“How did you not hate him?” Sycamore hated him, and he’d never met the man.
“I made excuses for him. He was of a different era, he was frustrated. He was paying for the whole damned cow… I stopped even wanting children, and now I am glad I was spared, for children would only involve me with solicitors and trustees for years to come. I just wanted him to cease his infernal rutting, and then he began to drink so much… Tavistock was disappointed in me, and that caused him to drink, and drink did largely curb his ability to rut.”
She recited this tiredly, all the animation gone from her eyes. She was glad to not have children, a degree of bitterness Sycamore could hardly fathom, for she would be a wonderful mother, and who could resist loving a baby?
“You were not responsible for his lordship’s drinking, my lady, and his death is cause for rejoicing. Did anybody suggest you had a hand in his demise?” Sycamore mentally scheduled a good, sweaty bout at Angelo’s with Ash, because this recitation involving damned cows, a randy middle-aged marquess, and a seventeen-year-old bride was provoking enough anger to mute his arousal.
Which was a lot of anger. Rage, even.
“An inquest was held,” she said. “I was told it was a formality. He fell from his horse and was doubtless the worse for drink at the time. Death by misadventure. You are right, though. I rejoiced to be free of him and free of the shame of having failed him. I should be going.”
“You are avoiding the topic of who is following you,” Sycamore said, rising and coming around to hold her chair. “We can discuss it in the coach.”
She stood, and her shawl drooped off to one side. Sycamore tucked the shawl back up, his hand lingering on her shoulder. “You endured your late husband’s attentions without complaint. You have no cause for shame, your ladyship. That you kept your dignity throughout the ordeal of your marriage suggests you ought to instead take pride in your self-possession.”
She leaned into him, not quite an embrace, but something. “I know that, but pride is little comfort when every time you walk into a room, you see pitying glances and hear whispers. The sympathetic whispers were worse than the mean ones.”
Sycamore allowed himself to embrace her, to take her in his arms, though she made no move to reciprocate, other than giving him her weight. No witty remark or flirtatious quip came to mind, but perhaps that was for the best.
He wasn’t feeling witty or flirtatious. He was feeling anger on her ladyship’s behalf; chronic, leashed desire for her person; and determination to solve the riddle of who was intruding on her privacy.
The combination was unsettling, and also a little wonderful.
“They will soon be in each other’s pockets,” Lord Beardsley Vincent said, propping an elbow on the parlor mantel. “Jerome took Tavistock to the Coventry last night, and half of Mayfair frequents that establishment.”
Viola sat on the blue velvet sofa, winding yarn into a ball, like one of the fates. Beardsley’s marriage to her had been a sound match, no excesses of sentiment on either side, but no excesses of animosity either. As a spare, Beardsley had been permitted to marry down, provided the bride had generous settlements. Six children and nearly three decades later, those settlements were a thing of fond and distant memory.
“Jerome cannot afford to frequent the Coventry,” Viola muttered, “and you are not to tell him I said that. A young man’s dignity must be his sternest teacher.”
“You’d see our boy in the sponging house?”
“Debts of honor don’t land anybody in the sponging house,” Viola replied, the yarn winding into an ever-larger ball. “He’ll pay the trades with his competence and lie low until the debts of honor are forgotten or his creditors leave Town.”
Beardsley sipped his nightcap, good quality brandy, but inferior to the Tavistock town house offerings.
“Jerome knows his station, my dear, and he will not flee Town just when all the best company is reassembling to enjoy the fine weather. He’s a bachelor in demand to make up the numbers, an excellent dancer, and more than willing to avail himself of free food and drink. Particularly if he keeps company with Tavistock—”
“Must you refer to Trevor by the title? He has not attained his majority, and neither has he completed his university studies. Our nephew is little more than an overgrown boy parading around in Bond Street finery. Somebody should send him on a grand tour with a bear leader, rather than pushing Jerome at him.”
Viola had aged well, but she had aged. With each child, she’d become more outspoken and opinionated, and on matters about which she knew little.
