He stalked out of the breakfast parlor, the silence all the louder because he’d not raised his voice.
Jeanette managed one slice of toast and two cups of plain tea before Peem brought her the morning mail. No note lurked among the usual invitations and correspondence, though Peem dithered for a good five minutes while Jeanette sipped tea and read through the solicitor’s latest report.
She was debating whether to attempt another discussion with Trevor when Jerome came sauntering into the parlor, his hair windblown, his riding boots less than pristine.
“Have I missed Tav already? I thought the day too nice to remain abed and hoped to join him for a hack.”
“Tavistock has broken his fast and has likely gone up to catch a nap,” Jeanette said, assaying a cordial smile. “Feel free to help yourself to the buffet, Jerome, and tell me how your dear sisters are getting on.”
Jerome took up a plate. “It’s as well Tavistock has sought his bed, my lady. I’ve been meaning to broach a topic with you that should not have an audience. Might I close the door?”
He certainly wasn’t wasting any time, but then, perhaps that was for the best. “Close the door if you must,” she said, “but please be brief. I am expected elsewhere this morning.”
Jerome closed the door and took the place at her left. “I will get straight to the point.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Orion Goddard had asked that rude question quietly, probably in deference to the small child searching through the grass a few yards away in what passed for a back garden.
“That is a female of very tender years,” Sycamore said, tipping his hat to the girl, who peered up at him with the solemn curiosity of an owlet. “She has your chin, Goddard, though on her the feature is piquant rather than stubborn.” And she had Jeanette’s inherent sense of self-possession, a painful thing to see in one so young.
Goddard took Sycamore by the elbow and tried to steer him down the walkway. Sycamore was not in the mood to be steered.
“I do not receive visitors, Dorning. Take yourself off and don’t come back.”
By virtue of a move that was part twist, part jerk, and all annoyance, Sycamore removed Goddard’s hand from his person.
“You are a bad brother,” he said. “I know of few insults that ought to rouse a man’s ire more effectively, but the shoe fits, Goddard. Do you know what today is?”
Goddard gave him a peevish look that also put Sycamore in mind of Jeanette. “The day I am plagued with an unwelcome intruder.”
“Jerome Vincent has called on Jeanette twice since she nearly died of food poisoning five days ago. He’s calling when he knows Tavistock isn’t likely to be underfoot. What does that tell you?”
Goddard walked away this time, and it occurred to Sycamore that the point of the evasion was to avoid troubling the child with an adult discussion. The girl went back to her search, though Sycamore knew better than to trust that display. He’d eavesdropped on many a grown-up discussion while pretending to peruse some storybook or other. Toy soldiers were also useful for duping adults into believing a child was distracted by play.
“If Jerome is helping himself to breakfast,” Goddard said, “that tells me Beardsley’s darling boy has overspent his allowance again and is scrounging meals from one end of Mayfair to the other.”
“Tavistock says Jerome has plans to marry Jeanette.” About which possibility, the young marquess was properly alarmed.
Goddard watched the girl searching through the grass. “Jeanette’s choices regarding remarriage are none of my affair, provided they are choices freely made. Her ladyship does not take kindly to meddling, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What I have noticed is that it’s not meddling if you’re family, and you are the only person to claim that honor in a meaningful sense where Jeanette is concerned. For God’s sake, rescue her from Jerome’s schemes.”
Goddard took a seat on a wooden bench. “I haven’t the means to aid her, Dorning. She’s better off if I keep my distance.”
Of all the twaddling nonsense. “You are her brother. Either fulfill the honors of that office, or get to your feet so I can draw your cork.”
Goddard remained sitting on his rosy arse. “Cease your histrionics, Dorning. There’s a child present. I am Jeanette’s only family, true, but others have the more pressing claim on my resources. Jeanette is an adult. This offer from Jerome is not a scheme of recent provenance, and viewed from a certain perspective, it makes sense.”
Sycamore hauled Goddard to his feet by virtue of a secure grip on the man’s neckcloth. “You bloody liar. You knew what Jerome was about, and that’s why you had Jeanette followed. You didn’t want him making off with her and heading to Scotland.”
“Language, Dorning. I didn’t lie, I dissembled in the interests of taking your measure. There was also the possibility Jerome might have attempted to force his attentions on Jeanette and chivvy her to the altar that way. He wouldn’t pull a stunt like that in Trevor’s house, but in the mews, or in the carriage itself, I did not trust him. Now you have equipped Jeanette with knives, and we must conclude she can take care of herself.”
