Page 5 of Miss Desirable
But Dorning could also be a trial to the nerves. He swung with bewildering speed from astonishing perceptiveness to utter blundering, then back to perspicacity. Politics did not interest him, except in so far as the news of the day affected his fancy gaming hell, and his grasp of wine was knowledgeable for the same reason.
“Get dressed,” Fournier said, “and I will walk you home.” London was by no means as walkable as Paris, but the streets offered a kind of privacy that a busy fencing salon did not.
“If I instead suggest we pop over to the Aurora for a meal,” Dorning replied, picking up a shirt of finest lawn, “will you deign to break bread with my clumsy self?”
Fournier considered him. “What hasyouin such a temper?” And so desperate for company, even an émigré in trade would do.
“I’m not in a temper. If I’m testy, it’s because Jeanette is out at Richmond, in pitched battle with our paper hangers, and I must bide here in Town. The Season is getting under way, and Goddard demands my presence at The Coventry Club.”
“One does not refuse the colonel’s requests lightly.” Dorning was married to Colonel Sir Orion Goddard’s sister and likely refused Goddard’s requests not at all. Goddard, manager at the club and married himself to the supreme authority in its kitchen, wielded an air of command that had little to do with his military experience.
“I will meet you out front in a quarter hour,” Dorning said, snapping his towel at nothing in particular.
“Twenty minutes,” Fournier replied. “One does not rush one’s ablutions.” Nor did one allow Sycamore Dorning to get in the habit of dictating terms. Xavier was waiting on the salon’s steps when Dorning came jaunting forth twenty-five minutes later.
“Nothing like London on a pretty day,” Dorning said, twirling a jade-handled walking stick that doubtless concealed a blade of some sort. “No place like it on earth.”
For form’s sake, Fournier parried that thrust. “And yet, even on fine spring days, the Londoner huddles in his dank pubs, swilling equally dank ale. No wonder the Saxon is so pale.”
Dorning ambled along at Fournier’s side, exuding panache no Englishman should be able to claim.
“Is business suffering?” Dorning asked gently. “Goddard praises your clarets to any who will listen, and his opinion is respected. I could put in a word with my brother.”
In this instance, Dorning meant his oldest brother, Grey, Earl of Casriel, head of the family and soon to return to Town from Dorset.
“Thank you for that kind offer, but at the moment, I am of a mind to discuss your sisters with you.”
Dorning touched a finger to his hat brim as a pair of dowagers bustled past. A footman followed them, as did a maid.
“I can introduce you to Kettering,” Dorning said. “We refer to him as Lord Trysting at our peril. Worth and Jacaranda won’t be underfoot in Town for another fortnight or so. Children apparently complicate the process of moving households. My sister Daisy can’t be stirred from the shires for love nor money.”
Fournier allowed a silence to build as they waited for a break in traffic at the street corner. This being the Great Metropolis, no such break occurred.
“I am acquainted with Lord Trysting and need no introduction to him. The topic of interest isyour sisters, Dorning.” A crossing sweeper in perhaps the tenth underfed year of his age ventured into the melee and brandished his broom in all directions. Dorning stepped off the walkway, and traffic halted.
Fournier flipped the child a coin and got a “Mare-see, me-shure!” in response. Young Victor’s French was not his most highly developed skill.
“What about my sisters interests you?” Dorning asked when they were again moving down the walkway.
“I am confident Lady Penweather and Lady Trysting are the most estimable of women, though I doubt they are contemplating murdering anybody at present. Your other sister has earned my notice.”
Fournier had consulted that most convenient handbook for the peasantry, Debrett’s. No female Dorning cousins were of the correct age to be his recent customer. Therefore, the lady was what the polite society carefully labeled alegitimate by-blow.
“My other sister?” Dorning replied, voice laced with puzzlement. “I have no—” His steps slowed.
He honestly did not think of Madame as his sister, which was both odd and infuriating. She had dressed in the first stare of mourning fashion—an intriguing contradiction in terms—spoken and carried herself as a fine lady, and been determined enough to venture onto fashionable streets without an escort.
She moved at least on the fringes of London Society, and Dorning, as an earl’s brother, moved at its center. How could her own sibling forget her very existence?
“She is recently bereaved, I believe,” Fournier said, “and she has need of her family.”
“Why must the French be so given to drama?” Dorning replied, in the same tones he might have remarked the unfortunate direction of the breeze off the Thames. “Nobody in my family truly contemplates murder, not for long, and if they do, I am usually the cause of their frustrations. Catherine is… We have not openly acknowledged her because we have the sense such a gesture would be unwelcome.”
Catherine. The name suited her. Proper, pretty, not as common as the ubiquitous Elizabeths, Annes, and Charlottes, but thoroughly respectable.
“Is she recently bereaved, or did she don weeds to protect her reputation?”
“Lost her mother a month ago. Lady Fairchild had apparently been ill for some time and had kept her situation from her daughter rather than seek treatment.”
