The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12

by Grace Burrowes

  “A portrait of the late marquess hangs in the foyer,” Sycamore said. “Another two in the library—boyhood and young manhood. I suspect we’d find the baby portrait in the nursery and the marquess as a new husband in the bedroom. He haunts that house like a grumpy Scottish ghost.”

  Ash watched as Sycamore rose and resumed his pacing. “This bothers you.”

  “Of course it bothers me. What wall space the marquess doesn’t occupy, his sainted antecedents take up, each one more dour than the last. The lot of them look like they suffer a serious case of the wind, and the staff wouldn’t hear the French army marching past trumpeting La Marseillaise as they approached. Her ladyship can be neither safe nor happy in such an abode.”

  Ash leaned back and propped his boots on a corner of the desk. “Why would you, who have driven out with the woman exactly once, have a care for her safety?”

  “Because I am a gentleman, and somebody should.”

  Ash crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling. “Sycamore.”

  “Because she is being followed, because she is concerned for her safety. Because her late husband made her life a genteel hell when she did not conceive his blighted spares.”

  “She struck me as a sensible woman. Why does she fear for her safety?”

  Sycamore closed the door to the bedroom. “Her in-laws resent her, her brother keeps his distance, the young marquess is becoming an unreliable ally, and she has no idea why anybody would watch her comings and goings. She is worried, Ash, and I cannot abide to see a lady made to fret for no reason.”

  “You are worried,” Ash said. “Not simply your usual fretful, grumbling self. You are worried.”

  Sycamore was spared further statements of the obvious by a rap on the office door.

  “Enter,” Ash called, removing his boots from the desk and sitting up.

  Trevor, Marquess of Tavistock, joined them, though not the natty version of his lordship Sycamore usually saw.

  “My lord,” Ash said, getting to his feet, “if you are the worse for drink, I suggest you go home and sleep it off.”

  Tavistock’s coat was missing two buttons, his cravat was ripped and dangling askew, his sleeve was muddy, and his knuckles were scraped. One cheek sported a rising bruise, and he was bleeding from the lip. The scent of brandy hung thickly in the air.

  Sycamore stuck his head into the corridor. “Ice, now! Bandages, arnica, and I do mean instantaneously!” He closed the door and considered the marquess. “Either you’ve been scrapping, or you’ve consorted at close range with the wrong sort of pickpockets.”

  “I’d just left Angelo’s,” Tavistock said, panting slightly. “A fine session with épées. I popped around to the alley to have a nip—one doesn’t want to drink in the actual street, does one?—and three unsavory-looking fellows blocked my egress.”

  “You can form complete Etonian sentences,” Sycamore said, drawing the marquess’s coat gently from his shoulders. “The unsavory fellows must not have done too much damage.”

  “They probably didn’t expect me to give any account of myself,” Tavistock said as Sycamore unknotted what was left of a once-fine cravat. “I dashed my brandy in their faces—good brandy, it was, and now I’m wearing some of it—and did that business where you hook your boot behind a fellow’s knees and drop him. The largest of the three wasn’t having any of my cleverness, though.”

  “How did you best him?” Ash asked, accepting a basin and box of medicinals from a waiter at the door.

  Tavistock blushed. “Knee to the cods, a move you showed me months ago. Not sporting, but neither is three against one. I would rather not go home looking like this, so I came here. Step-mama will worry, though London’s street gangs are hardly worth panicking over.”

  “Sit,” Sycamore said, exchanging a look with Ash. “Shirt off. If your ribs are injured, for the next six weeks at least, you do nothing more strenuous than lift a tankard of ale or escort a lady at the promenade. Breathe deeply as often as you can to ward off lung fevers, even though it hurts like your best profanity.” And stay out of deserted London alleys, for God’s sake.

  Getting Tavistock’s shirt off necessitated cutting the fabric to spare his lordship the pain of raising his arms above his head.

  “You’re putting on muscle,” Sycamore said when a tactile inspection revealed no broken ribs. “Pugilism?”

  Ash passed his lordship a towel folded around chipped ice. “You will hurt less if you limit the swelling now.”

