort. You saw to it that Comus and I got off to a good start, after all. So, there we have it. Lady Della will reject Effington, she won’t get an offer from your brother, and the only other fellow who’s up to her weight, so to speak, is my nephew. He’s set a man to keep an eye on Lady Della, and that does not bode well at all.”
Susannah would do Will an injury if he pulled that sort of maneuver, and yet a ducal heir needed to exercise caution where his private affairs were concerned.
Quimbey pivoted again, and an image came to Will’s mind: Tresham, in the same posture, hands behind his back, speechifying, every inch a duke in training.
Then another image: Lady Della, hands behind her back, every inch a lady from birth, speechifying… And Susannah confiding that Lady Della was the product of their late mother’s indiscretion.
Oh dear.
“Cousins occasionally marry, Your Grace,” Will said cautiously. Was this why Quimbey had remained single? Because he’d harbored a tendresse for Della and Susannah’s mama?
His Grace wilted onto the bench across from Will. “Cousins might marry, Mr. Dorning, half siblings do not. My brother was a hopeless romantic, his wife a hopeless thespian. They were in some senses well suited, but their son deserved steadier parents. I did what I could for Jonathan, but now… I did not foresee this situation with Lady Della, and yet Jon seems interested in her. It’s nearly farcical, but also unnerving, and something must be done.”
Will recalled Tresham expressing a wish that Della would leave London, just before glowering at the lady for the duration of an entire waltz.
“Tresham suspects some connection,” Will said, “though you needn’t worry he’s smitten. I’d bet Georgette on it, and I do not bet my dogs lightly. Lady Della might suspect a connection as well, but neither is she enamored of Mr. Tresham.”
Instinct said that was the case. Prudence suggested the matter was too delicate to leave to chance. Indifference could turn to fondness, as it had with Susannah and the dogs.
Georgette let out a rare bark, which set the other two off. Hector gave a few plaintive echoes from the stables.
“Georgette, come,” Will called. “Samson, you too. Come, now.”
Georgette trotted over, snout in the air, Samson following.
“Do I call Comus?” Quimbey asked.
“Yes, and praise him for obeying, though he’s simply aping his elders.” Will passed over a piece of cheese as Georgette leaned against his knee.
Comus sat at the duke’s feet without being asked, and Quimbey gave the dog a treat and a pat.
“Good fellow, Comus. You were a good boy when we called on the Duchess of Ambrose too, weren’t you?”
“All done, Georgette,” Will said, surrendering the cheese, then repeating the instruction with Samson. “All done. Down and stay. Good girl. Good boy.”