Jeanette unswaddled the teapot from its linen wrap. She poured with a steady hand and served herself a cup as well.
“Viola threatened me,” Jeanette said. “I was feeling quite on my mettle for a change, unwilling to meekly accept her scolds. When she told me Trevor will come to a bad end by spending time at the Coventry, I replied that Beardsley, who is Trevor’s legal guardian, ought to have a talk with his nephew if Trevor’s doom is so close at hand. Moreover, Jerome was in a better position than I to influence Trevor’s behavior. Viola suggested if I were unwilling or unable to intercede, I would soon find myself consigned to the dower house.”
“Where is the dower house?”
“Derbyshire, at the edge of the Peak.”
Nearly two hundred damned miles from London. Sycamore sipped his tea, an unremarkable and surprisingly weak blend. If Jeanette removed to Derbyshire, he’d… buy an adjoining property?
“How can that threat be carried out?” he asked. “You are a widow, and this house belongs to Trevor. He isn’t about to order you off the premises.”
Jeanette had not tasted her tea, which was probably a surer sign of agitation than if she’d paced and ranted.
“Trevor might send me off—politely, but he has the authority. Why keep me around when he and Jerome could share this house? Viola has never liked me, nor I her, but something about her air was more confident, more dire. She still has two daughters to fire off, and that weighs upon her. She’d like Trevor to marry one of his cousins, and with me out of the way, that scheme would have a better chance of succeeding.”
“For the nonce, Trevor should not be marrying anybody.” Not until he’d met a woman who made him think of leaving all he’d worked for to move to benighted Derbyshire.
“Something is changing, Sycamore. For the past two years, I’ve been the widow out of mourning. I occupy myself with my charities. I socialize enough that I can be a competent hostess for Trevor when the time comes. Until recently, I would have said the dower house was a lovely property, and I could be content there.”
“But?”
“But I have the sense of forces in motion, perhaps because Trevor refused to serve his full sentence at Oxford, or Viola is having trouble launching the younger girls, or Beardsley is tired of my meddling with the solicitors, but something is afoot.”
Sycamore moved to sit beside her. “It’s worse than that. Your staff is behindhand, Jeanette. The tea leaves have been reused, the ferns in the foyer are choking to death in those pretty pots, and somebody is spying on you. You aren’t willing to even close a door in your own home for fear that your behavior will be reported to Viola. Come driving with me.”
“I would have to change my dress.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Find a shawl, don your half boots, and meet me in the foyer in five minutes.”
“You are ordering me about, Mr. Dorning.”
“Pleading with you.”
A hint of her usual self-possession returned. “Very well. Ten minutes.” She kissed his cheek and left him with the tea tray, in which he had no interest. Instead, he used the time to snoop about the residence of the current Marquess of Tavistock.
What he found pleased him not one bit. Boring art, lax housekeeping, lumpy chairs, and no place where a lady might secret herself with a gent bent on stealing so much as a kiss.
Chapter Eight
Driving out with Sycamore Dorning had been a revelation.
He’d called early enough that the park was not yet thronged, and yet, the hour was sufficiently advanced that Jeanette’s excursion had been noticed. To each passing carriage or equestrian, Sycamore had offered a tip of his hat, a nod, a smile.
And he’d received many smiles in return, not only from the ladies.
For Jeanette, there had been other smiles—not exactly friendly, but rather, appraising, assessing, envious. Why is a glorious specimen like him driving out with a Puritan like her?
Jeanette wasn’t a Puritan. She gambled, for pity’s sake, mostly for the mental exercise of working through probabilities and also to get out of the blighted house. She did not, however, engender envious glances from matchmakers, or curious smiles from the eligibles. Not unless Sycamore Dorning was at her side.
Simply driving out with him had changed how Society saw her.
“My lady, you have a caller.” Peem took her bonnet and cloak.
“Did this caller have a card?”
The old fellow looked momentarily confused, then patted his pockets. He passed over a little rectangle of cream linen. Lady Della Dorning.
