She swung the last blow hard, connecting with a portion of Effington’s anatomy Will could not have envisaged the prim, bookish Lady Susannah Haddonfield aiming for.
Effington went down in a ball of suffering viscount, his complexion shifting toward dyspeptic green. Will stepped over him and took Susannah in his arms.
“My lady, I could not have put it better myself.”
Yorick’s cage door burst open, and the little dog capered around Susannah’s skirts, then trotted over to Effington.
“Yorick,” he gasped. “There’s my little—”
Yorick lifted a stubby back leg and relieved himself right on the viscount’s gold waistcoat, then trotted away, tail held high.
*
Susannah had grown up around older brothers. She was accustomed to their noise, to how their sheer size could make even a large space feel crowded and a mere sister off in a corner reading Shakespeare insignificant.
Only a ducal family parlor was spacious enough to house the gathering surrounding Susannah now, and thus she found herself in Quimbey’s town residence.
Her hair had come down, and her braid had disintegrated. Her boots had been consigned to the dogs, and on her feet were a pair of men’s wool stockings. Her hems bore testimony to the alleys she’d traversed earlier that day.
Susannah was exhausted, disheveled, drained, and hungry, and yet no queen enthroned among her courtiers had ever felt more cherished.
Casriel had sent a footman to procure the wool stockings from Bond Street, and Will’s coat was about her shoulders. Quimbey had found her a cashmere lap robe that had belonged to the dowager Duchess of Quimbey, and Sycamore Dorning had poured Susannah’s tea from a service that had once belonged to the King of France.
“It’s good to be the heroine, isn’t it?” Susannah whispered to Georgette, who sat panting gently at Susannah’s side. Caesar was stretched out at their feet, while Alexander, Comus, and Yorick lounged beneath an open window across the parlor. Hunterton’s Alsatian had been taken to the garden by two stout footmen.
“Hunterton will be along shortly to claim his pet,” Worth Kettering announced.
Sir Worth had apparently been hosting a meeting between Casriel, Tresham, and Quimbey when Ash Dorning had tracked them down. Will had sent his sister, Jacaranda, to retrieve the Duchess of Ambrose, then he’d dispatched Tresham to fetch Della to Susannah’s side.
“Much to-ing and fro-ing,” Will said, stepping between and around dogs to take the place next to Susannah. “How are you?”
Nobody ever asked Lady Susannah Haddonfield how she was, but after she’d wielded her parasol in that Bloomsbury stable, her welfare had apparently become the concern of every person in the room. She and Georgette had been bundled into Tresham’s crested barouche, Will on one side, Casriel on the other, and the ducal heir himself at the reins.
They’d trotted through Mayfair at a smart clip, collecting stares and curious glances, though Susannah had been too busy holding Will’s hand to care.
“I am—” She’d been about to say she was fine. Lady Susannah Haddonfield was always fine, unless she’d gone for an entire day without sticking her nose in a book, in which case she was fidgety and cross.
I am in love. Susannah hadn’t read anything to speak of for nearly a week.
“I am happy,” Susannah said, kissing Will’s cheek. “Also relieved, tired, pleased for the dogs, and so very impressed with you, Mr. Dorning.”
Will was exhausted too. Susannah would never forget his expression when Effington had trained a gun on Georgette, and Will had remained so outwardly casual and civil. His eyes had told a different tale, silently pleading with Susannah to be careful, to preserve her own welfare even if it meant the dog—or the man Susannah loved—took a bullet.
“I merely made small talk with a scoundrel,” Will said, “while you plotted his downfall, my lady. You will be the toast of the Season after this. Hunterton has already sent you flowers.”
Will’s words were pleased and proud, though his gaze was on the bouquet of irises Susannah hadn’t noticed on the sideboard.
“I beg you to spare me the ordeal of being toasted,” Susannah said. “Once upon a time, being the toast of the Season would have been a dream come true. Now that fate looms as a tedious waste of time.”
She’d surprised Will, but just as the first glimmer of a smile bloomed in his eyes, the Duchess of Ambrose burst into the room, Lady Worth at her side.
“Oh, my dearest, dearest Cee-Cee. Come to Mama!”
Pandemonium ensued of a variety Susannah was coming to know. Large barking dogs, effusive emotions, flourished handkerchiefs, concerned gentlemen, and an eventual lessening of the din.