The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12

by Grace Burrowes

  Beardsley regarded his only son and considered what the late marquess would have done with the boy. This audience was taking place in Beardsley’s private office, and Jerome had not sent word ahead to warn his mother he’d be staying for a meal.

  This was to be a confidential chat, apparently. “Why should Tavistock’s company increase your expenses?” Beardsley asked. “He’s the titleholder, and it’s his place to be beneficent toward his relations.” Not how the late marquess had regarded the patriarchal role, but dear Trevor was built of more malleable and tenderhearted stuff.

  “Trevor is generous,” Jerome retorted, tossing himself onto the sofa and crossing a boot over a knee. “He’s been feeding me from the Tavistock larders since Monday, and he told the club to put my meals on his bill for the rest of the month. He’s not the problem.”

  “But his lordship is new to Town,” Beardsley said, “so you’re showing off. Taking him around to the fancier hells, making wagers to impress him. Your behavior is understandable.”

  Jerome was a handsome young man in the usual Vincent tradition, all golden locks, aristocratic features, and exquisite tailoring. To Beardsley’s eye, the boy was nonetheless looking a bit ragged. His boots had been merely dusted rather than polished. His cravat was tied in a simple mathematical rather than the elegant knots Jerome preferred. His eyes held an air of the dissipation that signaled the end of youth and the beginning of wisdom—or folly.

  “I told Trevor I’m considering offering for Jeanette.” Jerome stared at the carpet as he made this announcement, his air that of a martyr offering a last prayer.

  Beardsley would rather Jerome had not approached Trevor with this plan. Trevor was the nominal head of the family, and the more he was shown the deference due a patriarch, the more he’d step into the role.

  “Trevor disapproves?”

  “He all but laughs every time I bring it up. Says Jeanette won’t have me.”

  Beardsley poured a drink for his guest, but refrained from indulging. Viola took a dim view of a husband who came to luncheon with spirits on his breath.

  “Trevor’s opinion is not the one that matters,” Beardsley said, passing Jerome the glass. “Have you tried charming Jeanette?”

  “That puts me in mind of charming a wolf. Not well advised for the charmer and both nutritious and entertaining for the wolf.” Jerome tossed back half his drink, confirming Beardsley’s suspicion that his heir was going through more than a passing rough patch.

  Which was a stroke of good fortune for Beardsley, actually. “Offer her a white marriage, then. All the independence of widowhood, none of the bother of marriage.”

  “I don’t want a white marriage, Papa. Nobody sane wants a white marriage, and lest you forget, securing the succession might fall to me if Trevor has no sons.”

  Not something Beardsley—or Viola—ever forgot, but that problem was years in the future. “You offer Jeanette a white marriage, but who’s to say what transpires once the vows are spoken? Nobody sane wants to go to debtors’ prison, my boy, and I honestly cannot bail you out. Your mother has commandeered every spare groat for your sisters, and I am lucky to be able to afford my own necessities.” That was overstating the case somewhat, but if a well-placed family began selling off its teams or culling its art collection, tongues wagged, and credit disappeared.

  Worse yet, daughters became spinsters, wives became shrews, and mistresses became strangers.

  “Then what am I to do, Papa? Some of my debts are the honorable kind, and the fellows are too decent to dun me, but others… The agencies are no longer sending me the best for the exalted post of valet, and I don’t blame them.”

  Beardsley took the chair at the desk rather than sit beside Jerome. “A mere valet won’t take you to court for wages owed. A servant who gets above himself in that regard will never work again.”

  “You haven’t met Timmons.”

  “I know his type. They are humble and helpful for about two weeks, then they start ignoring orders, telling you how to go on, and taking far too long to fetch the next day’s beer of an evening. You’re better off without him.”

  Jerome finished his drink. “I can renege on wages owed and forget my debts of honor, fine gentleman that I am, but what of the tailor, Papa? A gentleman cannot remain in arrears with his tailor or the chop shop. The trades don’t extend credit to young fellows the way they do to a settled man of means.”

