The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12

by Grace Burrowes

Such a pity.

  Viola led Beardsley—did not take his arm, did not walk at his side, did not accompany him, but rather, sailed forth before her own husband—to her personal parlor. Beardsley found the room both amusing and slightly unnerving.

  Viola’s favorite pastime was collecting dolls, stuffed animals, and dollhouses. In one corner of her private parlor, she’d set up a miniature tea table, the service laid out for two dolls, a bear, and a hedgehog. The glassy-eyed stares of the assemblage, their unchanging postures, and the perfection of the tiny tea service put Beardsley in mind of pharaohs buried with their households.

  “Jeanette is in great good health,” Viola began as soon as Beardsley had closed the door, “but, my lord, she is utterly indifferent to the dangerous ground upon which the young marquess treads. Jerome tells me Trevor is all but indentured to those dreadful Dornings at the Coventry. Who knows how much he owes them and where this will end?”

  The dreadful Dornings were brothers to an earl, meaning they could not be all that dreadful in the eyes of Society. The sovereign himself occasionally dropped by the Coventry, as did any number of notables.

  Jerome, loyal lad that he was, had warned Beardsley of Trevor’s ill-fated sortie to the tables, and Beardsley himself had suggested Jerome also inform Viola. She would take upsetting news better from her son than from her husband.

  “Darling wife,” Beardsley said, “calm yourself. Trevor’s tour at the Coventry will end one of two ways. He will either learn much in a short time and emerge a wiser fellow, or he will be drawn into a world for which he is ill-prepared.”

  Viola marched up to him, eyes blazing. She had looked after herself over the years and was still a handsome woman. When impassioned like this, Beardsley could almost recall the younger Viola, the one who’d shared a bed with him and hopes for a rosy future.

  “And which of those outcomes,” Viola demanded, “do you believe the more likely? He is eighteen, my lord. He hasn’t even finished university, and his wealth is enormous.”

  “The family’s wealth is enormous,” Beardsley said. “Tavistock’s access to that wealth is limited until he turns one-and-twenty, and debts of honor are personal. He can gamble himself into dun territory, and beyond a certain point, his only recourse is to take a repairing lease on the Continent.”

  “I wouldn’t like to see that,” Viola said. “Though I suppose for a year or two, until he comes of age, some travel might do him good. Diana deserves to enjoy Society with Hera for a bit, after all.”

  Viola thought of her unmarried daughters, while Beardsley thought of the larger picture. “Here is how I expect matters will be resolved: Trevor will get in over his head. I will point out to the solicitors that Jeanette not only failed to intervene, but has also socialized with the Dornings and in fact introduced Trevor to them at some house party or other.”

  Viola patted Beardsley’s lapel and stepped back. “That is true. Lady Wentwhistle’s gathering caused a fair amount of talk. She held a tournament at the card tables, and Tavistock lost badly, while Jeanette won a significant sum. Both Mr. Ash Dorning and Mr. Sycamore Dorning were present at that house party.”

  Viola could have doubtless recited the guest list in order of precedence.

  “Jeanette is getting above herself, but, Viola, I tell you honestly that anything that coaxes Tavistock out from under her watchful eye is a good thing. She exercises far too much influence over his lordship, and she is not even a blood relation to him.”

  Viola moved to her tea tableau, adjusting one doll’s braid, straightening the other’s pinafore. “We are in agreement in that regard, Husband. Jeanette ought by rights to content herself with a placid existence at the dower house. It’s nobody’s fault but hers that she has no children to occupy her, and yet, here she is, hanging on to Tavistock’s coattails like a governess with a toddler.”

  Beardsley had suggested Jerome court the woman. Jeanette was wealthy, and much of that wealth had been provided by the Vincent family, after all.

  “Exactly as you say,” Beardsley replied. “Jeanette is de trop and hasn’t the grace to quit the scene. I am confident that she will shortly be forced to heed my direction to take herself off to Tavistock Hall, leaving Trevor free of her meddling.”

  Viola sat the bear up higher on his little chair and stroked the hedgehog’s quills. “Forced how?”

