“Your compassion for your cousin does you credit, my lord,” Jeanette said, choosing her words carefully, “but what, exactly, is Jerome’s problem?”
“Lack of blunt.”
No, not quite. “And if you passed him a sum of money, would that solve the problem?”
Trevor scrubbed a hand over pale, unshaven cheeks. Because he was fair, and eighteen, he looked only slightly rakish for having come to the table without benefit of a razor.
“Unless I passed over a substantial sum—say, ten thousand pounds—I would not be solving the problem. Jerome wants an income.”
“Does he?”
Trevor peered at her owlishly. “You think if he had an income, Auntie would only dun him all the harder?”
“He has an income adequate to keep himself independently in London.” An income provided by a spinster great-auntie, according to the solicitors, not by Jerome’s parents. “If he had a larger income, then his mother could march him up the aisle with the first available female. As long as Jerome must marry with a view toward the settlements, Viola’s choices are limited.”
“That is… that is true.” Trevor pursed his lips and stared at plaster Cupids cavorting along the corners of the room’s molding. “Jerome doesn’t see limited funds as a check on Aunt’s schemes.”
“You can explain it to him when next you share a meal, and there’s something else to bear in mind, my lord.”
“You are ‘my lording’ me so early in the day, and me with a bad head.”
And you, already eighteen. Only last week, so it seemed to Jeanette, a small boy had been bellowing for her to watch how high his kite could fly.
“Jerome has his own funds,” Jeanette said, “modest though they are. He has two parents heavily invested in his wellbeing, and Viola, at least, has brothers and cousins and one fairly well-off uncle. If Aunt Viola knows you will open the Tavistock coffers for Jerome now, before there’s any real need, she won’t hesitate to importune you on behalf of your female cousins.”
Or on behalf of her legion of grandchildren, nieces, godchildren, and Lord knew who else. Viola was a meddler by nature, and her husband, Lord Beardsley, had learned to leave her to it, lest she meddle with her husband instead. The Tavistock coffers would be opened to assist with settlements for Trevor’s unmarried cousins—Jeanette would ensure that much—but they would not be used to lure bachelors to the altar.
“You make Auntie sound a bit ruthless.”
Only a bit? “Beardsley abets her, and I have reason to know his means are not as lavish as a marquess’s son might wish.” Something Trevor would grasp if he once accompanied Jeanette to meet with the solicitors. “If Cousin Maribelle had made a spectacular match, matters would have gone better for Cousin Harriet or Cousin Lucinda, but none of them made a priority of money when choosing a spouse.”
Maribelle’s firstborn had arrived not quite seven months after the wedding, which had prompted the late marquess to direct endless snide observations toward his own wife’s laggardly performance.
“Is Uncle Beardsley pockets to let?” Trevor asked, taking a bite of toast.
“Uncle has two more daughters to fire off, Trevor. He is probably hoping Jerome marries well and thus improves his sisters’ prospects, but he’s letting Aunt manage the situation. Is that a bruise over your eye?”
Only now did Jeanette realize that Trevor had remained slightly turned away from her. She’d sensed he was avoiding the light, but then, drawing the drapes closed had also made his bruise less apparent.
“Got into a bit of a dustup walking home from the club. Some of the other fellows were walking not far behind me, and between us, we routed the blackguards. A stout walking stick proves useful on occasion.”
This is why you should take the coach and footmen. This is why I worry. If one of those blackguards had had a knife…
“Common pickpockets?” Jeanette asked, choosing a currant bun from the basket in the center of the table.
Trevor drained his coffee cup. “Rather large for pickpockets, but they scampered off quickly enough when Fisher and Durante joined the affray. Durante considers himself a pugilist, and Fisher loves a good scrap.”
The streets of London were notoriously unsafe, particularly after dark. Drunken swells were a favorite target of the bolder thieves, and Trevor had doubtless been the worse for drink by the time he’d left Jerome.
“Where was Jerome?”
“Stayed behind at the club for another few hands. He was winning, while I was ready to leave. What are your plans for the day?”
