Just about the time the loveliness below his waist was waking up to future possibilities, Jeanette extricated herself from the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I am hungry, which suggests you have to be famished.”
Even the sight of her back, the untidy braid trailing down to her bum, stirred him. Oh, for brother Oak’s ability to paint and sketch, or brother Valerian’s talent with a compliment. For Casriel’s exquisite manners or Ash’s savoir faire. For Hawthorne’s earthy humor, or Willow’s quiet wisdom.
“We could toss a few more knives first,” Sycamore said, “if you’d like that.”
A guess, a blind throw, but Jeanette smiled at him over her shoulder. “I would, now that you make the offer. Though the temptation to linger with you here…” Her smile became wistful.
“I am more than willing to linger as well, but I suspect we might do better to treat this intimacy as we do a session with the knives. Limit ourselves to the prescribed pleasure and savor anticipation of the next session. Besides, you might be sore.”
She half turned and flipped back the covers to peer at his semi-flaccid cock. “Do men ever get sore?”
“Yes, either from excessive self-gratification, ill-fitting sheaths, or exuberance with the ladies.”
She patted him. “If I have not already experienced your utmost exuberance, I shudder with a mixture of dread and glee to contemplate the occasion.” She curled down to pillow her cheek against his jewels, an odd, intimate, entirely dear gesture. “Thank you, Sycamore. Don’t make me say exactly for what, because I cannot, but thank you.”
“Thank you too, Jeanette, for more than I can say.”
She did not tarry, alas, but was up and shimmying back into her chemise. Sycamore played lady’s maid, Jeanette valeted him, and they were soon presentable.
Almost. “I should redo your hair, my lady.”
She examined herself in the cheval mirror. “I look tumbled. I have never looked tumbled before.”
“You look luscious. Hold still.”
Sycamore moved behind her to undo her braid. The actual brushing out and rebraiding took only moments, but he loved the intimacy of the service, loved passing Jeanette one hairpin at a time so she could gather up that whole, shiny abundance into a demure and deceptive chignon.
“I am not fooled,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You appear all tidy and collected, but I’ve seen you unraveled, and that glorious sight will stay with me for the rest of my life.”
She leaned against him for the briefest moment, then preceded him out the door. “Once more to the knives, Mr. Dorning, and you will make no further mention of my unbound hair or other lapses.”
He stopped her before she’d made it past the office. “Jeanette, I am not a lapse, and neither are you.”
She nodded. “Fair enough, though I don’t know exactly what you are—what you have become, rather—and finding my balance will take some time.”
He kissed her cheek. “We find our balance together, my lady. I am every bit as undone as you are.”
Probably more undone, in fact. Jeanette had quickly reassembled the exterior trappings she wore so convincingly—brisk movements, direct speech, calm self-possession—while Sycamore’s soul had been scattered from Land’s End to John o’ Groats.
Was this how his brothers had felt when they’d become intimate with their prospective wives? Sycamore could ask Ash that question, carefully.
He realized as Jeanette was bustling down the steps at his side exactly what such a query implied. She reached the cellar door first, and Sycamore wanted to tell her to hold still, dammit, so he could propose to her on bended knee.
Instinct kept that foolishness behind his teeth, and yet, offering marriage to Jeanette wasn’t entirely foolishness. She wasn’t ready to hear a proposal. She was owed a wooing, owed more lovemaking, owed doting and time and much that Sycamore longed to give her.
Did she but know it, the wooing had begun.
“We should have a set of knives made for you,” Sycamore said, opening the cellar door for her. “You’re working with a set cast for my hand, and the sooner you begin working with your own weapons, the faster you’ll become skilled with them.”
“My own knives?”
“Of course. Two sets, because you need replacements for any blade that gets lost or damaged, and knives all cast from the same mold and fired in the same flames give you the most uniform performance.”
She hugged him, a mere squeeze before descending the steps. “I would adore my own set of knives. I like that idea exceedingly.”
Sycamore contented himself with that, but his objective was for her to like him exceedingly, one day, perhaps, even to love him as he already loved her.
“But, my dear,” Viola said, “you must admit that soldiers and sailors are a less controversial direction in which to aim the late marquess’s charity. The Magdalen houses have not proven to bring about any beneficial result, not consistently, whereas a soldier fed is plainly improved by the charity shown him.”
Jeanette held up a plate stacked with a dozen artfully decorated tea cakes. She made a mental game out of guessing in which order Viola would choose her sweets, and Viola did not disappoint. Lemon cakes had already disappeared, the raspberry would be next, followed by—after at least two demurrals—the lavender tea cakes.
She set the plate down next to Viola’s cup and saucer. “Precisely because the soldiers and sailors are the more popular cause, I prefer to devote my money to other struggles.” Not the late marquess’s charitable funds, which Jeanette was in the process of transferring to Trevor’s management. “How are the young ladies?”
Viola went off into a rhapsody about Diana’s vocal talent and Hera’s skill with a needle. Diana was soon to make her long-awaited come out, and fortunately for her, she was a sensible, pretty, good-humored young lady who knew how to curb her mother’s worst fashion suggestions.
