The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12

by Grace Burrowes

  Jerome paused in the consumption of his steak to sip his wine. He had mastered the art of lordly dining, of making the meal secondary to the company he offered, while Trevor longed for a dark, quiet room.

  “You must not speak ill of her ladyship,” Trevor said. “She was a very young bride, and her hopes of motherhood were disappointed. Ah, the tea tray approaches.”

  Jerome’s smile was sympathetic. “You need to put more meat on your bones, my boy. You’d hold your drink more easily, and then Jeanette would have less cause to rip up at you.”

  The waiter took the steak away—thank God—and Trevor poured himself a cup of salvation. “Where are you off to tonight?” A change of subject seemed in order, lest Jerome wax any more eloquent about Step-mama’s nonexistent shortcomings.

  And must Jerome look so casually elegant while criticizing his female relation? Whereas Trevor was too tall, too fair, and too skinny—the tailor’s word was slender—Jerome was an elegant two inches above average height, carried some muscle, and wore his golden hair a la Byron. He knew everybody, was invited everywhere, and was as comfortable at the cockpits as he was mincing through minuets.

  He would have made a splendid marquess, though he never once mentioned the title. And yet, the title lay between Trevor and his only male cousin, both bond and barrier.

  “Step-mama does not rip up at me,” Trevor said, dipping a lemon biscuit into his tea. “She has a care for how I go on because she is loyal to Papa’s memory.”

  Jerome waved a bite of steak around on his fork. “She hated the old rooster. I didn’t like him much myself, but he saw to it I was properly educated. Mama is asking when you will visit your lady cousins.”

  The old rooster. That was blatant disrespect, and Trevor ought not to countenance it, even from Jerome.

  “Papa remarried because he did not want the entire burden of the succession to fall on me, and we must respect him for that,” Trevor said, though as scolds went, that was a weak effort.

  “Your Papa fancied himself a cocksman. Speaking of which, shall we drop around to see the ladies tonight?”

  Trevor had so far avoided any visits to the bordellos with Jerome. The whole business of choosing a woman the same way he’d choose a hack at a livery stable struck him as distasteful, also ill-advised from the standpoint of protecting his health.

  Temples of Venus were temples of disease, as Step-mama’s brother had informed Trevor shortly after Trevor’s fifteenth birthday. Goddard’s warning had stuck with Trevor as various friends had cheerfully complained of contracting the bachelor’s ailment, the Covent Garden ague, or the Corsican’s revenge.

  So many names for an avoidable misery.

  “I will leave the ladies to you, for I must make my obeisance at The Coventry Club,” Trevor said. “I want that chore behind me.” Thank heavens Step-mama had increased his allowance, and yet, the sum he’d lost would still take some time to repay.

  “Come with me,” Jerome said. “You can have your chat with Sycamore Dorning after your spirits have been lifted, so to speak.”

  Trevor poured himself another cup of the tea, the previous three having had a mild restorative effect. “A gentleman pays his debts of honor, Jere.” Trevor would also ask Mr. Sycamore Dorning for a few pointers at the tables, in hopes that further losses might be prevented. At last autumn’s house party, Mr. Ash Dorning had opined that such lessons would be freely given.

  “Perhaps a gentleman has his own bit of muslin secreted away in a pretty little house on a pretty little street in Bloomsbury?” Jerome mused, finishing his wine. “But no, Bloomsbury is too predictable. Knightsbridge. Easy access to the park for a morning ride after your evening ride, not as likely to be frequented by polite society, and—lest we forget the priorities—affordable.”

  “Until I bring my finances ’round,” Trevor replied, “not affordable enough.” The increase in his allowance should have made such an arrangement possible. Step-mama was dignified, but she had an ease with the practicalities that Trevor lacked, and she made no inquiries about how he spent his money. Perhaps she had intended him to take a mistress, not that he’d ever ask her.

  Lack of funds aside, there also remained the conundrum of how to meet a woman willing to occupy such a pretty little house, and on what terms to offer her its use. All complicated, and not a topic Trevor wanted to raise with Jerome—or anybody.