Jeanette longed to ask how much Trevor had lost. She’d arranged for the increase in his allowance to become effective immediately, and that would have to suffice.
“I have some research to do regarding a few investments.” Research that would start with chatting up Cook regarding pineapples.
Trevor shuddered. “Investments?”
Jeanette was essentially managing the marquessate with an occasional nod in Beardsley’s direction. Beardsley was Trevor’s nominal guardian, though Trevor had made it plain upon his father’s death that he considered his place to be with Jeanette. Beardsley, awash in children at the time, had conceded the point with apparent relief.
“Investments, which is where most of your wealth comes from, my lord. The cent-per-cents are fine for slow, steady growth, but we have the means to diversify, and that is only prudent when the price of corn fluctuates so wildly. You really ought to accompany me to my next meeting with the solicitors, Trevor. They must know you can catch them out in mistakes and dissembling, or they will grow lax.”
Or worse, ambitious.
“Uncle Beardsley can explain matters to me when the time comes.”
Uncle Beardsley did not understand matters well enough to offer that explanation. The late marquess, for all his myriad faults, had taken management of his wealth seriously and had ensured that Jeanette was educated regarding the family’s means. That Tavistock had trusted her rather than his own brother to safeguard Trevor’s holdings was probably the only compliment his late lordship had paid her.
Ever.
“Uncle Beardsley takes little interest in the marquessate, Trevor. Your father had nothing but contempt for Beardsley in that regard.”
“Not contempt, Step-mama. Papa was simply somewhat colorful in his language sometimes. I do believe a bit of sustenance has had a salubrious effect on my outlook. Perhaps I’ll change into riding attire and brave the park after all.”
Trevor rose, bowed, and took himself off without coming closer to Jeanette than four feet. She knew why: She’d smell the drink on him, even now, for he’d had far too much, lost badly at cards, nearly come to grief at the hands of footpads, and could not clearly remember the details of his evening.
Perhaps Trevor was more like his father than Jeanette was willing to admit.
That Sycamore was reduced to calling on Worth Kettering, Lord Trysting, was one of life’s many injustices. Kettering was a mere brother-by-marriage to Sycamore, a chiseling-in sort of relation who swanned into Dorning family functions like the long-lost prodigal, Jacaranda on one arm, a smiling baby in the other.
Kettering was, if anything, more effective at annoying Sycamore’s brothers than Sycamore was, and that was a worse betrayal than stealing Jacaranda away and making her so blasted happy.
“Young Sycamore,” Kettering said, offering a firm handshake. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Young Sycamore. He would still be young Sycamore well into his dotage in this company.
“Kettering. I’ve come to discuss investments. First, tell me how Jacaranda and the children go on.”
Kettering was big, dark-haired, blue-eyed, and not bad looking. The blighter had charm, to hear some tell it—especially some ladies. He also had a genius for turning a profit, and once a man gained that reputation, people with bright ideas and a lack of blunt tended to seek him out. Kettering heard about the best investment opportunities first, and the sovereign himself
would interrupt a meal if Kettering had commercial news to pass along.
“My lady wife thrives in my loving care,” Kettering said, “as I shall ever thrive in hers. We have reason to hope another delightful addition to the family is in the offing.”
Kettering exuded both bashful humility and smug conceit. Probably part of his much-vaunted charm.
“Congratulations. Please convey my best wishes to the expectant mother and to my nieces.”
“You might pay a call on them,” Kettering said, taking Sycamore’s hat and cane. “Surrey isn’t that distant, and your club can’t demand your presence every night. My office is a disaster. I’m trying to do a fortnight’s work in five days so as to more quickly rejoin my adoring womenfolk. It’s half day, else my butler would be apologizing for the mess on my behalf. Let’s use the family parlor.”
The only evening the Coventry was closed was Sunday, meaning the only time Sycamore could jaunt out to Surrey to see his sister was Sunday, with a Monday morning return.