Viola had many faults. She was no higher born than Jeanette, but comported herself with the airs and graces of the queen mother. She was a catty gossip, blind to her son’s faults, and desperate to see her younger daughters well matched, despite the older three settling for husbands who’d brought more devotion than means to their unions.
But Viola was also a loyal wife and mother, keenly protective of her offspring, and never openly critical of her husband. That last quality was a virtue, one Jeanette resented bitterly.
“Is Diana nervous about making her come out?” Jeanette asked as the first lavender tea cake met its fate.
“Nervous? Of course not. I have spent years ensuring my daughters are the equal of any occasion, most especially a court presentation. Diana will be a credit to the family, as all my children are.”
Jeanette wanted to shove the rest of the plate at Viola and summon the Vincent coach, but clearly Viola was working up to one of her grand sermons. She might have been an ally to a much younger Jeanette, might have tried to smooth the way with the marquess.
Viola hadn’t, not in the least. She’d waited for Jeanette to commit every possible misstep and then offered muttered platitudes such as marry in haste, repent at leisure as Jeanette’s consolation. Perhaps Viola had married in haste.
A thought like that would not have occurred to Jeanette a week ago, but a week ago, she had not been Sycamore Dorning’s lover—or his something. Twenty-four hours after rising from his bed, Jeanette was still agog at her own daring. Becoming intimate with him had been breathtaking, alarming, delightful, and altogether overwhelming.
Jeanette was counting the seconds until Sunday afternoon and also considering an immediate, extended repairing lease at the Vincent family seat. What had she done, and how soon could she do it again?
“How fares Jerome these days?” Jeanette asked.
Viola set down her tea cup. “Well you should ask, my lady. Well you should ask. Jerome has brought me the most shocking news regarding your step-son.”
Trevor was our marquess
and his darling lordship when Viola eyed him as a possible husband for one of her daughters. He was your step-son when he’d tripped during the quadrille at the Portmans’ ball.
“I try not to pry into his lordship’s personal affairs, Viola. I suggest you maintain a cordial distance from them as well.”
“You can afford to be indifferent,” Viola said, perching on the edge of the sofa cushion like a laying hen about her business. “I must think of the family. What will people say when they learn that your step-son has taken up some sort of apprenticeship in a gaming hell?”
“The Coventry Club is a supper club, Viola, and if Tavistock finds the surrounds congenial, then we must look to Jerome for having introduced his lordship to that venue in the first place.” Jeanette had offered to take Trevor to the Coventry last autumn, but he’d never indicated a willingness to be seen there with his step-mother.
For which she, of course, did not blame him.
“Jerome is trying to prevent Trevor from stumbling into the worst sorts of mischief that young men get up to, so of course Jerome would accompany Trevor to such a place. His lordship would be a lamb to slaughter without Jerome’s guiding influence.”
A week ago, Jeanette would have stuffed a tea cake into her mouth and changed the subject to Diana’s presentation gown, which apparently boasted more pearls than the North Atlantic.
“According to an eyewitness,” Jeanette said, “Jerome has visited the Coventry on at least a half-dozen occasions. He goaded Trevor into playing hazard, made sure the marquess was plied with drink from every direction, and further inspired him to throw good money after bad.” Sycamore Dorning had seen the whole drama, and Jeanette was grateful that he had not intervened.
Trevor had lessons to learn that Jeanette could not teach him by wrapping him in cotton wool.
Viola smiled pityingly. “Trevor is becoming mendacious, isn’t he? Of course he’d spin you such a Banbury tale, because he is ashamed, but he’s too enthralled with a den of vice to simply pay his debts and walk away. I fear for my nephew, your ladyship, and for the influences bearing on him as he approaches his majority.”
Those influences included Jeanette, of course. “Speak to him, then,” Jeanette said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “He holds you in great affection and will surely abide by your guidance.”
Viola clearly wasn’t prepared for that salvo. She’d apparently been expecting Jeanette to promise to try to do better, whatever that meant, and to agree that Trevor was behaving abominably, which he was not.
“You are the lady of this house,” Viola said, taking the second lavender tea cake. “You should be correcting Trevor’s errors and guiding him back to the path of common sense. Jerome cannot bear the whole burden on his own.”
“Jerome and his cronies are largely the reason Trevor played too deeply, Viola. Mr. Sycamore Dorning has kindly allowed Trevor to work off the debt of honor by serving as an informal assistant at the Coventry. Trevor earns no coin, but he is learning a great deal about the perils of overindulged impulses.”
Sycamore had provided a progress report to Jeanette over yesterday’s dinner, and Trevor himself had confirmed that he was “on loan to the club for the nonce.” The prospect seemed to cheer him, and Jeanette suspected having an excuse to avoid Jerome and his friends was part of Trevor’s improved mood.
“Trevor is learning nothing of value,” Viola sniffed. “He is learning to spend his evenings with wagering inebriates who have no sense of decorum.”
“Wagering inebriates like Jerome and his friends?”
