Sycamore lifted the latch.
“Wait, please.”
He turned. “So that you can cajole and insult me by turns for another quarter hour? I think not. Lady Tavistock, whom I esteem in every particular, asked me about pineapples as an investment. I told her I would inquire of you accordingly, but you don’t deserve to invest her money. You can’t see the family you’ve pretended to call your own for the past five years. My love to my sister and my nieces. I’ll see myself out.”
Kettering prevented him from making a grand exit by physically pushing the door closed. The prospect of fisticuffs loomed temptingly close at hand, but Sycamore would not give Kettering the satisfaction. Sycamore was younger, faster, and fitter than Kettering, and Jacaranda would take it amiss if Sycamore broke Kettering’s nose.
“Jacaranda has to occasionally pin my ears back,” Kettering said. “I don’t enjoy it, and I suspect she doesn’t either, but I benefit from her guidance.”
Sycamore turned, which put him in very close proximity to his brother-in-law. Close enough that a left uppercut—always lead with the unexpected hand—would have clipped Kettering hard on the jaw.
“Is that an apology, your lordship?”
Kettering grinned—more of his damned charm. “Yes. Yes, that is an apology for insulting you and your forest of brothers. The Dorning family is getting on quite well, and it galls me to be needed so little in that endeavor. Tell me about Lady Tavistock.”
Kettering was not needed at all, save to keep Jacaranda happy. “This goes no further.”
“Now you insult me.”
“I mean no further, Kettering. Not to Jacaranda, not to your flock of clerks, not to your coded journals.”
Kettering eased away. “My word as a gentleman.”
“Somebody has taken to following Lady Tavistock of an evening, and I believe she is worried for her safety. She manages the Tavistock accounts, she is the closest thing to a good influence on the young marquess, and the heir and spare—the titleholder’s uncle and cousin, respectively—might well find her influence over her step-son inconvenient.”
Sycamore had promised to keep the knife lessons private, and they worried him most of all.
“Lady Tavistock’s brother has enemies,” Kettering said. “Orion Goddard has enemies on both sides of the Channel, and on the Peninsula, and if that man cares for anybody—an open question—he cares for his sister.”
“His problems might have become hers?”
Kettering nodded, only the once. “Possibly.”
“Then I’d best make Mr. Goddard’s acquaintance.”
“Colonel Sir Orion Goddard, though I don’t think he uses his honorific.”
In a country that pretended to venerate its aristocracy, why eschew mention of the knighthood? “Then I will make the colonel’s acquaintance. Thank you for your time, Kettering.”
“Will you plant me a facer if I tell you to be careful?”
“Goddard is that difficult?” Sycamore was reminded that her ladyship worried for her brother, mostly from a polite distance.
“He had a rough go of it in the military,” Kettering said. “Nobody will quite say what happened. He’s known to have a temper, and he and his sister are not friendly. He might not be received, so it’s fortunate he doesn’t socialize.”
A difficult, self-absorbed, unhappy man. The Coventry was full of them on any given night and boasted its share of difficult, self-absorbed, unhappy women too. Even the staff was prone to the occasional tantrum or broken dish.
“Anything else I should know?” Sycamore asked.
Kettering’s smile was faint, but genuine. “If her ladyship would like to invest with us, I suggest she buy in by purchasing from each of us a quarter of our shares.”
“That results in her having only two-thirds the shares we each hold.”
Kettering’s smile faded. “You’d bring her in as an equal partner?”
“An equal partner, or not at all. Good day, Kettering, and thank you for your time.”
Kettering looked as if he wanted to say more, to resume cajolery as usual, but Sycamore had put up with years of such condescension and was no longer inclined to indulge Kettering’s whims.
He slipped through the door, retrieved his hat and cane, and saw himself out.
The knives, such delightful new acquaintances on first meeting, turned up contrary at the second lesson. Jeanette took a step closer to the target, which was once more sitting on a chair several yards down the corridor, and let fly.
“Blast and perdition.” The knife bounced off the wood and clattered to the cobbled floor.
