Effington’s gun was pointed at Georgette, but the viscount himself remained two yards away from the dog. All Will needed was for Effington’s attention to waver for an instant, and Will could knock the gun aside, or put himself between Georgette and the bullet.
“I saw this fellow ridding the streets of Mayfair of Lady March’s pet,” Sycamore sneered, gesturing to the man at Effington’s left. “Poor dog was on a stout leash and being beaten about the head. Tends to make me more dangerous, when I’m subjected to gratuitous violence.”
“Lord March gave me that dog,” Effington shot back.
“How inconvenient,” Tresham drawled. “His lordship must have neglected to inform Lady March of the dog’s good fortune. Did Lord March give you the Duchess of Ambrose’s dog too? The Earl of Hunterton’s?”
They’d keep Effington talking, while Will waited for an opening, for the slightest indication Effington’s attention was not on—
Behind Effington, the stall at the end of the aisle cracked open three silent inches, and Will’s heart lodged in his throat.
“Was Yorick among those strays imperiling the good folk of Mayfair?” Will asked, knowing the pug would respond to the use of his name. “Did Yorick threaten the King’s peace, to deserve a remove to that wretched crate? Poor Yorick?”
The dog’s whining escalated to barking, which would at least keep any creaky stall doors from notice.
“Yorick must have lost the knack of cheating at cards,” Tresham mused.
“Is Effington’s complexion puce?” Sycamore asked. “The ladies are always going on about puce, and raspberry, and such, and I’ve wondered what exactly puce is.”
One of the minions snickered, while Susannah crept silently down the aisle. Not by a flicker of an eyelash did Will, Cam, Ash, Casriel, or Tresham reveal her presence behind Effington and his men.
“I believe that qualifies as puce,” Casriel remarked. “Gin-soaked puce, perhaps. Not sure what to call that waistcoat, though.”
“Cowardly puce for his lordship’s complexion,” Will replied, desperate to hold Effington’s attention. “Miser’s gold for the waistcoat. I’d hazard these stout fellows haven’t been paid their wages, and the stolen dogs likely haven’t been given enough to sustain poor Yorick.”
The pug’s frenzy had escalated to shaking his entire crate as he threw himself at the door repeatedly in an effort to win free.
“Who names their dog after a damned skull?” Ash asked. “Gives the little fellow a bad opinion of himself.”
The other dogs were growing restive, and Georgette was looking at Will as if he’d forgotten the treat bag.
Susannah had the damned parasol in her hand, as if she might bring it down on Effington’s head, or his arm, either of which could result in a bullet striking Georgette.
Then she shifted her grip, and swept the parasol in a swift, silent upward arc. Effington’s wrist took the brunt of the blow, being knocked high as the gun discharged. Will dove for Effington, pinning him to the nearest post with his gun-hand pushed above his head.
Dogs barked madly, while from the open stall door an enormous mastiff came bounding forth with the remains of a book in its jaws, and both of Effington’s handlers took off at a dead run.
“Georgette, Caesar, drop ’em!” Will yelled as Cam, Ash, Georgette, and the mastiff all bounded off after the departing pair.
“I’ll fetch you a rope,” Casriel said. “Don’t let Effington go until we have him bound hand and foot.”
Safe, was all Will could think through the rage and relief misting his vision red. His lady, his brothers, Tresham, Georgette, the stolen dogs, all safe.
Susannah came swishing into his line of sight, her expression severe. Her hat had come loose, and her blond hair streamed about her in glorious golden disarray.
“Mr. Dorning, apologies for my unseemly display,” she said. “I see you have matters in hand, as usual.”
“My lady.”
Casriel bustled over and secured Effington’s hands as Yorick’s fussing muted to whining and worrying his crate door.
“Mr. Dorning,” Susannah said, “if I recall your training methods, when a dumb beast has misbehaved, it should be corrected immediately. A sharp word will usually do, but for the particularly dim souls, a more explicit lesson is in order.”
“I would never argue with a lady,” Will said, especially not this lady, with that light in her eyes. “And I’ve yet to meet the dog who benefited much from repeated displays of violence.”
“Nor have I,” she said, slapping the parasol against her palm, “but a peer of the realm who takes advantage of unsuspecting households”—whack! A blow landed on Effington’s shoulders—“and betrays the loyalty of trusting beasts”—whack! Another blow, this one to his middle—“and houses those poor animals in deplorable”—whack!—“conditions”—whack!—“while he tarnishes the good name of an innocent young lady”—whackity, whack, whack, whop!—“clearly cannot grasp even the simplest concepts of honor without having them beaten into him.”