“If Jerome is seen in Trevor’s company, Viola, Jerome’s consequence increases. Matchmakers will use Jerome to gain access to Trevor. They will invite the pair of them, and the marquess will naturally turn to his older, wiser cousin for guidance.”
Viola came to the end of her yarn and tucked the ball into her workbasket. “Why isn’t Trevor turning to you, my lord? I’ll tell you why, because that woman still has him in leading strings. Trevor won’t turn to Jerome when he has his step-mama to nanny him over breakfast every day.”
Viola had never cared for Jeanette, but then, Viola cared for few people outside her circle of tabbies and godchildren. In Viola’s defense, Jeanette was chilly company. She’d been a timid, proper young bride who’d failed spectacularly in the one regard that had mattered to her late husband.
And thank God for her failure, because a nursery full of little spares would have reduced Jerome’s standing considerably—and Beardsley’s as well.
“Jeanette deserves our pity,” he said. “She is incapable of producing children, past her best years, and becoming a tolerated fixture in her step-son’s house. For Trevor to send her off to a dower property would be a mercy.”
The Vincent family dower property in Derbyshire would do nicely. An affordable, rustic cottage far from the solicitors’ offices in the City.
“Did you tell our son to insinuate himself into Trevor’s good graces?” Viola asked. “Somebody needs to ease Trevor away from Jeanette’s influence.”
Beardsley finished his drink and considered pouring another. But no. That way lay a sore head and an empty cellar.
“I asked Trevor to help me keep an eye on our dear Jerome,” Beardsley replied. “Trevor is the head of the family, our marquess. He was flattered by my view of matters, and if that means he listens to me, to Jerome, or to anybody other than Jeanette regarding family finances, then I consider I’ve made progress toward a worthy goal.”
Viola left off rummaging in her workbasket. “My lord, I’m impressed. Might you also suggest that our Diana would make Trevor a fine wife?”
Diana was about to make a belated come out, and while pretty enough, she was as stubborn as her mother, also several years Trevor’s senior. She wasn’t keen on marrying anybody until she’d had her Season—young people!—and Trevor would know that about his own cousin. Viola was trying to spare them all the expense of another court presentation and come out, but she was being, as usual, clumsy in her machinations.
Then too, Hera would stage a monumental tragedy if Diana married Trevor, who was closer to Hera in age.
“I have not mentioned marriage to anybody,” Beardsley replied. “Jerome will hint to Trevor that the expenses of keeping an ancillary household are worth the rewards.”
Beardsley had a mistress in just such an ancillary household. A young widow of good family who was practical enough to take a courtesy lord into her bed if that kept her children fed. She was neither resentful of Beardsley’s attentions nor interested in anything more than his coin. He was fond of her, a sentiment he’d felt toward his wife once upon a time.
“If Trevor takes a mistress,” Viola said, “he is that much more likely to marry and displace Jerome in the succession.”
“Just the opposite,” Beardsley said. “If Trevor has a regular source of manly pleasure, then the hunt for a wife becomes merely a business venture, not some tangled-up affair of the heart or impulse driven
by his breeding organs.”
Viola closed the lid of her workbasket. “Men born to privilege always want more,” she said. “A mistress is not enough, a wife is not enough. Such a man will frolic with opera dancers when he has both wife and mistress, and frolic yet more at house parties. The world is his sweet shop, and he will never sicken from consuming to excess. You have hastened Trevor’s desire to marry, not put it off.”
“He cannot marry without my consent for three more years, madam. You worry for nothing.”
Viola sent a pointed glance around the parlor. The appointments were elegant, but in an old-fashioned way. Only the candles on the mantel and a sconce by the door were lit, and the fire was burning down rather than blazing up with a final scoop of coal for the evening.
Economies were subtly in evidence, in other words.