Well. Lady Della had attended the Wentwhistles’ house party, but Jeanette did not consider her ladyship a close acquaintance. Jeanette didn’t consider anybody a close acquaintance, not even Sycamore.
He was a lover, possibly a friend, and even more likely a problem. Two weeks hence, turning him into a fond memory would be no mean feat.
“Where is her ladyship?” Jeanette asked.
“The blue parlor, madam.”
Jeanette took herself down the corridor, Lady Della’s card tucked into a pocket. She hadn’t had real callers since the previous Season, when one at-home every fortnight had been sufficient to allow the gawkers to look Trevor over and measure him as a groom for their daughters and nieces.
“Lady Della.” Jeanette curtseyed. “A pleasure. I hope married life is agreeing with you.”
Her ladyship was petite. Her hair was an in-between brown, neither auburn nor blond, and her features, while pretty, were unremarkable. What distinguished Lady Della was a sense of leashed energy, a quality of focus and purpose that gave her a larger and more memorable presence.
“Lady Tavistock, good day. Married life is the fulfillment of all my cherished dreams and not a few of my girlish fantasies. How fare you?”
“Well, thank you. Shall we be seated? Oh, dear.” Jeanette was mortified to see that nobody had removed the tea tray, much less provided a fresh one. “I do apologize. Shall I ring for a fresh pot?”
“No need,” Lady Della said, removing her gloves and taking a seat in a wing chair. “I gather Sycamore called on you before he took you driving?”
Jeanette hadn’t been home five minutes, and already she was being interrogated. “Would Mr. Dorning appreciate your curiosity about his socializing, my lady?” Jeanette took a seat on the sofa, not as affronted as she wanted to sound. To be noticed, to have one’s companion remarked, was a little flattering, wasn’t it?
On the heels of that thought came another: If Lady Della already knew that Jeanette had spent an hour in the park with Sycamore Dorning, who else knew? Jeanette hadn’t been followed that she’d noticed—Sycamore would have said something, wouldn’t he?—but she’d been seen.
“Sycamore told his brother his plans for the afternoon. I am married to that brother, ergo, I knew Sycamore’s plans. May I help myself to the shortbread? I realize the request is quite forward, but my digestion has become unreliable, and right now, the thought of a buttery nibble of shortbread…” Lady Della smiled, and Jeanette knew why Ash Dorning had lost his heart to this woman.
“Help yourself, of course.”
Her ladyship selected two pieces and put them on a plate. “Sycamore says Lord Tavistock is actually of some use at the club. That is high praise, but what do you think of the marquess attaching himself to the Dorning brothers at this juncture?”
How different Lady Della’s call was from Viola’s. No lectures here, no sermons. “I was under the impression Lord Tavistock is mostly at Mr. Sycamore Dorning’s beck and call. The marquess is working off a debt of honor and gaining a rapid education in how not to waste his inheritance, I hope.”
“Ash is going over the books with the marquess later this week. Tavistock seems like a bright young fellow, though I should warn you, the Coventry can be seductive.”
Her ladyship was doing justice to the shortbread, though she stopped at two pieces.
“The Coventry can be seductive? I would say rather that Sycamore Dorni
ng is seductive.”
Lady Della dusted her hands, and Jeanette realized what exactly she’d revealed with her observation.
“Like that, is it?” Lady Della said. “I thought so. I hoped so. Sycamore was quite taken with you at the Wentwhistles’ house party, and not his usual infatuation either.”
“Mr. Dorning kindly advanced me needed sums for a short time at the house party.”
“But he didn’t charm his way into your bed, did he? That is very curious.”
He had expressed a willingness to join her in bed, and Jeanette had been so shocked, she’d brushed him off and spent the whole winter regretting it.
“Your question is quite bold, my lady. Might I ask you to come to the point?” Jeanette would have asked her ladyship to leave, except that Lady Della’s gaze was both puzzled and benign. She was not trolling for gossip or making any sort of threat.
Jeanette did not know what Lady Della was about, but then, her ladyship had married a Dorning, and Dornings apparently did not adhere to Society’s usual expectations.
