Grey Birch Dorning was a good man, though, and Will was proud to call him brother.
“Willow, one fears for you,” Casriel said, keeping his voice down. “The point of tonight’s outing, the point of this entire sortie among the beau monde, is to secure the charms of a well-dowered lady. Without your excellent counsel, I won’t know one of those from the impoverished sort when they get to leaning or pressing or any of that other business.”
Weariness dragged at Will. Weariness of the body, weariness of the fraternal spirit. So many brothers, and Jacaranda was too enthralled with her knight to be of any use getting those brothers married off. Will’s other sister, Daisy, was knee-deep in babies, and had her hands full with her squire back in Dorset.
“You will be married to your countess quite possibly for the rest of your life, Casriel, or for hers. If birds can mate for life without recourse to intelligence officers, belted earls ought to be able to manage it too.”
The food arrived and conversation lapsed. When Will had eaten half of his selection of cheeses, and wrapped the other half to tuck away in his pocket, he excused himself and repaired with a newspaper to the card room. Cam and Ash were probably once again losing money at some gaming hell or cockfight, and that was so disappointing as to be nearly sickening.
Perhaps the earl could sort them out. Will was growing tired of trying.
*
“Playing a bit deep, aren’t you, Effington?”
The question was friendly and infuriating. Frankincense Godwin Emeritus Effington, Eighth Viscount Effington, rearranged his cards, then put them back in their original order.
“The Season is upon us, Fenwick,” Effington drawled. “I must have my diversions, and your pin money too. What say, the loser of this hand goes directly to the Milton ball and submits himself to the mercy of Lady Milton and the wallflowers of her choosing.”
“High stakes, indeed,” Fenwick said, amid a chorus of “Done!” and “Hear, hear!” though the other four men around the table were smiling. Two were married, the other two were wealthy. They could afford to be amused at the ordeals of the impoverished, titled bachelors.
Two minutes later, Fenwick threw in his hand. “A plague on your luck, Effington. Perhaps I should start carrying around a little dog, and my cards would improve.”
“Having a well-behaved canine prepares a man for the companionship of a well-behaved wife,” Effington said, stroking a hand over the homely little pug in his lap. “Both must be pampered, fed, taken about, cosseted, and occasionally disciplined for naughty behavior, isn’t that right, Yorick?”
The dog looked up at mention of his name, but knew better than to bark. They all learned not to bark, eventually. A lap dog made winning at cards ever so much easier, drawing attention from a man’s hands at opportune moments.
“I heard your well-behaved lady was laughing in the park with no less than four Dorning brothers in attendance,” Fenwick remarked as he downed the last of a drink. “The Dornings are prodigiously handsome, and Lady Della Haddonfield is too pretty for you by half, Effington. If she didn’t have so many strapping, devoted brothers, I might pay my addresses to her.”
Effington had got word of the scene in the park from one of the many who’d seen Lady Della tooling home, all smiles, and brandishing violets under the very nose of Polite Society. Fenwick was moderately handsome, in a rough, dark way, and said to be connected to one of the northern earls.
Some ladies were attracted to a lack of refinement. Della Haddonfield apparently had better sense.
“Lady Della resides with only the one brother,” Effington said, gathering up the cards. “The newly minted Earl of Bellefonte, who needs to take his womenfolk in hand, if you ask me.”
“Is that what you were doing with Dorning’s dog this morning?” one of the other fellows quipped. “Taking the beast in hand by beating it with a parasol?”
If the women hadn’t been present in the park, Effington would have done much more than swat at the damned mastiff. The dog had wanted a firm hand, but alas, the women had been present.
“I should have had Yorick with me,” Effington said, grabbing his dog’s nose and giving it a waggle. “He would have defended the pride of the house of Effington.”
Or Yorick would have been reprimanded for his cowardice.
“The ladies do like a friendly dog,” one of the married men observed. “Don’t understand it m’self. If a beast can’t chase down vermin, what good is it?”
Effington ought to have burst forth into an aria about the wonders of canine companionship, for he’d cultivated his reputation as a dog fancier assiduously. Alas, the hour grew late, and more pressing matters required his attention.