“Jeanette is enjoying the last of her influence with the solicitors,” Beardsley said. “I have taken steps to ensure she either flees Town or wishes she had. As Trevor ignores her advice more and more consistently, she’s becoming less of a Puritan herself. The stakes at the Wentwhistle house party were quite high, and her success there literally came down to the turn of a card. That is not the behavior of a prudent widow, my dear, and Trevor will soon see that.”
Viola rose. “Trevor loves her. I tried to be a mother to him, but she championed the boy’s causes to his father, and I could not compete with that.”
“You have been in every way an exemplary aunt to him, and I have been a devoted uncle. That is where matters will stand until Jeanette can be persuaded to yield the reins.”
Viola studied him, and Beardsley had no idea what she was thinking. How could two people have children, live together for more than a quarter century, and still not know each other all that well? But then, Beardsley did not particularly want to know his wife if that meant she intruded on his privacy too.
“Will Jeanette yield the reins before Diana’s come out?” Viola asked. “Town grows only more expensive, and Diana is neither beautiful nor witty.”
“All is in hand, my dear. Between Jerome’s friendship with Trevor and my own humble efforts, all is in hand.”
Viola kissed his cheek and crossed to the door. “Then I will wish you pleasant dreams, my lord, and see you at breakfast.”
“Good night, my lady.”
Viola had removed to her own bedroom within a year of Jerome’s birth, and though Beardsley occasionally visited her of a night, she’d made her wishes known: A single son was all that she had been interested in providing, and now the passage of time had made the question of more children moot.
Besides, one son of marriageable age blessed with an abundance of animal spirits was enough.
Sycamore Dorning was everything Jeanette could never be: at home with violence and vice, blunt to a fault, and aggressive in pursuit of his objectives. He was charming when it suited him, also alarmingly open about his worries and his family’s situation.
With the gossips and tabbies, Jeanette knew to wrap her dignity about her like a velvet cloak. With uncertain young women, she was gracious and kind, but reserved. With the leering bachelors, she was toweringly indifferent. Society was neatly sorted, and with her, Society knew its place.
With Sycamore Dorning, she was all at sea, and had she been asked, she would have said she hated being all at sea, though she did not hate him. Worse—far worse—she was coming to not only like him, but also to trust him.
He handed her up into his town coach, an elegant conveyance with crests turned and footman, groom, and coachy in similarly smart, dark livery devoid of distinguishing flourishes.
“You like your comforts,” she said, taking the forward-facing seat. He settled onto the bench beside her, which was bold of him, also considerate. Sitting side by side, Jeanette would not have to face him as he interrogated her about matters she’d dodged at dinner.
“I cherish my comforts,” he said, “and all the while, I tell myself that I’m merely keeping up appearances. This coach was the result of a night of cards, with Ash partnering me. He has a talent for keeping numbers in his head that will make him wealthy if he ever decides to use it.”
“This is your melancholy brother?” Jeanette knew Ash Dorning, had seen him lending an air of gracious reserve to the Coventry, a subtle contrast to Sycamore’s more ebullient hospitality. She had also seen him at cards and knew his skill to be formidable.
“One doesn’t bruit Ash’s troubles about, but I trust your discretion. Tell me who is following you, because clearly, you trust my discretion as well.”
Jeanette would never be that blunt, but from Sycamore Dorning, she found direct speech welcome. “I don’t know who has taken an untoward interest in me. Some spy for the print shops or scandal sheets, I suppose. They are ever hungry to catch a wellborn woman in a peccadillo.”
Mr. Dorning removed his hat and set it on the opposite seat. “You were followed home from the Coventry last week, my lady. If somebody wanted to make scandal out of that, they could have already done so. We were alone behind locked doors for hours.”
Pleasant hours, oddly enough. “Prints take time to create, tattle takes time to write up.”
“You do not believe you are being pursued by some scandalmongering journalist, and neither do I. You were followed to the Andersons’ card party on Wednesday, where no scandal could possibly attach to you. Who is your heir?”
“What an odd question. Why would you…?” Her mind caught up with his line of inquiry. “You think somebody seeks to find me in a dark alley and put an end to me?”
