But no. She’d shown her true colors, and Effington had been patient long enough.
A prudent man, especially one in want of means, always had a strategy in reserve for those unfortunate times when matters did not unfold as that man had planned them. The dogs would disappear into the baiters’ pits before sunset.
That much hadn’t changed.
Effington would then attend the subsequent bear-baiting, and identify one of the unfortunate canines as stolen property—the duchess’s mastiff would do—and raise a hue and cry to pillory the fiend or fiends responsible.
The horse evidenced its usual inattention to its master’s wishes, so Effington jerked the beast’s head around and gave it a stout swat on the quarters. The horse tossed its head and planted its front hooves, which display of pique Effington thwarted with another smart whack with the crop, for the contingency plan was taking on an urgency.
Ash Dorning was ideally situated to steal dogs from aristocratic houses. His brother was a dog trainer, and Dorning had just admitted to a lack of funds. Ash Dorning thus had a motive for kidnapping canines either to sell them or to collect any offered rewards.
How…convenient.
“And then we’ll see who is kissing whom,” Effington muttered as he sent his recalcitrant horse trotting off in the direction of Bloomsbury.
Sixteen
Della returned to the garden looking entirely too pleased with herself, though her grin was a reproach to Susannah, who’d forgotten that Della could look pleased with herself.
“Please tell me Mr. Dorning didn’t kiss you in the very mews, Delilah Haddonfield,” Susannah said.
“He didn’t,” Della replied. “I kissed him. He bore up manfully under my shameless behavior. Susannah, I am in love.”
Susannah rose and collected her reticule. “Not a very dignified condition, is it?”
“You are in love too,” Della said, taking the place Susannah had vacated on the bench. The sun had warmed the stone, and if Susannah weren’t in a hurry, she would have tarried with Della and indulged in the literary pastime of describing what it meant to be in love.
Only the Bard had come close, and even he had occasionally struggled.
“Where are you off to?” Della asked.
“I am expecting Mr. Willow Dorning to call, but my favorite version of the sonnets is growing worn. I thought I’d step around to Hanford’s bookshop and see if they know of somebody who can repair a binding grown weary with overuse.”
For the first time Susannah could recall, she had no plans to borrow more books for reading.
Another symptom of having fallen in love.
“Don’t tarry,” Della said, passing Susannah the purple parasol. “Effington is to call on me, and I’ll need to regale you with a recounting of that ordeal the instant I’ve sent him on his way.”
Susannah had been frank about Effington’s ability to damage innocent lives. “You will ask for time to consider your situation, and imply that if I can bring Mr. Dorning up to scratch, then you’d like my nuptials to precede your own.”
Della kicked off her slippers and sent them sailing across the grass. “I thought I was the devious sister. Off with you, and hurry back.”
Barrisford crossed the terrace, his gait stately, and yet conveying a sense of urgency. “A gentleman has come to call, my ladies. I’ve put him in the family parlor.”
Not Will, for Barrisford would have mentioned Georgette.
Della rose. “I know, Suze. Simper, bat my eyes, be flattering and inoffensive, but don’t commit to anything.” Off she marched to her fate.
“Della Haddonfield,” Susannah called. “Your slippers, dear. Martyrdom is more convincing if one is properly shod for the ordeal.”
Della stuck out her tongue, retrieved her slippers, and accompanied Barrisford into the house.
Susannah let herself out through the garden gate, the alleys being a much quicker route to Bond Street. Della hadn’t chastised her for going without a maid, which was fortunate when Jeffers had claimed to be suffering a megrim, and Willow would soon call.
Time was of the essence.
Had Susannah not taken a moment to fiddle with the mechanism of the parasol, she might have missed the commotion at the north end of the alley. A gentleman on horseback was having an altercation with his mount, who apparently did not care to deal with the heavy traffic on the main thoroughfare.
“Ouch,” Susannah muttered as a riding crop came down on the horse’s quarters with significant force. The horse kicked out with both back legs and hopped sideways across the alley.
The dialogue continued in that fashion—bad behavior from the horse followed by an application of the crop, followed by more bad behavior—while a nagging sense of familiarity stole through Susannah.
“Effington,” she whispered, shrinking back against the garden wall. Della and Mr. Dorning had been kissing in this very alley not five minutes past, and there was Effington in a serious temper not a hundred yards away.