  “Pugilism,” Tavistock said, sinking into the chair behind the desk and applying the ice to his cheek. “Fencing, riding out. I asked around at Jackson’s for a few defensive maneuvers not covered in the usual prize ring rules. I never expected to use that knowledge, but a fellow wants to be prepared for every eventuality.”

  Ash disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with a fresh shirt and cravat. “These will be loose on you, though not by much. Have we buttons, Sycamore?”

  Sycamore took the knife from his boot and sliced off two buttons from his morning coat. “We have buttons.” He opened the desk’s bottom drawer and produced a small sewing kit. “A fellow wants to be prepared for every eventuality.”

  Tavistock looked at him as if he’d conjured a pot of gold sovereigns from a bowl of marbles. “I knew a stop here was well advised, but what on earth do I tell Step-mama? She will say I am associating with the wrong sorts, and she might not be far from the mark.”

  Ash gathered up the clean shirt to ease down over Tavistock’s head. “Your waistcoat can wait until we’ve fed you and refilled your flask. Coffee or ale with luncheon?”

  “Tea, if you have it. The old breadbasket is feeling a bit tentative.”

  “Tea it is.” Ash sent Sycamore a look and decamped in the direction of the kitchen.

  “If the old breadbasket is tentative,” Sycamore said as he tucked gold sleeve buttons into the marquess’s cuffs, “does that mean somebody kneed you in the gut?”

  “I avoided the blow, but one can only twist so far when being held by the arms. Do you know what went through my mind when I was being pummeled?”

  “You did some pummeling too, my lord.” Sycamore fashioned a second towel full of ice. “For your lip.”

  “I did, didn’t I? I had the oddest thought: These louts didn’t smell as louts ought. The last time I was set upon by toughs, the stench was almost worse than the blows. This lot was by no means a trio of dandies, but they had some acquaintance with soap and water. I shall hurt tomorrow, won’t I?”

  “Wonderfully, and worse the day after, but breathe deeply anyway. Aches like hell, but keeps the lungs clear. I’d avoid laudanum, because you took a few blows to the head, but willow bark tea can’t hurt, and further applications of arnica to the cuts and bruises won’t either.”

  “May I tell you something, Mr. Dorning?”

  “You may.”

  “I wasn’t frightened when I realized what was afoot. Jackson says I have good science, decent reach, and some speed for a pampered puppy. That’s high praise from such as he. I was eager to show those fellows what I knew, and in broad daylight, all they could do was rob me and leave me in that alley.”

  Sycamore wrapped an arm around the marquess’s shoulders, kissed his crown, then scrubbed his knuckles over blond curls. Courage was giving way to sense, and that was always a bad moment.

  “But you’re feeling a touch of the collywobbles now, is that it?” Sycamore certainly was. “What if one of them had had a knife, or they’d thought to bring a fourth? You could be lying with your throat slit and nobody the wiser.”

  “One of them did have a knife. I kicked it out of his hand, but still… not very sporting of them. Three against one and a knife. What is London coming to, and in St. James’s itself? Bad form, Mr. Dorning.”

  Sycamore dumped the last of the ice onto the soil of the nearest potted fern. “Will you be sick? No shame in it if you are. I’m feeling tentative myself.” He set the empty basin on the desk. One of them had h
ad a knife…

  “No, but neither will I frequent that alley again anytime soon.”

  Ash returned bearing a tray of beef barley soup, buttered bread with the crusts cut off, and a pot of tea. “Soft food for a sore jaw,” he said. “A week from now, you’ll be back to regular rations.”

  Tavistock set aside his ice compresses long enough to eat, while Sycamore sewed the replacement buttons onto the marquess’s coat. Tavistock was, all things considered, recovering well—the blessings of youth—while Sycamore was growing more upset.

  London streets were not safe, hence the ongoing clamor for a regular city police force. Tavistock had already made the point, however, that if anywhere ought to be safe, it was the hallowed streets of St. James’s. London’s dandies, gents, and Corinthians congregated there and would mete out swift retribution to any violating the peace and safety of the neighborhood.

  And yet, somebody had. Three somebodies.

  “I’ll send you home in the coach,” Sycamore said, “and we won’t expect to see you here until next week.”