“That Sycamore exercised some restraint where you are concerned is a vast compliment,” Lady Della said. “He is quite,”—she waved a hand—“frolicsome in the ordinary course. He plays by the rules, never mixes business and pleasure, and does the pretty when the occasion requires proper manners, but with you, Cam is all at sea.”
Cam. Sycamore had a nickname, a family name, one he’d mentioned but never directly invited Jeanette to use. To Jeanette’s brother, she had once upon a time been Nettie, a name that had always carried a hint of endearment because only Rye referred to her as such. Nobody had called her Nettie for years.
“Mr. Dorning seems very self-possessed to me.” Under all circumstances, particularly the intimate ones.
Lady Della rose to study the landscape hanging over the sideboard, though even in that image, a troop of soldiers emerged from dark woods into rolling countryside. Billowing clouds dotted the sky above, and an eagle flew at the head of the military column.
A stupid composition, all symbolism and no story, no beauty. The blue sky qualified it for admission to this insipid little parlor, and abruptly, Jeanette wanted to toss the damned thing out the window.
Toss her insipid life out the window.
“Mr. Dorning has you all at sea too, doesn’t he?” Lady Della asked, sending a sympathetic glance over her shoulder. “Cam is like that. He sets everybody on their ears then looks innocently about as if to wonder who could have possibly caused all the commotion. I love him dearly.”
One did not say such things, not about a brother-by-marriage, but perhaps one did say them about Sycamore Dorning. “He loves you too, Lady Della. You are family to him, and thus he loves you.”
“It’s the other way around,” Lady Della said, resuming her place in the wing chair. “If Sycamore loves you, you become part of his family. I did not realize that as quickly as I ought. I thought he was meddling between Ash and me, but he was looking out for us. What are you about with him, my lady?”
“Is every Dorning this direct?”
“No, some of them are deviously polite, others overwhelm with charm, others listen with the sort of inordinate attentiveness that soon has all your secrets spilling onto the floor. I haven’t the subtlety for those approaches, so here I am, managing as best I can. What you tell me stays between us, my lady. You were kind to me at the Wentwhistle debacle when I very much needed kindness. I will countenance no disrespect toward Sycamore, but I thought you could use a friend.”
A friend. What a novel concept, and one disconcertingly lacking in Jeanette’s life. The marquess had told her upon whom to call and whom to ignore. The young ladies she’d gone to finishing school with were to be politely excised from her life, while wives of powerful MPs or high-ranking lords were acceptable connections.
Jeanette rose to close the door, though the servants would remark it.
Too bad. “I like Sycamore,” she said. “But I suspect everybody likes him. He charms all and sundry, and he knows every small courtesy to make a lady feel cherished. He passed me the reins when he hopped down from the curricle, he held my hand only one instant too long when I alighted. He pats my glove when I put my hand on his arm. He is a gentleman and a rascal. He would turn any woman’s head.”
“Has he turned yours?”
That question was easy to answer. “He has, which is lovely and awful at the same time. I have fashioned a persona—confident, content, rational. Sycamore Dorning upends everything I’ve spent years telling myself I value, and at the worst possible time. I could not forget him after the Wentwhistle house party, and I have forgotten everybody. The brother I used to know and love, my well-intended parents. My governess who warned me that marriage is an adjustment. I’ve forgotten them all, then along struts Sycamore Dorning, and my imagination refuses to eject him.”
And that, oddly, was exactly the status the late marquess had sought: all-consuming focus of Jeanette’s thoughts, the origin of her every conjecture, fear, and hope.
“My husband would have hated Sycamore,” Jeanette added, a realization that gave her pause. “The late marquess would have feared Sycamore, feared his courage, his boldness, his unwillingness to endure pretenses or stupid conventions for the sake of approval.”
“A lot of people fear Sycamore, and he likes it that way. His own siblings aren’t always sure how to deal with him, though Ash has developed the knack. I hope you do not fear him.”