Mr. Dorning, in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat today, cravat still neatly pinned, ambled forward. “You can do better than that.”
“I am trying my best, Mr. Dorning.” And yet, the occasional throw missed the wood entirely and sailed into the shadows at the end of the corridor.
Mr. Dorning retrieved five blades from various corners of the target and the sixth from the floor. Jeanette liked watching him move, liked the flex of his haunches when he bent to pick up a knife, liked how his fingers wrapped around the hilts. The man was wretchedly distracting even when not half naked.
“I meant,” he said, approaching with the knives, “with your profanity. There’s nobody here to judge, nobody to repeat your epithets. I have heard far worse than ‘blast and perdition.’ You won’t shock me, your ladyship.”
He passed Jeanette five of the blades and toed the imaginary line, then waited for Jeanette to move behind him.
“Watch how far back I cock my arm, then how far forward it travels. Much of the momentum of the knife comes not from my arm or hand, but from my body. You’ll see no flick of the wrist, just an opportune release. The index finger caresses the blade in a lingering farewell. Last week, you were throwing with more of your whole body. This week, you are too tightly laced, or something.”
The knife, of course, buried itself dead center in the target. He held out his hand, and Jeanette slapped the hilt of the second blade into his palm. Five more throws resulted in a rosette of blades clustered around the first throw.
“What did you notice?” Mr. Dorning asked, prowling forward to retrieve his knives.
Jeanette noticed his bum, which filled out his breeches with an admirable quantity of tight, rounded muscle. She noticed his wrists, which managed to be elegant, and noticed the frigid focus in his eyes whenever he handled a knife. Would he wear the same expression when handling a woman, or would those marvelous eyes warm with tenderness?
“I noticed that you are accurate, and today, I am utterly incompetent.” The disappointment was inordinate.
He passed her a knife. “You are unfocused. What has distracted you?”
What had not distracted her? Trevor hadn’t come down to breakfast at all either that morning or the previous Thursday. Jeanette handled the social correspondence, and she doubted he’d been up late swilling brandy at the Lewis musicale. Sopranos were not Trevor’s idea of a fine diversion.
“I am a bit fatigued,” Jeanette said, stepping forward.
“Fatigue does not necessarily affect aim,” Mr. Dorning replied, taking up a lean against the wall behind her and crossing his arms. “Part of the delight of wielding a knife is that it takes very little strength. If you are quick enough, the knife has tremendous force, and you can be quite quick, my lady. What has cost you your sleep?”
She positioned the knife and toed the line. The target wasn’t moving—moving targets were on the curriculum after the still targets presented no challenge—and last week, she’d been able to hit the damned thing.
“Trevor is acting like an ass.”
“I don’t suppose he’s very good at it. He’s a dear, earnest young man.”
Jeanette threw the knife and was rewarded with the thunk of metal biting into wood. She’d hit far off center, but a hit was a hit.
“He is a dear, earnest young man, but he is developing bad habits and secretiveness, which most people
would refer to as a young man’s entitlement to privacy. Knife.”
Mr. Dorning passed her the second blade. “Wine, women, and wagering?”
The second knife was more obliging by two inches. “I don’t know about the women, but he’s over-imbibing and losing at cards. I’ve had to increase his allowance. Knife.”
Number three went wide on the other side of the target, landing only an inch from the edge.
“Focus, my lady. Think of whoever might be leading your lamb astray and let the knife drive them off.”
Number four was only a couple inches from the center of the target. “Trevor has one male cousin. Jerome isn’t a wastrel, but he’s fribbling about Town on an inheritance left to him by an auntie. He hasn’t enough coin to marry, he does no useful work, and he sets nothing aside for the funds. Knife.”
“And if you dare say something to Jerome about leaving Lord Tavistock alone, Jerome will tattle. You’re forgetting to breathe.”
Right. Breathe. Jeanette was also forgetting to relax before she threw. Mr. Dorning had explained that all the tension was to go into the throw, not the thrower. Number five benefited from either a good deep breath or relaxation—or luck—for it sank into the center of the wood.
