Page 24 of Miss Desirable
Armbruster’s quarry was in the snug, and not alone. “What on earth is that?” his lordship asked, hanging his hat on a peg and sliding onto the bench opposite Nevin Thurlow.
“Mastiff,” Thurlow said, smiling genially. “M’ duties now include walkin’ him from time to time until midafternoon, then one of the footmen takes over. Can’t have a mere groom showin’ off the beast for the carriage parade.”
Thurlow was an undergroom, in point of fact, and not a very good one, if Armbruster’s intelligence was accurate, and it nearly always was.
“Has Miss Fairchild taken a fancy to enormous canines?”
The dog was absorbed in watching the activity at the inn and ignoring Armbruster. A dull-witted beast, but handsome and vaguely familiar.
“Auntie says the dog is on loan to Miss Fairchild while its owners travel.”
The barmaid brought over Armbruster’s half-pint.
Thurlow’s glass was predictably empty. “Another for my friend,” Armbruster said, though allowing Thurlow to get drunk in the middle of the day would not do.
The barmaid smiled bashfully and trotted off.
“You lot,” Thurlow said. “You crook your lordly finger, and the ladies all but lift their skirts for you.”
“She’s little more than a child.” Besides, Armbruster had a fitting at the tailor’s in less than an hour, and one did not keep a Bond Street tailor waiting for a mere passing tup, even if one had the coin for such an indulgence. Barmaids did not lift their skirts for free. “Tell me more about the dog.”
“Don’t know more about the dog. Auntie says he’ll be good company for the young miss, and Miss Fairchild does seem to like him. Beast attaches hisself to Miss Fairchild if she’s on hand, watches her like a lad in love watches his lady fair.”
Armbruster knew how that felt. A wisp of gossip tugged at his memory. “One of the Dornings raises dogs. Fancy dogs. Teaches them to all but speak French. Won’t sell them to just anybody. Is this one of Willow Dorning’s dogs?”
Bad news, if so, the first, subtle indication that the Dornings intended to acknowledge their connection to Catherine, and that Catherine would allow them to.
“I don’t know who owns the dog. I just know I can make an extra pass to wet my whistle when Caesar needs to lift his leg.”
“Caesar?” The name rang a bell, a wealthy Mayfair sort of bell. “Find out what more you can about the dog’s origins.”
“His dam were a bitch,” Thurlow said, “meaning no insult. His sire were a dog. What else is there to know?”
The barmaid brought over Thurlow’s pint and set it down without sparing Thurlow a glance. He wasn’t a bad-looking young fellow, and his smile was pleasant, but he was clearly nothing more than a stable lad slacking at midday.
“Whose dog is he? Who brought him to Miss Fairchild, or did she ask somebody to lend him to her? I pay you handsomely to ensure that I know everything that goes on in Miss Fairchild’s household.” Armbruster paid others handsomely for the same purpose, but Thurlow need not know that.
“You barely spare me coin for an occasional pint, and as for where the dog came from, the Frenchie brought ’im around.”
“London is host to thousands of Frenchmen.”
“This one sells wine.”
“That hardly narrows it down…” Except it did. London hadn’t quite as many wineshops as gin shops, and few of those wineshops had French proprietors of sufficient means to presume to call on Miss Catherine Fairchild in mourning.
“Did this fellow wear an eye patch?” Colonel Orion Goddard sold wine, managed The Coventry Club, and had a sister married to the youngest Dorning brother. The colonel was half French, spoke the language like a native, and might have fooled a lot of menials into thinking he was French.
If Goddard had brought the dog around, that was another thread connecting Catherine to the Dornings, albeit an attenuated thread.
“Not Goddard.” Thurlow took a long, loud drink of his ale. “Auntie said his name. Monsieur Forester or Fromador. I don’t speak Frog.”
Thurlow had all he could do to manage his native tongue. “Fournier?” That made no immediate sense, but Xavier Fournier had begun making inroads into polite society. He’d been admitted to a lesser club. He’d been invited to a few informal social gatherings. A typically shallow, pleasant émigré who probably sought only to peddle his wines to the better households.
The man could wield a blade, though. He was said to be so fast with a foil the eye could not follow his attacks. A parlor trick, that, useful for setting him apart and making him seem more accomplished than the usual shopkeeper.
“Mighta been Fournier,” Thurlow said. “With Deems out on his arse, there’s nobody to oversee the cellars, is there? Harry don’t know port from porter, and the young miss can hardly march into a shop and buy her own wine. With that lot, the merchants come to them. She’s still not going out much, come to that, though she went somewhere today.”
“Deems was pensioned. He wasn’t sacked.” Or so the lawyers had claimed.