  “What Jeanette needs is an incentive to marry you,” Beardsley says. “As I see it, you have two possible strategies for inspiring her to look with favor upon your suit.”

  “Even if she marries me, she won’t necessarily turn over her fortune to me. She’s not stupid.”

  “She’s also not plagued with a lot of needy relatives, Jerome. Who else is to get that fortune if not her husband’s family, which is where much of the money came from in the first place? Her brother, scoundrel though he is, has income from the Goddard family holdings, and the only other person she cares for is Trevor.”

  Jerome peered at the dregs in his glass. “What are my two options, then?”

  “You can charm her to the altar and offer her whatever she wants in the way of independence, companionship, and everything in between, or you can threaten her.”

  “She lived with the late marquess for seven years, Papa. Never spent a night away from him, to hear Trevor tell it. She won’t threaten easily.”

  “She will understand when somebody with superior influence brings his consequence to bear upon her. A few rumors about Orion Goddard’s dastardly behavior during the war, idle speculation in the right venues about why nobody has called him out, musings on his generous French income… The man is already held in near-disgrace for reasons nobody ever mentions. Jeanette will do anything to protect her brother.”

  She might also do anything to protect Sycamore Dorning. Beardsley set that intriguing notion aside for further contemplation.

  “She must care for Goddard very much if she’d marry to keep him safe.”

  “Women can be fierce, Jerome. Witness your dear mother and her crusade to see your sisters launched. Jeanette married once for the sake of her menfolk, and spared to her father an ignominious death.”

  Jerome rose to refill his drink. “Trevor ain’t keen to marry a cousin.”

  “Trevor’s wishes might not come into it. You have another option where Jeanette is concerned.”

  Jerome’s expression was bleak, not in a self-pitying, youthful sense, but as a man disappointed in life and in himself was bleak.

  “Right, threaten her brother, except I don’t know exactly what Goddard got up to in France, and for all I know, his vineyards have simply enjoyed good harvests. Then too, Trevor might take a dim view of my slandering Goddard’s reputation, particularly when Trevor is perched on my elbow most of the time when I go out socializing these days and would hear every word of the calumny I directed at his… his step-uncle.”

  Another glass of decent libation met a summary fate.

  “Papa, can’t you simply find me a minor diplomatic post? My French is excellent, my German and Italian passable, and I can read Spanish. Even a few years in America might be tolerable.”

  The suggestion had merit on its face, because it would solve Jerome’s immediate problems, while leaving his family without any solution whatsoever. Besides, Jerome apparently did not want to see more of the greater world. He wanted to continue to strut about London, patronizing the finest tailors and staying out until all hours with his friends.

  “Sending you abroad for a few years wastes time this family cannot afford, Jerome. The immediate problem is how to retrieve the money Jeanette appropriated from us. Once Trevor attains his majority, matters in that regard become more complicated. You could encourage Jeanette to acquaint herself with what you have to offer. To be fair, she might not be the reason Trevor has no siblings.”

  Jerome made a face. “You’re saying if I could get her with child, then she’d have to marry me?”


  “It’s been done. It has definitely been done. Your mother wasn’t always the prim matron she began presenting to the world twenty years ago. To a marquess’s spare, she was quite friendly well before the vows were spoken. The man is every bit as ensnared as the woman when a child is conceived, if he’s a gentleman.”

  “And if she’s a lady.” Jerome frowned at the painting over the mantel of Beardsley’s own dear papa and his wife. They had never known want or worry, unlike their younger son. “I don’t fancy rape.”

  “Of course you don’t, so set your mind on enthusiastic seduction. The staff at Tavistock House lurks in the servants’ hall as much as they can, and half of them are too venerable to hear a riot in progress. Work with that, drop a few hints about Goddard’s good name, and use a delicate but firm hand. Jeanette put up with my older brother for seven years. She’ll find marriage to you no imposition at all by comparison. You aren’t a hopeless clodpate, and as you say, she’s not stupid.”

  More’s the pity.

  Jerome finished his drink and left the glass on an end table. “I’ll consider it, but meanwhile, I could use a little blunt, Papa, and some inquiries about a diplomatic post wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Beardsley mentally gave Jerome credit for tenacity. He wrote out a bank draft for a few pounds and passed it over.