Had Viola left in high dudgeon or launched into a tirade, Jeanette would not have been surprised, but instead, Viola took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
“I am tired, my lady,” Viola said, “of managing a household, managing marriageable daughters, trying to provide you the benefit of my wisdom, and guiding Beardsley in his role as Trevor’s guardian. The burden on me has been… But that is neither here nor there. Jerome is a young man of independent means. He may do as he wishes in the company of his fellows and still be quite the gentleman in any respectable drawing room. That is the way of the world, and he understands it. For Trevor to attach himself to a gaming hell, though, is…” Viola dabbed at her eyes again. “You must see that it is unacceptable.”
Jeanette did not want to pity Viola, did not want to concede that she had a point. “The situation is temporary, Viola. Trevor badly overspent his allowance, and I do mean badly, and Jerome’s influence, for good or ill, did not prevent that. I am unwilling to set a precedent whereby Trevor’s entertainments throw him into debt, and no consequences result. Beardsley would doubtless agree with me. Trevor is too young, and too new to Town, also too generously funded, to be allowed to start down that path.”
“He needs a wife,” Viola said, tucking her handkerchief into her reticule. “A sensible young lady who knows what’s expected of her.”
Jeanette took a sip of her tea, though it had gone tepid. “Trevor needs to grow up, Viola. He’s years away from his majority, and when he does eventually marry, he’ll be a better husband for having seen a bit of life first.”
Viola rose. “I cannot make you understand the damage he could do to his own consequence by frequenting such an establishment. The occasional sortie with his friends is understandable, but this indentured servitude… Beardsley will have something to say about it.”
Having lectured and wept, Viola now descended to threats.
“Beardsley should say something about it,” Jeanette replied, getting to her feet. “Beardsley should have a strong word with both Jerome and Trevor about debts of honor, about the folly of drunken wagers, about knowing the difference between real friends and the other kind. Perhaps if you and Beardsley add your exhortations to my own, both young men will give us less to worry about.”
“But Trevor dwells with you, for now. He respects you. You are a parental figure to him, while I am the aunt he calls on exclusively out of duty. You must take him firmly in hand, Jeanette.”
That was the one thing she must not do. “My hope is that he will see at the Coventry the difference between those who can handle recreation responsibly and those who cannot. Trevor is intelligent and well aware of his station. I trust him to make better choices going forward.”
Not quite the truth.
Jeanette trusted that Trevor would eventually learn to make better choices, but first he’d wake up with many a sore head, make more stupid wagers, have his heart broken several times, and most assuredly have his trust betrayed.
If it hadn’t been already.
“You are not a mother,” Voila said, firing that broadside as she moved toward the door. “I know you love the boy, but you cannot understand how close to peril he’s treading. Beardsley feels as I do, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Beardsley would ask you to remove to the dower house if matters do not resolve themselves to his satisfaction, Jeanette. Trevor should be at university, but you make it easy for him to neglect his education too.”
Good heavens, not the dower house. Viola was truly in good form today. “Beardsley is overdue to have lunch with his nephew, clearly, for I did not invite Trevor to leave school, Viola, and I regularly urge him to return. Perhaps if Jerome added his voice to the chorus, Trevor might see reason.”
And Jerome would lose his entrée into the Season’s most glittering entertainments, as well as countless rounds of free drinks for him and his friends.
“I will have a word with Beardsley,” Viola said, bustling on to the main foyer. “You may be assured of that.”
Jeanette saw her guest out, exchanged a long-suffering look with old Peem, and then took herself to her private sitting room, rather than the family sitting room where she’d endured Viola’s call. The morning post sat on the blotter, a folded and sealed note—hand delivered—among the correspondence.
Sycamore’s handwriting. God save her, she was pleased to see his handwriting, and filled as well with d
read. What if he was ending their liaison already, canceling next week’s lesson, leaving Town to elude further entanglement?
Later perhaps, Jeanette would ponder why, nearly a decade after accepting the marquess’s proposal, she should revert to schoolgirl insecurities and what to do about that dreadful lapse. The present moment demanded that she read Sycamore’s epistle.
* * *
My lady,
The same unfortunate sequence of events transpired as you made your way home last evening as happened the previous week. I am available to discuss this development at your convenience and will call upon you accordingly.
Your obed serv,
SD
* * *
She’d been followed again, which meant she was not imagining things and that somebody knew she was regularly spending time alone with Sycamore at the Coventry.
“How did your call upon the fair Jeanette go?” Beardsley Vincent asked, taking his wife’s cloak.
“We should discuss it, sir, if I might have a moment of your time.” Viola passed her bonnet and parasol to the waiting butler, who had been with the family long enough to send Beardsley a discreet sympathetic glance.
The staff respected Viola, they did not like her, and for reasons Beardsley could not fathom, she preferred it that way. They did like Beardsley and showed him a thousand courtesies and kindnesses as a result, such as keeping their mouths shut about his personal business.
“I am at your service, my dear. I trust Jeanette is in good health?” The late marquess had often grumbled about Jeanette’s good health. If she had to be so damned robust, he’d lamented, why the hell couldn’t she produce a son or three?
His late lordship had stopped short of praying for a tragic accident to befall Jeanette, at least in Beardsley’s hearing. In a stroke of divine irony, the tragic accident had befallen the marquess instead.
The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12 Page 13