  “Until you bring your finances ’round,” Jerome said, crossing his knife and fork over his empty plate, “you will be no damned fun. Tell the solicitors to arrange an advance. They send word to the bank, and darling Jeanette is none the wiser.”

  “Her ladyship is not ‘darling Jeanette’ to you, Jerome. Have a care.” Besides, her ladyship read the bank statements as if they were Wellington’s dispatches from the front. She’d notice.

  Jerome smiled lazily and helped himself to Trevor’s untouched wine. “So protective. Will you call me out, Tav?”

  “I will beat you silly for ungentlemanly conduct. Her ladyship has not had an easy time of it, and she is dear to me.” Step-mama was family to Trevor in a way nobody else was. She had made certain his tutors were more interested in educating him than intimidating him, and she had prevented him from being sent off to Eton until he’d been twelve years old and eager for the experience.

  Jerome left a half inch of wine in the glass. “Jeanette is not bad looking. I’ve thought of marrying her.”

  Trevor nearly spluttered his tea all over the table. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Jeanette. She’s only five years my senior, and that would keep her settlements in the family. When Mama stops nattering on about you marrying Diana or Hera, she lately takes up a refrain about the marchioness being young enough to remarry.”

  Abruptly, even the tea rebelled. “What on earth can you say to such ridiculous notions?”

  “I don’t have to say anything. Papa reminds Mama that Jeanette is barren, and Mama subsides into silence. The whole burden of the succession isn’t on you, dear boy. A portion of it is reserved for my humble and handsome self.”

  “Which is more comfort to me than you can possibly know. Step-mama would never have you, though, so you are safe from Auntie’s schemes.”

  Jerome laid his table napkin beside his plate. “You think the marchioness is some sort of paragon of feminine virtue, but she’s a woman like any other. She has needs, and she has far too much blunt for one female. I might win her over, given enough time. I can be charming, and I would not put excessive demands on her.”

  “Hush,” Trevor said, more upset than he cared to show. “Hush and don’t speak of this again. If her ladyship had any inclination to remarry at all, I would know it, and I can assure you, that citadel will never crumble. Particularly not to suit your notions of keeping money within the family and conveniently within your reach.”

  Jerome rose. “Never say never, Cousin, but do give the Coventry my regards.” He flourished a bow and strode off, a fashion plate on two legs, leaving Trevor upset in body, mind, and belly.

  “My lord, let’s take this discussion upstairs, shall we?” Sycamore gestured in the direction of the Coventry’s office. He wore his most genial smile, the better to torment young Tavistock. If the marquess expected a lot of deference and delicacy, he was soon to be disappointed. “I trust you’ve come to pay off your vowels. I commend you for tending to your debts of honor promptly.”

  The marquess’s fair complexion had a slight greenish cast, poor lad. He went up the steps as enthusiastically as a boy who expects not only a birching from Headmaster, but a lengthy lecture besides.

  Sycamore closed the office door and crossed to the sideboard. “May I offer you some brandy? It’s a fine vintage, if I do say so myself.”

  “No brandy for me, thank you.”

  “You were doing your part to drain my stores of champagne on Saturday night, my lord. Dare I observe that copious drink and wagering are not a wise combination?”

  Tavistock took out a pair of spe
ctacles and peered at the Gillray print. “Is that why you serve free champagne, to make people foolish?”

  Not exactly the question of a penitent. “I do not make people foolish any more than I can make the foolish wise. Shall you have a seat, my lord?”

  “I don’t want to sit,” Tavistock said. “I want to bolt out that door and never set foot in this establishment again.”

  Sycamore took the chair behind the desk, a minor disrespect given Tavistock’s rank. “But here you are.”

  Tavistock left off pretending to study visual humor that he was too young to truly comprehend. “I need a little time, Mr. Dorning. My allowance is adequate to cover my losses, but not until the next payment. If you would permit me to tend to my vowels in increments, I would appreciate it.”

  Six months ago, Tavistock had had some boyish charm to go with his inexperience. London, or somebody in London, was not having a good effect on his lordship.