“You’re finding your rhythm,” Mr. Dorning said, passing her the last knife. “Final throw, so enjoy it. You might ask Jerome for his help.”
“His help? He’s an idler who befriends other idlers. They think it great entertainment to watch each other dress, which exercise can take all morning and reduce a valet to tears. The Albany ought to change its name to the Dressing Closet by day and the Debauchery by night.”
The knife hit with a satisfying thump and stuck hard in the center of the target.
“Not debauchery,” Mr. Dorning said, once again striding forward to retrieve the blades. “Most young men prefer to do their dallying someplace other than their dwelling. That privacy you mentioned is too tender to be infiltrated by spies in petticoats. Home is where a bachelor-about-Town entertains his friends at cards, nurses a sore head, or takes secret delight in maudlin poetry and a solitary oyster dinner. You are worried for his lordship.”
He laid the knives in their velvet-lined case and lifted the target off its chair to set it against the nearest wine rack.
“I am worried,” Jeanette said. “I hate admitting that. Worry is pointless.”
“I worry a great deal,” Mr. Dorning said, passing Jeanette his coat.
She held it for him—was a man ever blessed with a more perfect set of shoulders and a more gracefully masculine back?—and smoothed the fabric before he stepped away.
“What could you possibly worry about, Mr. Dorning? Your club thrives, your family does as well. Your wealth and influence increase by the Season, and as an earl’s son, you are received everywhere.”
He left his coat unbuttoned and took up a shawl Jeanette had folded over a barrel. She allowed him to drape the wrap over her shoulders, a courtesy her own husband had never offered her.
“I worry about my business,” Mr. Dorning said. “The chef leaves, the undercook takes a notion to marry, and my kitchen is no longer up to standards. A rumor is circulated by a competitor that my tables are crooked, and my business fails in a fortnight. Two dozen hardworking people are unemployed, my suppliers lose income, my business associates lose faith in me. My brother Ash, who is my partner and friend…”
He strode off to replace the chair against the wall.
“Your brother Ash?”
“Ash is prone to serious bouts of melancholia. The Dorning family finances are not what they should be, though they are improving gradually. The staff is feuding over wages, and my champagne supplier has realized how much I depend on a volume discount to afford my customers the free drink that flows in such quantity after midnight.”
“The Goddards still have vineyards in France. I could make inquiries for you.”
He buttoned up his coat and offered his arm. “I would be very appreciative of such inquiries. My supplier was delighted to offer the Coventry a substantial discount when the club opened its doors, but this year he has become greedy. Greed and loyalty are poor bedfellows.”
They climbed the steps, and Jeanette realized that even though she’d thrown poorly, her mood had improved.
“Do you throw knives to manage the worry?”
A lit sconce at the top of the steps cast Mr. Dorning’s features in shadow, suggesting the serious, mature man he’d eventually become—or perhaps already was, upon closer examination.
“I have a capacity for worry that threatens to overwhelm me at times. I literally quake with dread out of all proportion to the moment, your ladyship, and yes, the knives help. Fencing and riding help. A rousing bout at Jackson’s helps, though my brother will no longer spar with me. Good, sensible company helps, which brings us back to your step-son. Why not ask Jerome to keep an eye on him?”
They passed into the hallway that ran between the pantries and on to the next set of steps.
“As Trevor’s older male cousin,” Jeanette said, “Jerome should already be keeping an eye on him, and from what I can see, the result is increasing inebriation, increasing losses at the tables, and God knows what else.”
“Tobacco, certainly,” Mr. Dorning said, leading Jeanette out onto the gambling floor. “Hashish is likely, as is an occasional pipe of opium. Opera dancers are nearly a foregone conclusion, but Jerome, being from a titled family without a current heir of the body, will be too fastidious to frequent the truly sorry establishments.”
How odd that such blunt speech comforted. “You are attempting to talk sense to me. I appreciate that far more than telling me not to worry.”
“Could your brother be of any use?”