  “Don’t tell your mother.”

  Jerome folded the paper into an inner pocket. “How is Mama?”

  “Quietly desperate to get Diana launched. She will throw your sister at Tavistock and keep Hera in reserve. Beautiful needlepoint and a good soprano are about all Diana has to recommend her.”

  “I’ll put in a word for Di at my clubs. She’s pretty, sensible, and wellborn. She and Fremont share a love of books, and Westerly has an ear for music.”

  “You might pass that along to your mother when next you join us for a meal.”

  “Sunday,” Jerome said, pulling on his gloves. “I can most definitely be on hand for the Sunday roast. And thank you, Papa, for the blunt and for the advice. I will consider all you’ve said.”

  Having been given a few pounds, Jerome was doubtless considering which bills to pay off first, or if he had to pay any of them in the immediate term.

  Ah, youth. “My regards to Tavistock—and to Jeanette.”

  Jerome bowed his farewell, while Beardsley wondered if perhaps he himself ought to call on Jeanette. He was roused from his musings by the luncheon bell, and not for anything would Lord Beardsley Vincent insult his wife by coming late to her table.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Mr. Sycamore Dorning, my lady.” Peem stepped aside to permit Jeanette’s guest entry into the breakfast parlor.

  Sycamore, resplendent in riding attire, sauntered into the room. “My lady, the beauty of the dawn pales beside the wonder of thy fair countenance. Are those apple tarts?”

  “Yes,” Jeanette said, “and if you’re to enjoy them, you’d best be about it. If Trevor brings any of his fellow locusts home with him from their morning hack, those tarts will be but a memory. Peem, that will be all.”

  Peem withdrew after casting Sycamore a dubious glance.

  Sycamore filled a plate at the sideboard, helping himself to toast, ham, and two apple tarts. “How does this day find you?” he asked, taking the place at Jeanette’s right hand. “Are you well?”

  He was asking about her bodily functions, though not as Jeanette’s husband had asked. The late marquess had interrogated rather than inquired: Why haven’t you conceived? Don’t you want to conceive, Jeanette? You have a brother, and you have male cousins. Is there some breeding defect in the Goddard line that your father failed to disclose? Be honest with me, or it will go hard for you.

  “I am quite well,” Jeanette said, setting the teapot by his plate. “My indisposition is painful, but generally brief. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  Sycamore poured himself a cup of tea. “I missed you, and I would be a sorry sort of swain if I allowed you to languish for more than three days without offering you the pleasure of my company.”

  Why must he look so lovely, all hale and masculine, exuding vitality and smiling so devilishly? “I cannot tell if you are teasing or in earnest. You aren’t having any eggs?”

  He sipped his tea, managing to make even that an exercise in elegance. “I am in complete earnest. If I had my way… Well, we can discuss that later. The omelet savors of mushrooms, which do not agree with me, and there looks to be hardly enough for a decent serving for one.”

  “That omelet is just for me. Trevor feels as you do about mushrooms. The French half of me says you are both ridiculous. When his lordship returns from the park, the kitchen will send up a horse-trough-sized dish of eggs, cheese, cream, chives, and I know not what else. Trevor and his friends do unto the omelet as they do to the apple tarts.”

  “And the ham, toast, currant buns, and any other comestibles left in plain sight. Will you drive out to Richmond with me today? Please say you will.”

  Jeanette was torn between the part of her that distrusted all spontaneity and the part of her that hadn’t been on a picnic in far too long.

  “This is more of your swaining?”

  “This is an excuse to spend hours in the company of a woman I esteem greatly. If the prospect of my exclusive company is not inducement enough for you to accompany me, then please join me so I can share with you some information relating to your brother.”

  Jeanette pushed aside half of her serving of eggs. “Is Rye well?”

  “Obnoxiously so. We enjoyed a companionable meal on Sunday, and I have much to tell you, none of it bad. He is concerned for you, but keeping his distance lest his past reflect poorly on you.”