  “And if I don’t care to wait on your next quarterly installment?” Sycamore said, leaning back. “I run a business, my lord, and if you cannot pay in coin, then you should be looking for a way to pay in kind. A gentleman pays his debts of honor timely.”

  Tavistock took the chair opposite the desk. “You won’t give me even a few weeks? That’s a bit harsh, Mr. Dorning.”

  “Men have been called out for less, my lord. Debts of honor are exactly that. I cannot haul you into court on a gambling marker, and why should I have to? You own several estates, an entire dressing closet of finery, at least three riding horses, any number of matched teams, gold cravat pins, jeweled snuffboxes … You are more than able to pay. You simply choose not to.”

  Tavistock’s expression was perplexed. “I’m to surrender my goods to you?”

  The seraphic chorus might be more innocent than the marquess, but not by much. “I could take a horse in payment, if I needed one, but I don’t, and horseflesh is devilish expensive to keep in Town. Have your manservant take some of your uglier jeweled sleeve buttons, rings, or shoe buckles around to the pawnshops, and they’ll make an offer. You can redeem the goods at exorbitant rates, but it’s not exactly usury, so the authorities turn a blind eye.”

  “My valet was inherited from my father. He can barely get up the steps to dress me of a morning.”

  “Put your dilemma to your butler. A good London butler is part magician.”

  Tavistock crossed his legs at the knee. “Peem is nearly as old as my valet, and to tell him anything, I would have to shout. I’d rather Lady Tavistock remain unaware of my wagering.”

  I was never this young, was I? “Half the club saw you losing your quarterly allowance along with your common sense and self-restraint. You can’t keep this from her, my lord.”

  Tavistock ran a hand through blond curls. “Her ladyship won’t say a word. You have no idea, Mr. Dorning, no idea how her silences can rend a fellow’s wits. Her disappointment was always worse than my father’s, for Papa would bluster and threaten and then settle down to grumbling. Step-mama merely went quiet, and I vowed never to disappoint her again.”

  “And yet, you made a complete cake of yourself with a half dozen of your very best friends cheering you on. Have any of them offered to make you a loan?”

  Tavistock blinked. “Why would they?”

  “Because they are your friends?”

  Tavistock uncrossed his legs. “I am a year or two behind most of them, but spending more time at university studying Latin that I could translate before I left Eton struck me as silly.”

  Sycamore was tempted to relent, but this young sprig had no older brothers, and he was to be pitied that poverty. “And losing a small fortune was wise?”

  “I was an idiot,” Tavistock said, bolting to his feet. “If you’d like me to beg for your forgiveness, I’m not sure I’m capable. Begging is quite infra dig.”

  Infra dignitatem. Beneath one’s dignity. “No, actually, it isn’t. I would beg for one more walk alone with my father through the Dorsetshire countryside. I’d beg for the lives of my siblings or their spouses and offspring. I’d beg for their happiness and health, and I’d beg for your life, Tavistock, because the marchioness would grieve to lose you. I’ll ask something of you far more challenging than simple begging.”

  “What could possibly make a greater demand on a man’s amour propre than abasing himself before another?”

  “I seek to challenge more than your overdeveloped pride, Tavistock. I will challenge your patience, your ingenuity, your manners, and your mind.”

  Tavistock’s features shuttered into caution. His lordship was entirely too easy to read and very much in need of the sort of education the Coventry—and Sycamore—could provide him.

  “I want you to work off your debt to me, Tavistock. Give me your time and your best efforts and assist me to keep this club running smoothly a few nights a week.”

  Tavistock examined a pocket watch that would have put a noticeable dent in his debt to Sycamore.

  “Work for you? You want me to carry a tray of champagne around like a dancing bear?”

  Six months ago, Tavistock would not have attempted that haughty arch of his eyebrow. All he needed was a jewel-handled quizzing glass and a flatulent pug to become truly obnoxious.

  “I have personally offered champagne to my guests when the waiters are run off their feet, Tavistock, because I want the people who come to my club to be treated as guests, and I want my staff to know they matter to me as well. I have taken an occasional empty platter back to the kitchen, because it’s more important that the tray be refilled than that I impersonate the idle ornaments whiling away their evenings at the table. I work at the Coventry, and I earn my way. If honest labor is beneath you, then I can withdraw the offer.”