The question was posed with a studied casualness, though the suggestion made sense. Marriage created family connections, and in earlier years, Rye and Trevor had developed a passing cordial acquaintance.
“My brother is more in need of help than he is capable of giving it, I’m afraid. The extent to which Rye has kept his distance from me appalls me, but I conclude that he has his reasons.”
Mr. Dorning held the dining room door for her and ushered her into a cozy parlor lightly fragranced with lemon blossoms.
“This is lovely,” she said, for the table was elegantly set, the lemon blossoms forming a low centerpiece among lit candles and gleaming silver warming dishes.
“Please have a seat,” Mr. Dorning said, pulling out the chair closest to the hearth. “And tell me more of your brother. Is he that far sunk into scandal that he’s protecting you by keeping his distance?”
Jeanette sat and draped her table napkin across her lap. “The old Rye would do that, but the man who came home from the war… I hardly know him, and I miss my brother terribly.”
Mr. Dorning took a seat at her right hand and patted her arm. “Family is the very devil. I troubled myself to learn of your brother’s direction. You could call on him.”
He poured Jeanette a glass of white wine, twisting his wrist just so to prevent any drops from running down the side of the bottle.
“I know his direction, but I haven’t toured the surrounds lest he catch me at it. I gather the neighborhood is decent?”
Mr. Dorning poured himself half a glass. “Decent, yes, though colorful around the edges. Perfectly acceptable for a bachelor. Perhaps you and Tavistock could call upon him together. My experience of young men is that they need badly to feel useful. My oldest brother saw that and cast his younger siblings out into the world to find the places where we could make a contribution. We have all come out the better for being evicted from the ancestral pile.”
Jeanette tasted her wine, a delightful, slightly dry Riesling would be her guess. “But you are homesick, aren’t you?”
Mr. Dorning picked up his wineglass, and the picture he made, lounging elegantly, expression slightly wistful, hair not quite perfectly combed, made Jeanette hungry for sustenance other than food.
“I
am worse than homesick,” he said, sipping his wine. “I am nostalgic. I was a miserable boy, always getting into scrapes, spying on my siblings, stealing from them and having my larceny flung in my face at dinner. I was possessed by a mischief demon, probably trying to get myself noticed by my parents, a futile endeavor. My mother referred to me as ‘that dreadful imp.’ If my father called me by name, he had to first fumble through a litany of wrong guesses—‘Valerian, Ash, Oak, I mean, Sycamore, dammit, boy…’”
“And you miss those days now?”
“No, but I miss something about them, something about being part of a family that had a place, however awkward, for even a dreadful imp of a boy.”
“I can see that boy in you,” Jeanette said as Mr. Dorning ladled a creamy hot soup into a bowl. “You are too smart for your own good, and you have a wicked sense of humor.”
He set the steaming bowl before her—not too full, but enough to take the edge off an appetite—and ladled himself a similar portion.
“And your sense of humor is not wicked?” he asked.
Jeanette tried a spoonful of soup and found that it went exquisitely with the wine. A vichyssoise, whether hot or cold, could be little more than leeks and cream, but in this recipe, the leeks were either absent or too subtle to be detected.
“My sense of humor used to be wicked, and then I was married off at seventeen to Lord Tavistock. The joke was on me.”
“Tell me about that,” Mr. Dorning said, picking up his spoon.
As the meal progressed, Jeanette did tell him, though the topic did not qualify as polite.
She told Mr. Dorning about Tavistock choosing her from a list, not bothering to court her beyond a few public gestures, and explaining to her on their wedding night that her sole redeeming feature was her womb, which he intended to fill as often as possible with healthy boy babies.
“I was a crashing disappointment as a marchioness,” Jeanette concluded, as Mr. Dorning retrieved a tray of brie and fruit from the sideboard. The presentation was a beautiful arrangement of dried apricots, pear slices, and raspberries, all arranged around the cheese and a little white ceramic pot of honey. The finishing touch was a raspberry sauce artfully drizzled over the whole, with more held in another little white ceramic pot. “This is almost too pretty to eat.”
The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12 Page 6