  “Lady Tavistock’s brother is a man with an unfortunate past. The talk about him never really stops for long. Should he meet with renewed accusations of dishonorable conduct, he would be ruined past all recall. He might not care for his good name, but Goddard is Jeanette’s only family. To preserve what’s left of Orion Goddard’s reputation, Jeanette will do exactly as I say.”

  Viola smiled at him, a warm, admiring smile he hadn’t seen from her in ages. “My lord, you astound me. That plan is elegantly simple and likely to work as all of my lectures and threats have not.”

  “You had to try, my dear, and I do thank you for your efforts. Do you truly have Trevor in mind for Diana, or would you prefer to see him wed to Hera? Diana is only a few years Trevor’s senior, and older sisters generally marry first.”

  Viola’s smile became wistful. “If I knew Tavistock was engaged to one of our girls—a real engagement, not one of these harum-scarum overnight courtships—I could turn my energies to seeing Jerome wed. He is older than Trevor and still in line for the succession. He really ought to be taking a bride.”

  Exactly what I’ve told him over and over. “Let’s not build castles in Spain, my dear. First, we will free Trevor from his step-mother’s meddling, then we will see what develops for him in terms of marriage to a cousin. Tell me more about this house party of Lady Wentwhistle’s.”

  Viola took a place on her tufted sofa and prattled on about trysts, tournaments, and tattle until Beardsley felt like the glassy-eyed bear, sitting perpetually before a tea tray he would never enjoy. When Viola eventually wound down, Beardsley patted her shoulder, kissed her forehead, and bid her good day.

  An impromptu call on his mistress was in order. A plan years in the making was smoothly under way, and that was cause for celebration.

  “Mr. Doorknob?” The Tavistock butler peered at Sycamore’s card. “I will see if the marchioness is in, sir. Please do make yourself comfortable.” He toddled off down the corridor, Sycamore’s card in his hand.

  Leaving Sycamore to doff his greatcoat and hat, hanging each on a hook opposite the porter’s nook. He laid his walking stick across the hooks, lest he forget it. This was his first venture into Jeanette’s home territory, and he would be damned if he’d linger in the hallway like a penitent outside the confessional.

  He made a circuit of the spotless grand foyer, early afternoon light pouring onto the parquet marble floor from a skylight overhead. Romanesque busts occupied opposing alcoves, overgrown ferns billowing at the foot of the plinths. A portrait of what had to be the late marquess hung in the space between the alcoves.

  His lordship was a severe-looking fellow depicted in formal attire, a painting of some ancestor or other tucked into the background of his own portrait. The composition was designed to make his lordship look imposing—the perspective slightly low relative to the subject, the somber colors, the coat of arms over the mantel.

  Cold eyes, a grim mouth, pale hands… This was the lover Jeanette had cuddled up to as a seventeen-year-old bride.

  “My late husband,” said the lady herself, the butler hovering at her elbow. “That was done two years before his death. His hair wasn’t so uniformly dark then, but the artist had a commission to earn.”

  A riding crop, roweled spurs, dueling pistols, fowling piece, crossbow, and huntsman’s coiled whip were discreetly included in the marquess’s portrait, each probably intended to subtly reinforce his masculinity and vigor. A globe, presenting Britain at the center of the Northern Hemisphere, occupied the desk behind him.

  Not a knife to be seen, though, and nothing of learning, beauty, or grace. “A thoroughly jovial fe
llow, wasn’t he?” Sycamore said.

  Jeanette glanced at the butler. “Peem, a tea tray in the blue parlor.”

  “Very good, my lady.” He bowed and withdrew at a funereal pace.

  “I was hoping to drive out with you,” Sycamore said. “The day is lovely.” And so are you. She wore a soft green velvet afternoon dress, a hint of lace across a modest décolletage, pink embroidery adding a graceful touch on the bodice and cuffs.

  “I would have to change into a carriage dress,” she replied. “Let’s find somewhere comfortable to chat.”

  Jeanette appeared composed and calm, and she did not look particularly happy to see Sycamore. She showed him to a small parlor across the corridor from a yawning library. Sycamore paused to examine the library, which smelled of books and coal and boasted more dull portraiture presiding over perfectly symmetric groupings of perfectly matched furniture.