  For the first time, a hint of vulnerability showed in Tavistock’s blue eyes. “Honest labor is not beneath me, for I have incurred a debt and I mean to pay you. You should know, though, that I tend to make a muddle of everything. Aunt Viola says my dancing is too enthusiastic, by which she means that I have no grace. My valet tells me that I’m not up to my father’s standards in terms of fashion, and even when I do shout, Peem still sometimes refers to me by the courtesy title rather than as Tavistock.”

  The marquess paced the carpet before the desk, clearly not finished with his soliloquy. “Cousin Jerome got all the panache and refinement. I got the extra height and the title. Auntie wants me to marry my cousin Diana, but I like the woman, and the shuddery part that we’re cousins aside, she deserves a husband who can manage a waltz without falling on his bum. I want very much to live up to my father’s memory, Mr. Dorning, but the job is more complicated than you might think, and I am not suited to it at all.”

  Tavistock did not resume his seat so much as he collapsed in a brooding heap of fine tailoring and lanky limbs.

  Had Casriel felt this overwhelmed and inept when Papa had tossed him the earldom’s business and gone botanizing in rural Ireland? From earliest childhood, Casriel had seemed even more adult than Papa, even more forbearing and patient.

  Sycamore entertained the possibility—so slight as to be theoretical—that he was not the only Dorning brother to feel invisible among a horde of siblings. That he was not the only brother whose needs and wants had gone unheard beneath the fraternal din and Mama’s incessant whining.

  “Tavistock, calm yourself. Your duties here at the Coventry would mostly consist of keeping an eye on matters where I cannot. Taking inventory in the wine cellar, monitoring the buffet, and smiling. If anybody asks, tell them you are helping me out a few nights a week.”

  “I’m not, though,” Tavistock said miserably. “I cannot manage my funds. I let Jerome and his cronies goad me into playing too deep, and I can’t even sell you my horse. I like him—my horse, that is—so it’s as well you won’t take him.”

  Sycamore rose and opened the door. “I’m sure he’s a very fine animal, Tavistock. I suggest you have a long talk with him before supper, and for God’s sake, take a nap and swill
at least a quart of lemonade and chew half a bushel of parsley. Your head will thank you for it. Be back here by about nine, and we’ll get started.”

  “Nine tonight?”

  “Yes, nine tonight. Formal attire, as if you were hosting a supper for thirty. Away with you, and let your step-mother know what’s afoot so she won’t worry. What you say to Jerome Vincent is your business, but if I were you, I’d exercise a bit of discretion.” For once.

  Tavistock rose. He was nearly as tall as Sycamore, but not half so muscular. Time would solve that problem—time and determination.

  “Until nine tonight, Mr. Dorning.” He marched out the door, probably intent on confessing all to his gallant steed, but he stopped in the corridor. “Thank you. You are being gracious to a titled ninnyhammer. Not everybody would be.”

  “The title is not your fault,” Sycamore said, “and we are all ninnyhammers on occasion.”

  Tavistock smiled at that, revealing a dimple the ladies would positively swoon over, and slid down the bannister to the landing below. “Until tonight, Mr. Dorning!” He attempted a bow, tripped over the carpet fringe, and nearly upset a tower of drinking glasses stacked on the bar.

  “Until tonight,” Sycamore said, saluting with two fingers and offering up a prayer for fortitude.

  Chapter Six

  “How is Tavistock doing?” Jeanette asked, passing Sycamore her cloak. Typical of spring weather, Sunday morning had dawned brisk and sunny, while noon had seen clouds gather, and the afternoon skies had offered a sleety drizzle.

  “You should ask him,” Sycamore replied, giving her cloak a shake, “and we should hang this in the kitchen.” He strode off toward a pair of swinging doors, the sodden cloak leaving a trail of droplets on the bricks of the hallway floor.

  Jeanette followed with her umbrella, curious to see the kitchens where so much good food was produced. The space was larger than she’d imagined, being half sunken and high ceilinged.