  “But I’m fine,” Tavistock said, rising so that Ash could help him into his waistcoat. “A bit bashed up, but truly none the worse for a little scrapping.”

  “What will you tell her ladyship?” Sycamore asked, passing Ash the fresh cravat.

  “That I had a few good rounds at Jackson’s? That my sparring partner was too enthusiastic?”

  Ash was the only married man in the room, so Sycamore let him reply. “Tell her the truth, Tavistock. You were set upon by toughs, you fended them off. Do you still have your purse?”

  “I don’t often carry anything more than a few coins.”

  Typical lordling, his credit was good everywhere. Sycamore pushed Ash aside and tied the marquess’s cravat. His lordship preferred some style to his appointments, as Sycamore did.

  “Tell her ladyship the truth,” Sycamore said. “She can sense when you lie, and I suspect you don’t lie well. You fended off some street thieves and stopped by here for lunch.”

  “I lie quite convincingly,” Tavistock said as Sycamore affixed a gold cravat pin among the folds of linen and lace. “Nobody expects me to because I resemble such a dratted choirboy on stilts.”

  “You resemble a marquess,” Sycamore retorted, threading his lordship’s watch chain through a buttonhole. “Who knew where you’d be this morning?”

  “Step-mama. We tell each other our general plans for the day. Jerome met me at Angelo’s to watch. He and I were supposed to have lunch at his club afterward, but he was inclined to stay for the next match, and I was hungry. I’m always hungry. Will I do?”

  Ash held up the repaired coat, from which Sycamore had also brushed the dried mud. “Did anybody say anything during your encounter with your assailants?”

  Tavistock buttoned the coat closed. “I might have used some foul language. ‘Damn the lot of you,’ ‘what the devil,’ that sort of thing.”

  “Such a wicked fellow,” Sycamore muttered. “Did the others say anything? Did they address each other, call any warnings to each other?”

  Tavistock, looking only slightly the worse for wear, stared off at nothing. “The beating was singularly quiet, though one of them did say, ‘You’ve traded on your expectations for the last time.’ I haven’t any expectations. I’m past the expectation part and now wearing a title that sits upon my head like an oversized crown. I suppose he meant my general expectations as a young man-about-Town?”

  “Did they say anything else?” Ash asked. “Anything that would hint at a regional accent, a station in life, a calling? Did they address you directly?”

  “One of them said something like ‘bloody fop’ when I kicked the knife from his hand, but they were mostly intent on giving me a drubbing rather than chatting. Why am I suddenly in need of a nap?”

  “You’ve had an adventure,” Sycamore said. “Napping is part of it. You can nap in the coach—tell the coachy to wake you upon arrival—and avoid going anywhere alone for a while, please.”

  “You gave a brilliant account of yourself,” Ash said, “but if these men want to get back a bit of their own, they know you are not at your best right now. Let your friends take them on next time, though we must hope there is no next time.”

  Tavistock picked up the last slice of buttered bread from the tray. “You lot know how to go on. I suspected you would, and I am in your debt. My thanks, and if there’s ever anything I can do, and all that.”

  “Be off with you,” Sycamore said, shoving him—gently—toward the door. “You did well, Tavistock, both in defending yourself and in stopping by here on your way home. That you could not rely on your valet to deal with this situation tells you the man needs to be replaced, and that is not a task your step-mother can see to for you.”

  Tavistock made a face. “Truer words… I’ll just be going, and again, my thanks.” He sauntered out, the picture of elegant young manhood, though his gait was a trifle conservative.

  “Jeanette won’t like this,” Sycamore said.

  “I don’t like it,” Ash replied. “He still had his watch, cravat pin, and sleeve buttons. This was not an attempted robbery. This was a warning of some sort.”

  “I suspect it was, but perhaps for Jerome, not for the marquess. The two of them are peas in a pod, but for the difference in height, and Jerome, as the current spare, has expectations to trade on. I believe I should pay a call on young Mr. Vincent.”

  “Be nice,” Ash said, gathering up the discarded shirt and cravat. “Our ladies frown on gratuitous displays of violence.”