  “I know. The war is over, but I gather some affronted fellow officer could challenge him over any imagined slight simply for a chance to blow Rye’s brains out.”

  That Rye had dined with Sycamore was curious indeed, and even a little encouraging.

  “What exactly did Sir Orion do to put himself beyond the pale? I did not inquire in the interests of living to see my next sunrise.”

  “Spied for the French, supposedly. All Rye will say is that things were not what they seemed, and his conscience is clear. I love my brother, and I don’t particularly care if he did warn a village that Wellington’s troops approached. The army was happy to use his language skills and knowledge of French culture. They had to know making war on Mama’s homeland was hard on him.”

  Sycamore patted her wrist—more of a caress, really—and because nobody wore gloves at breakfast, Jeanette felt that fleeting touch clear to her… middle.

  “You are so fierce,” he said. “Sir Orion worries for you, and you worry for him, and all the while, you tiptoe in a circle around each other like cats of new acquaintance. This is exactly the sort of ridiculousness families indulge in, but who would look askance if you and he enjoyed a quiet cup of tea from time to time?”

  “Half the tabbies in polite society.”

  “I doubt you need worry about the tabbies, my lady.” Sycamore rose without warning and stalked silently to the door. “Peem, if her ladyship has need of you, she will use the bell-pull.” In the space of a single sentence, Sycamore had gone from an affable gentleman caller to a man seriously affronted on behalf of his hostess.

  He returned to the table and sat for a moment, staring at his apple tarts. “You are deciding whether to castigate me for presuming or thank me for interceding. Peem is your butler, Jeanette, and his place is by the front door, not lurking outside the breakfast parlor after you’ve dismissed him. Besides, I wanted his ire directed toward the disgracefully presuming Mr. Dorning, rather than at you.”

  “I am too upset with Peem to be angry with you. How did you know he was out there?”

  Sycamore tapped his nose. “Peem wears bay rum. My father was particularly critical of it as a scent, and Papa knew of what he sniffed. Dare I suggest once again that you sack the old fellow?”

  “You dare.” Jeane
tte finished her tea, which had gone tepid. “You dare much. Peem doesn’t hear well enough to eavesdrop well.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Jeanette rose and went to the window that looked out over the garden. “I am not sure of much, Sycamore. Trevor and I had a blazing row after you left me on Sunday. We’ve been cordial but distant since then. He now either misses breakfast or brings at least three friends with him and has luncheon and supper at his club. Then he spends his evenings with you.”

  Sycamore bit into an apple tart. “What was your row about?”

  “I confronted him about lying to me regarding the attack in the alley, and I told him I’d been followed. He was peevish because I had kept that to myself, and I was disappointed that he’d dissemble regarding a potentially fatal encounter. I asked him not to lie to me again and assured him he would have honesty from me.”

  “And he swore eternal honesty to you?”

  “He threatened to move into the Albany with Jerome.”

  Sycamore took the place at Jeanette’s elbow, and his mere presence was a comfort. “Tavistock has been preoccupied all week at the club. Staring off into space, marching out smartly smack into a faro table, missing the dealers’ attempts to flirt with him. He’s doubtless upset with himself and fretting on your behalf.”

  The door to the breakfast parlor was still open, and yet, Jeanette let herself lean, just a little, against Sycamore.

  “There’s more,” she said. “Trevor asked if I ever considered leaving Town, abandoning the social whirl. He volunteered to escort me down to Tavistock Hall, though I pointed out to him that he would be accosted by marriageable cousins if we rusticated at the family seat.”

  Sycamore slipped an arm around her waist, and Jeanette rested her head against his shoulder.

  “You worry that you should have told Trevor about the notes, but wonder if he sent them. My lady, you should not be afflicted with all this intrigue and drama.”

  “Is the solution to marry you?”

  Sycamore’s posture subtly changed so their situation became more of a cuddle. “Marrying me would solve any number of dilemmas, but I sense you’d be unreceptive to such an overture at the moment. You are sad to think Tavistock will go out into the world as young men do, leaving you here with aging retainers of dubious loyalty.