Jeanette did, or she feared the power Sycamore could have over her if she surrendered her heart to him. Fortunately, she’d promised him only two more encounters, and even against his formidable campaign, she could guard her heart that long.
“Mr. Dorning would never intentionally harm those less powerful than he,” Jeanette said. “Have I answered your question to your satisfaction, my lady?”
“No, but I don’t think you have the answers to give. Sycamore does that—he confuses people. He’s not easy company, but he’s fierce, loyal, funny, sweet, and roaringly masculine. I suspect you confuse him too.”
“I confuse him?”
“For Sycamore to allow himself a love of his own, not another addition to his vast collection of friends, neighbors, and family, but a love loyal firstly unto him, likely scares him witless. Be kind to him, my lady, or he will haunt you far more than your dead husband has.”
Good heavens, this woman was blunt—also perceptive. “How can you tell the marquess haunts me?”
“You said you forgot everybody, but you did not mention him on the list, and from what my sisters tell me, the marquess was a pathetic, prancing martinet desperate for a spare.”
A dutiful widow would have defended her husband’s memory. Jeanette’s dutiful widow tiara was apparently slipping, because the image of her late husband prancing around the bedroom in his silk dressing gowns made her smile.
Or smirk perhaps. “You give me much to think about, my lady,” Jeanette said. “Am I correct that you and Mr. Ash Dorning are in anticipation of a precious event?”
“How can you tell?”
“I simply can. I spent years praying nightly for conception and have developed an eye for those who are now praying for a safe delivery. I hope you will call again, my lady. Your direct speech is as bracing as it is refreshing.”
Lady Della rose. “You need not be polite with me, madam. I will report to Sycamore that you are as lovely upon further acquaintance as I had imagined and that he’d best marry you at the first opportunity.”
Jeanette had risen, intent on seeing her guest out. Lady Della’s casual observation nearly had her toppling back to the sofa. “Marry me?”
“Of course, marry you. He is smitten, thoroughly, absolutely, and Sycamore-ly smitten. Yes, he’s a handful, but if you accept the true heart that he offers, you acquire not only a loyal and dare we say manly spouse, but an entire family of Dornings who will never let one of their own suffer alone. Think about that.”
Lady Della took a last look
around the parlor, while Jeanette heard an echo of figurative cannon fire.
“Have a word with your cook too,” Lady Della said, marching for the door. “The shortbread is a bit stale.”
“Dorning Hall is a little worn around the edges,” Sycamore said, “but worn in a comforting way. We decorate the place with Papa’s botanical prints because he loved them, and we loved him.”
Ash glanced up from whatever catalog of wines he was reading. Increasingly, he was to be found in the Coventry’s office only during daylight hours.
“Botanical prints are pretty,” Ash said, “and Oak drew a lot of them, so we had to pay nothing for them.”
“That’s not the point,” Sycamore said, pacing before the office’s desk. He’d slept in the adjoining bedroom last night—again—and dreamed of Jeanette. “The point is, those prints mean something to us. We know where Papa found many of the specimens, we’ve actually read the plant properties he listed in the margins for this weed or that blossom, and we like seeing his handwriting framed on our walls.”
“They are Casriel’s walls. I gather champagne is becoming more popular. These prices are ridiculous.”
“You are ridiculous,” Sycamore said, turning a straight-backed chair away from the desk and planting himself on it astraddle. “I am trying to pour out my heart to you, and you babble about the price of wine.”
Ash closed the catalog. “The price of wine matters when we’re giving the stuff away by the barrel. Tavistock suggested we serve our champagne in slightly smaller glasses to achieve an economy.”
“A brilliant idea, except we’d need to order special glasses, which would not be an economy. Have you ever been to Tavistock House?”
“I sent a reconnaissance officer,” Ash said, smiling slightly.
Sycamore knew that smile. “Della paid a call on the marchioness?”
“Earlier in the week. Della claimed the house reflects dull taste two decades out of fashion, the staff is antediluvian, and the whole place is quiet as a tomb.”
The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12 Page 15