Kettering would know that if he gave Sycamore’s situation a moment’s thought. “My free time is spoken for lately, what with the club’s busiest season approaching. What do you hear from the rest of the family?”
Kettering, married to one of the Dorning clan’s better correspondents, rattled off a litany: This little one was teething, that one had taken first steps. Willow and Susannah were awash in spring puppies—they were always awash in puppies—and Oak was finding portrait commissions even in rural Hampshire. Valerian’s books were selling quite well, Tabitha’s letters were now rendered in creditable French.
“Tabitha writes to you?” To you too?
“To us,” Kettering corrected gently, opening double doors to an airy, old-fashioned parlor. “She is growing up, doing exactly as young ladies are supposed to do at fancy finishing schools—making friends, gaining confidence, and pretending to a sophistication that in time becomes the genuine article. She’ll need it, given her antecedents, and Jacaranda and I will be on hand to lend her our consequence as well.”
Tabitha was Casriel’s illegitimate daughter, a youthful indiscretion raised at the Hall, and much beloved by the entire family. She had been the only child for years. She was also—or had been—the family member who regarded Uncle Sycamore as great good fun, less stodgy than all those other uncles.
“Do you suppose you could invite her down for a holiday in Town?” he asked, rather than admit he missed her terribly. “One can hardly acquire Town bronze in the schoolroom.”
Kettering gestured to a pink tufted sofa. The pale blue wallpaper was flocked with gold fleur-de-lis, and a pianoforte painted with scenes of rural romance stood in the corner. The curtains were lace, the fireplace of pink marble. The room was decorated in the delicate, old-fashioned style of the previous century, and yet, Kettering looked quite at home among its refinements.
The parlor was redolent of the bouquet of lemon blossoms holding pride of place in the center of the mantel, not a typical spring scent, but unless Sycamore was mistaken, one Jacaranda favored in her perfumes.
Lady Tavistock would enjoy this room. She’d like the sense of repose, the light flooding through the tall windows, the books lining the shelves behind the pianoforte. She’d bring her needlepoint to a room like this, because she was a serious-minded woman who’d not bother with cutwork.
Too serious-minded.
“Shall I ring for tea?” Kettering asked. He typically poured out with all the aplomb of a duchess, a skill the successful man of business needed, to hear him tell it.
“No, thank you.”
Kettering took a Queen Anne chair that groaned under his weight. “To business, then. What’s on your mind?”
Sycamore’s mind was full of memories of a woman with a latent skill for wielding a blade. Of the nape of her ladyship’s neck, pale, sweet, and tempting above the demure lace of her dress collar. Of red hair bound up in a ruthless knot, begging to be undone and allowed to fall freely to naked hips.
Of a fleeting, just-between-us grin. “Pineapples,” Sycamore said. “I had occasion to consume one recently, one of ours.”
“Delectable, aren’t they?” Kettering said, crossing his legs at the knee like a confirmed dandy. “The French have got hold of a particular variety I’m negotiating to add to our cultivations in the Canaries. Did you save the crown?”
“Already on the way to Dorning Hall.” Where the vast conservatory held a dozen maturing plants, which would yield a dozen more crowns, plus shoots, if Casriel’s undergardeners could be bothered to tend to them. “Does this project have room for another investor?”
Kettering stared off into the middle distance, while Sycamore imagined the sound of abacus beads sliding and clicking.
“Depends on the investor and the sums involved. Pineapples are not a venture for those in need of a quick profit. The first crop alone takes—"
“A year and a half to mature. I know, Kettering, I read Papa’s journals the same as you did.” But only Kettering had connected the Dorning hothouses with the rented pineapples crowning the Mayfair hostesses’ spectacular epergnes and come up with a profitable scheme. The offsets from pineapples past their prime now found their way into Kettering’s keeping, and those not sent to Dorning Hall were gifted to various friends with instructions for their cultivation.
The Dornings had grown up with the occasional pineapple as a treat produced by Papa’s botanical “hobby,” just as their mother had been presented with an exotic orchid or perfume from time to time.