  “I’ve never met anybody who lived in a mausoleum before,” Sycamore said, joining Jeanette by the parlor door. “I can almost hear the angel choirs singing their panegyrics to the late marquess. How do you stand it?”

  Jeanette left the parlor door open, which was not a good sign. “This is the home of the present marquess, who doubtless finds respect for tradition comforting. I make sure the staff is content and the house well run. It’s not my place to comment on the decorations.”

  “Something has upset you,” Sycamore said, considering the slight tension around her mouth, the anxiety in her gaze. “Please tell me.”

  She gestured to a sofa in the same blue as the flocked wallpaper. The carpet, curtains, and the rest of the upholstery were all embroidered in the blue and gold theme, with hints of pink the only nod to variety. Gilt-framed landscapes were a marginal improvement over the disapproving stares of the dead, and an arrangement of pink silk roses on the low table before the sofa suggested this parlor was for entertaining ladies.

  “I am not upset,” Jeanette said, settling on the sofa. “Please do sit.”

  Rather than sit beside her like the hopeful, presuming bachelor he was, Sycamore chose a wing chair angled at the end of the sofa.

  “What exactly has you not upset?” he asked. “Was it the note I sent?”

  “Partly.”

  Was it the passionate lovemaking? In her present mood, she would pitch him out a window if he asked that. He wasn’t sure how he drew that conclusion, but he trusted its accuracy.

  “Your butler referred to me as Mr. Doorknob. This suggests both his hearing and his eyesight have suffered the ravages of time.”

  “Mr. Doorknob?”

  “In all seriousness, while peering at my handsome little calling card.”

  Jeanette’s lip twitched. “Mr. Doorknob. Peem is the soul of dignity. He wasn’t being insulting on purpose.”

  “Of course not, but given the contents of my latest note, you might want to consider replacing him with somebody a little more…”

  “Peem has been with the family for ages,” Jeanette said, “and it’s not for me to suggest he retire.”

  “Yes, it is. Tavistock doesn’t think it’s his place, so that leaves you, and don’t tell me that a gentleman doesn’t argue with a lady. Where your safety is concerned, I am prepared to impersonate a barbarian.”

  “You are a barbarian,” she said, smiling at the silk roses.

  Finally, a smile. “Your barbarian.”

  Her expression became complicated, a little exasperated, a little bewildered. “I have missed you.”

  “Thank God. I’d hate to think I’m the only one staring off into space at odd moments, wondering what day it is, and forgetting where I put the spectacles perched on my nose.”

  Before Sycamore could embarrass himself with further confessions, a footman who might have gone to sea on the Ark pushed a tea trolley into the parlor.

  “Shall I pour, your ladyship?” he asked.

  “No need, Elliott. Thank you.”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Elliott perused Sycamore with the gravity of a disapproving bishop, offered a stately bow, and withdrew at a similarly unhurried pace.

  “Please tell me,” Sycamore said, “that you have at least one footman under the age of thirty who could be dispatched hotfoot to rouse the watch should the household catch fire.”

  “You aren’t worried about the household catching fire.”

  “When I behold you, my lady, I worry about my privities catching fire, for my imagination is already ablaze.”

  He’d hoped to make her smile again with that riposte, but her expression was, if anything, nonplussed.

  “Forgive me,” Sycamore said. “I am not flirting, I am stating the truth. I will put aside further disclosures regarding how utterly smitten I am with you and focus on the business I came to discuss.”

  “Please do.” Jeanette made no move to pour the tea, suggesting her calm was manufactured at the cost of considerable self-control. “I do not care for the notion that I’m being followed.”

  “I loathe it. Did you suspect somebody was keeping an eye on you before you sought to learn the use of the knife?”

  Jeanette toyed with the fringe of a blue velvet pillow. “I had a feeling, a vague sense of unease. I went out to the stables one morning to check on my mare—she’d shown a little soreness the day before, though she’d not been lame—and a stable boy I’d never seen before was raking an aisle that was already perfectly raked. I haven’t come across him since.”

