Page 44 of My Own True Duchess
* * *
“What on all of God’s good green earth necessitated a social call at this unspeakable hour?” Anselm used his Duke of the Underworld tone, the one that often inspired his duchess into tickling him if they were private.
Sycamore Dorning was a bachelor, and for the most part, Anselm considered him a monument to youthful carelessness. Careless dress, careless speech, careless drinking, the same as many younger sons of titled families.
Today, he was dressed in immaculate morning attire, an enormous dog panting at his heels. Anselm’s butler was ignoring the dog, which was nigh impossible for anybody but a duke’s upper servants.
“This is when Samson takes his second walk of the day. I apologize for appearing with a canine in tow, but the pup takes his walks seriously.”
And Sycamore, apparently, took the pup’s welfare seriously—the pup who weighed a good twelve stone.
“Is it house-trained?” Anselm asked.
Sycamore lifted an eyebrow. The gesture should have been comical—a youthful attempt at masculine posturing—but Sycamore was maturing. He’d grown tall before going up to university, and he was developing muscle as well.
Perhaps he was even acquiring a scintilla of common sense.
“Very well,” Anselm said, “come along and bring the beast. I warn you, if the children see him, they will demand to take him captive.”
“He likes children, but then, he’s a dog. He likes anybody who deserves liking. He doesn’t judge people based on their youthful errors or common foibles.”
Anselm attempted the same scowl that sometimes prevented him from laughing at his daughters’ misconduct in the nursery. “While you call on dukes who ought to still be abed. Are we swilling tea?”
The click of dog toenails on the parquet floors was a comforting, domestic sound, and the beast seemed content to trot at Mr. Dorning’s heels. Dorning’s brother Willow was a highly respected dog trainer, though no power on earth had yet succeeded in devising a means of training unruly younger siblings.
“If tea will assist one of your ancient years to remain awake,” Sycamore said, “then by all means, ring for tea. Perhaps a tisane might be in order as well, if you overtaxed yourself at ninepins.”
Sycamore’s team had won, in part because of his deadly accurate right arm. Anselm’s team had… not won.
“Wait until next month,” Anselm said, opening the door to the library. “We’ll have an exhibition of swordsmanship and see who needs a tisane the next day.”
He’d chosen the library because it looked out over the back terrace and gardens rather than the street. A front parlor was a public space, the drapes usually drawn back so any passerby might note the identities of guests.
The unusual hour of the call, the unusual nature of the caller, suggested privacy was in order.
“Somebody likes books,” Sycamore said, twirling to take in the rows of shelves. “All manner of books. Have you many on mathematics?”
What an odd question. “A few. My younger brother is something of a scholar.” Which was something of a surprise. “Why do you ask?”
Sycamore gestured with his hand, and the dog settled before the hearth. The mastiff made an attractive picture, panting gently, enormous paws outstretched.
“I have an interest in turning my few coins into many, the same as every other young man of imposing pedigree and unimpressive allowance. Casriel has his hands full with the earldom, and his resources are limited. I tell you this in confidence, of course, though the Dornings have long been known for having a wealth of good looks and poverty in every meaningful regard.”
“Get to the point, man. I want you out of my house before my daughters learn I’ve allowed a dog on the premises.”
Sycamore grinned, though his smile wasn’t as boyish as it had been last Season. “The ladies love him too. If ever your duchess takes you into dislike, a nice, soft puppy with big eyes and a happy little tail—”
“I could toss you through a window and play fetch the twig with yonder mastodon. Your puppy would likely enjoy the game almost as much as I would.”
“Insult me all you please, Anselm, but have the dignity not to insult a hapless creature. I have a problem.”
The rebuke was deserved, the admission startling. “From all reports, you are a problem. You take stupid risks, drink to excess, refuse to attend university, and can’t keep a civil tongue in your head.” Though so far this Season, young Dorning had not been an object of talk.
“We could not afford to send me to university, so refusing to go seemed a kindness all around. Willow has set me up for this year—marriage improved his fortunes—but I found a way to rent my rooms in Oxford for a small profit, and thus I’m here trying to nudge Casriel in the direction of the altar.”
“Bowling your elders into submission. What is the nature of your problem?” Part of Sycamore’s problem was doubtless an abundance of siblings. Two sisters were happily married, but of his six brothers, only Willow had found a mate. The Earl of Casriel—Grey Birch Dorning, by name—Ash, Oak, Valerian, and Hawthorne were unwed and largely without independent means.
“I pay attention,” Sycamore said, hands in pockets as he ambled along the French horticultural treatises.