“Who is this potential investor, Sycamore?”
“What do you know of the late Marquess of Tavistock?”
Kettering wrinkled his aquiline beak. “I turned him down as a client. Too high in the instep, too old-school, too… I simply did not care for him.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Kettering rose and strolled the parlor, hands in his pockets. “I don’t know as I can. Much of my success has resulted from paying as close attention to my instincts as I do to the gossip on ’Change or from Horse Guards. Tavistock would have expected me to toady, to put his affairs ahead of anybody else’s. I am temperamentally incapable of toadying.”
“For which,” Sycamore replied, “though it pains me to say it, I respect you.”
“One is compelled to note that you suffer the same deficit. What brings Tavistock to mind?”
“What do you hear of his widow?”
Kettering paused in his perambulations to sniff the cluster of lemon blossoms in a plain glass vase on the mantel.
“Jacaranda knows her ladyship or knows of her. The former Jeanette Goddard of the Somerset Goddards. Excellent lineage, but the trouble in France affected the family fortunes. The English Goddard sons tended to marry their French second cousins and increase wealth by leaving management of orchards, vineyards, and such in French hands. Jeanette was married off to Tavistock right out of the schoolroom, and her brother’s commission was purchased shortly thereafter. Her brother rose to the rank of colonel, but I seem to recall mention of some scandal in the ranks as well.”
“Why do you know all of that about a family you declined to do business with?”
Kettering nudged a white blossom closer to the center of the bouquet. “I just do. I research, and the information stays with me. How does Lady Tavistock behave at the tables?”
“She eschews the more complicated games and prefers vingt-et-un, which is prudent, because the house hasn’t as much advantage with vingt-et-un. She is a serious player, but not grim, and can keep an entire deck in her head, or nearly so, though she never tries to win a fortune at the tables. She walks away from winning streaks and losing streaks alike, which is the mark of a sensible gambler.”
Kettering set the flowers on the windowsill, where they would have more light. “She won a fortune off of Ash at the Wentwhistle house party last autumn.”
Kettering would bring that up. “Ancient history, and for the most part, she was simply recouping losses in
curred by young Lord Tavistock earlier. Would you consider bringing her into the pineapple scheme?”
Kettering left off fussing with the flowers, or trying to look harmless, long enough to send Sycamore a puzzled glance.
“Why? The more investors, the less profit either of us makes. We don’t need her capital, and I rather like keeping money in the family when I can. It’s your father’s hothouses that gave me the idea, after all.”
Sycamore pretended to admire the open lid of the pianoforte, which had been decorated with a scene of some shepherd boy serenading his lady while strumming a lute. An apple tree heavy with fruit arched over the couple, and lambs cavorted at the lady’s feet.
What utter twaddle. “Her ladyship enjoys pineapple.”
“Those few who’ve actually consumed the fruit do tend to enjoy it,” Kettering said, resuming his lounging posture on the Queen Anne tuffet. “And if she had that opportunity, you gave it to her. What are you about, Sycamore?”
“She is a patron at the club, and I enjoy her company.”
“I can be discreet,” Kettering said, “even within the confines of the Dorning family. Jacaranda does not want to know every peccadillo and scrape you lot get up to. She trusts me to sort them out if Casriel isn’t up to the challenge.”
Sycamore rose. “Don’t be obnoxious. We are not a pack of schoolboys constantly embroiled with the local constable. Every one of us has found meaningful employment and a way to make some contribution to society, no thanks to you or Casriel.”
Kettering’s expression shuttered. “I seek to aid a passel of impecunious younger sons, the despair of the sister who loved them—”
Sycamore held up a hand. “Jacaranda had not reached her majority when she ran out on us, and while she had her reasons, her opinion of her brothers was fixed nearly ten years ago, when we were a very different family. I cannot persuade you or her to see us as we are rather than as we were, and neither will I take up any more of your time.”
Sycamore reached the door before Kettering spoke. “Wait.”
The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12 Page 5