  This was bad, and yet, this was information Sycamore should have asked for two knife lessons and one passionate coupling ago.

  “Go on.”

  “I was shopping for a memento to remark my niece Diana’s come out and picked up several other items for her sisters. A set of beaded gloves, an embroidered silk reticule, a silver bookmarker with the Tavistock coat of arms etched upon it. The same young ticket porter was on hand at each shop to take my purchases home for me.”

  “He followed you rather than take the first item home when your maid passed it to him.”

  “Or he knew how ladies go from shop to shop and was being sensible, but I’ve never known a ticket porter to carry three items when he can earn his coin carrying one.”

  Neither had Sycamore. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “I told myself I sought to learn to use knives mostly out of boredom, but I have been uneasy too. As you note, the staff here is aging and not exactly loyal to me. I wanted a project of my own, and you… you tempted me. Since the Wentwhistle house party, I tried to put you from my mind, but you refused to be banished.”

  Sycamore was torn between pleasure that he’d attracted her ladyship’s notice months ago and the need to look more closely at the unease she’d referred to.

  “You are uneasy, you decide to learn to use a knife, and then you find out you’re being followed from the Coventry and elsewhere. Now other incidents that caused you little concern at the time are appearing in a less sanguine light. Do I have that right?”

  Not a cheering recitation.

  “You do,” she replied. “My mare is recovered from whatever ailed her—a stone bruise, apparently—and Trevor and I went for a rare hack together this morning. I was so pleased to be doing something enjoyable with him again, and yet, I suspect we were followed.”

  “Did you get a look at your pursuer?”

  She shook her head. “I heard hoof beats on the path behind us. My mare whinnied, and another horse responded. When Trevor and I picked up the pace, so did whoever pursued us. The only place for a truly good gallop is along Rotten Row, but we were not followed there. Please tell me I am being fanciful.”

  “You are the least fanciful woman I know. If your instincts are telling you to be wary, my lady, be wary. Is there more?”

  She wore no jewelry, and her hair was done up in a simple chignon. How Sycamore would have loved to have started his day watching her rise and dress, to have brushed out her hair for her and tied the sl
ippers on her feet.

  The intensity of his feelings should have been alarming. Instead of alarm, what he felt was fascination—with her, with the deep sense of yearning and protectiveness she inspired.

  “I can be fanciful,” Jeanette said. “I said nothing to Trevor this morning because of course somebody else might simply have been taking the same bridle path we were, and maintaining a polite distance. I used to be fanciful, when I was a girl.”

  “Then you married the Marquess of Marital Duty and learned to hide your dreams from even yourself. Is something else troubling you, my lady?”

  Jeanette set aside the pillow she’d been toying with. “Viola called on me yesterday. She is married to Lord Beardsley, my late husband’s younger brother. Trevor’s only male cousin is their son, Jerome.”

  “Whom I have had the pleasure of meeting. They could be brothers, so closely do the cousins resemble each other.” Though Trevor was taller and not as much of a dandy as Jerome, nor did Trevor curl his locks à la Byron. Trevor had no need to be the center of attention, while Jerome always had a pack of fawning cronies with him when he came to the Coventry.

  “They are friends, which is a mixed blessing.”

  “Family can be like that.” Sycamore’s siblings doubtless considered their connection to him a mixed blessing.

  “Jerome isn’t awful, but he’s a typical ornament. His means are too modest to allow him to marry, and why should he? He’s kicking his heels from quarterly allowance to quarterly allowance, and now that Trevor is on hand, he can ride Trevor’s social and financial coattails.”

  Jerome was nearly awful, in Sycamore’s expert opinion. He was vain, idle, and jealous of his cousin’s title. Sycamore had seen that in the first half hour of play, and Ash had confirmed his impressions.

  “Go on, and perhaps a spot of tea would be in order?” Sycamore did not care for any tea, but he suspected Jeanette would be soothed by a familiar activity.

  “The tea. Of course, and please do forgive me. With a drop of honey?”

  “I am flattered that you’d recall my preferences. What about Viola’s visit bothered you?”