  “I haven’t a lady.” Yet.

  “Yes,” Ash said gently, “you do. The question is, will she have you?”

  Jeanette knew, by the relative haste with which Peem brought her the card, that Sycamore Dorning intended to be difficult.

  “The gentleman insisted, my lady, and on the Sabbath. I do apologize.” Peem was not apologizing so much as he was disapproving.

  “I will see Mr. Dorning in my sitting room, Peem.” Jeanette’s personal parlor was one floor above street level and thus safe from prying eyes. Or less unsafe.

  “Shall I have the kitchen send up a tray?” Peem asked.

  “A tray will not be necessary.” Mr. Dorning’s visit would be brief.

  Jeanette had barely perched on her favorite sofa before Peem showed Sycamore into the room. “Mr. Sycamore Dorning of the Dorset Dornings,” Peem said, managing to make even that announcement chiding.

  “My lady.” Sycamore bowed correctly. “Thank you for receiving me.”

  “That will be all, Peem.”

  The butler departed, leaving the door wide open.

  “Mr. Dorning, have a seat.”

  He flipped out his tails and took the wing chair angled beside the sofa. Too late she realized the error of having allowed him into the one room where her own taste had been given free rein.

  “You like flowers,” Sycamore said, “and very bright colors.”

  “My grandmother’s family holds land in Provence. Most of the paintings are of that region. The light is warmer in the South of France.”

  “Land in Provence, vineyards in Champagne. How much of those holdings survived the wars?”

  “You would have to ask my brother, who inherited from our French relatives. I have not ordered a tray because I trust you will not be staying long.” She added a pointed glance at the open door. “Today is Sunday, Mr. Dorning. While I might have invited you to join me for Sunday dinner, the marquess and I seldom bother with a weekly feast. The staff works hard enough without adding a large Sunday dinner to their duties.”

  Sycamore touched a finger to the bouquet of red, white, and pink roses on the low table before the sofa. “Real,” he said. “Thorns and all. Are you truly indisposed?”

  The diffident quality of his question surprised her. “Why would I have written you a note claiming indisposition if I was not truly unwell?”

  “You don’t look unwell. Women sometimes resort to polite f
ictions when they are trying to be diplomatic, and with me, sooner or later the ladies are either diplomatic or exasperated. I’ve missed you.”

  That last admission was grudging, maybe even a touch bewildered. Also another surprise. “Missed me?”

  He snapped off a white rose and added it to the boutonnière of violets on his lapel. “Lately, I look forward to Sundays with inordinate pleasure, my lady. If you are unwell, I am concerned. If you are not unwell, I am alarmed. Are you unwell?”

  Violets were an exquisite complement to Sycamore’s eyes, but they also had symbolic meanings: modesty, which did not strike Jeanette as apropos to Sycamore Dorning in any mood, also faithfulness and humility. The white rose carried sentiments of new love, grace, and again, humility.

  “Sycamore, I am indisposed.”

  His expression became puzzled. “As ladies are indisposed?”

  Heat rose across Jeanette’s cheeks. “Exactly thus.”

  “Truly?”

  “We are not discussing this.”

  “Does this indisposition that we are not discussing cause you discomfort?”

  Jeanette resisted the urge to bury her face in a pillow, but Sycamore was nothing if not persistent, so she dispensed with futile gestures. She instead focused on the painting of Grandmother’s lavender fields in full bloom under a spectacular azure sky.

  “There is some discomfort.”

  “You hurt. Does the ginger tea help?”

  “What ginger tea?”

  “Ginger-ginger tea. Works best if you start drinking it before the pains start. Among the kitchen staff at the club, fennel also has a following, and the pot girl’s granny swears by some pine bark infusion from the South of France. If all else fails, there’s always the poppy. Where’s your hot water bottle?”

  “I am receiving a caller,” Jeanette said. “I do not typically receive callers while clutching a hot water bottle to my… my middle.” And yet, she was glad to see him. Mortified, but glad. Sycamore’s gaze held concern, and he was making helpful suggestions—or trying to.

  He rose, and if he’d been intent on closing the door, Jeanette would have scolded him severely. He instead cracked a window.