“Humor me. I have a vivid imagination.”
He also had a lovely way of holding a woman that put no demands on her. That half embrace in the cozy parlor, when Jeanette had allowed herself to lean against him, had been luscious and dangerous. He’d taken her weight, wrapped his arms gently around her, and let her rest against him. For Jeanette, the moment had come perilously close to tears, and perhaps he’d sensed that.
The man was damnably perceptive, though what did Jeanette have to cry about? A wealthy, titled widow was in every way to be envied, and Trevor was simply behaving as young men did when new to Town.
“My heir,” Jeanette said, pulling her mind from the memory of a sweet embrace. “A few charities, but mostly my brother and his progeny, if any he has. If he should predecease me, more charities and Trevor.”
Jeanette had not traveled side by side with a male escort in ages. Trevor did not count, being prone to fidgets and often preferring to ride on the box. Sycamore Dorning had a gentleman’s reserve, and more than that, his muscular presence was reassuring.
“And if Trevor should predecease you?”
“The solicitors told me there’s a list, by law, and it starts with Rye because he is my only living close relation. We have some cousins scattered around, and Trevor and Lord Beardsley are on the list further down. I have no reason to believe either Orion or Trevor will go to their reward before I do, though. Why do you…?” Again, she made the leap. “You suspect my brother means to do me harm?”
“I suspect everybody and nobody. We have no motive for why your privacy is being jeopardized, so we must plan for the worst. Your brother is inured to violence. He has estranged himself from you and bears a grudge against the world, to hear you tell it. If he knows he is your heir, he might plot against you.”
The coach was plodding along at the walk, which was fine with Jeanette. She needed to sort her situation out, and Sycamore Dorning was—this still confounded her—a good listener.
“Orion abhors violence. He was an enthusiastic soldier when Papa bought him his colors, but Rye came home from the battlefields a changed man. His body is mostly whole, while his heart and mind… I no longer know him, but I cannot see him murdering his only sister.”
“He stays on the list. Pay a call on him, get a sense for who he is now.”
“Do not give me orders, Mr. Dorning.”
“Do not scold me over trivialities, my lady. I can m
ince about making suggestions, leaving innuendo in the air for you to consider, or I can speak my mind and trust you will give me the benefit of the doubt.”
Perhaps Jeanette had had too much good wine with dinner, perhaps the darkened coach interior and talk of murder had dislodged her wits. She had no other explanation for her reply.
“‘Spread your damned legs, woman,’” she said, easily echoing her late husband’s annoyance. “‘Cease your infernal whimpering. If you can’t show any enthusiasm, hold still and let me finish. Clothes off. I’m entitled to inspect my purchase. On the bed, and on your back, where you belong until you can fulfill the most basic of wifely duties.’”
Jeanette’s throat abruptly went tight, and the silence in the coach became as painful as a murdered dream.
“He never asked me for anything,” she said. “Never even asked me to marry him. My father didn’t ask if I wanted to be married. Orion never asked what I thought of a military career, because I could have told him he wasn’t suited to war. What you regard as a triviality—a demand rather than the courtesy of a suggestion or a request—I regard as a warning sign of impending disrespect. I will never again overlook such warning signs.”
The coach rolled along through the darkness, and Jeanette felt the first tear slip down her cheek. What in all creation was wrong with her that putting Sycamore Dorning in his place should upset her so? He said nothing, merely sat beside her in the shadows, his presence no longer reassuring.
“I am not ridiculous,” Jeanette said. “The marquess was ridiculous. I knew nothing of marital matters when I spoke my vows. My mother died when I was eleven, and I was kept in ignorance. I hate that I was ignorant, but the marquess made matters ten times worse than they had to be.”
“The wedding night was a horror?” Sycamore asked, taking her hand.
“My worst memory. I so wanted to please him, and I was utterly shocked by what he expected of me. I found the whole business uncomfortable on every level. I do not mean to be difficult, but I am what he made me.”
The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12 Page 8