Because there was a child present, and because Sycamore did not have time to administer a proper thrashing to Goddard, he instead made his words count.
“I do not take you for a coward, Goddard. What the hell stays your hand from more obvious measures?”
Goddard’s smile was bitter. “Do you know the power of gossip, Dorning?”
“Of course. My club rises and falls on that very tide.” A problem Sycamore had been pondering lately with increasing focus.
“Your club…” Goddard nearly sneered the words. “A profitable venture all but handed to you, the maintenance of which consists of idling away your evenings, while Mayfair’s finest toss money at one another for their own amusement. The Vincent family’s propensity for talk can add enough fuel to the flames of army gossip to see me destroyed.”
Goddard’s town house was modest but well maintained, his garden a small luxury. The child was healthy and well fed, and Goddard’s attire was that of a man of means.
“Destroyed, how?”
“We have already discussed this. All it takes is whispers, Dorning. A snide comment here, a little innuendo over dinner at the club, and the fellows at Horse Guards aren’t so keen to include you in their card games. You become a pariah, and then your business begins to sour. I have weathered the storm several times and the last gale nearly ruined me. Then, I thought the talk had finally stopped for good but now I’m hearing rumors again. For the sake of my dependents, I must keep to myself and hope the worst is behind me. Jeanette will manage. She always has.”
An odd calm settled over Sycamore, because in Goddard’s situation, he could see a familiar pattern.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, Goddard, where you don’t speak to your only sibling, keep a niece hidden from her, and try to manage all on your own. We have family for good reasons. We make more family as we go on, and that’s for good reasons too. Jeanette might have helped you weather that storm, but you didn’t give her the chance.”
The child rose and scampered to a different patch of grass, flopping to the ground without a care for her snow-white pinafore. Her hair had reddish highlights, and something about her bony little knees struck Sycamore as another family trait.
“The child is not my niece,” Goddard said. “Dornings might grow family like topsy, but Jeanette and I… Jeanette knows how to take care of herself. It’s what she does best. I had no business having her followed, but I do not trust Jerome.”
Sycamore clasped his hands behind his back, so great was the urge to plant Goddard a facer. “Jeanette has been taking care of everybody else since she was a girl. She married to see that you had your commission and to keep your father out of debtors’ prison. She took on the raising of the present marquess lest he turn into the same sort of monster as his father. She endured her husband’s pawing and disrespect beca
use she sensed he was a fragile and shallow man. She tacitly manages young Tavistock’s funds because Uncle Beardsley hasn’t the knack.”
Sycamore stepped closer, lest Goddard think to saunter off again. “Of course Jeanette takes care of herself, because she can’t trust her worthless menfolk to help her with the perishing job.”
And when Sycamore had tried to appoint himself to the role of protector…? She’d collected her things and told him to go play with his knives.
A great weight lifted from his shoulders as insight took its place. He was still worried nearly witless about Jeanette’s situation, but he was no longer worried that she cared nothing for him. She cared for him, cared for him a very great deal.
Enough to protect him, enough to put herself in harm’s way for his sake.
Sycamore strode down the walk until he came to the patch of grass. He sank onto his knees beside the child and waited for her to stop searching long enough to treat him to another serious inspection.
“Cousin Rye doesn’t like you, sir.”
“Cousin Rye is having a bad day, as grouchy old fellows sometimes do. I’m Sycamore.” Cousin Sycamore would have been an improvement, but with children, only the literal truth would do.
“I’m Nettie. I’m looking for a lucky clover to give to Cousin Rye.”
“You are very intent on your mission. I need to borrow your cousin for a couple of hours, but I promise I’ll return him in one piece.”
Goddard watched this exchange with the banked wariness of a wild beast, ready to pounce at the least hint of harm to his cub.
Nettie sprang to her feet, nimble as a baby goat, and hugged Goddard about the waist. “Au revoir, Cousin. I will find you a lucky clover the next time I visit.”
Goddard caught her up in a hug. “Be good for Tante Lucille, Nettie. If the weather holds, nurse will take you for an ice on your way home.”
“I will be perfect,” Nettie said, squeezing Goddard about the neck. “Better than perfect. You will see, Cousin!” She skipped away and disappeared into the house, while Sycamore kept to himself entire lectures about perfect little girls who felt it incumbent to find their menfolk some luck.
“Why this urgency, Dorning?” Goddard asked as Sycamore led him through the garden gate and into the alley. “Why intrude into Jeanette’s affairs when she obviously gave you your congé?”
“Jeanette has not given me my congé. Just the opposite.” This visit with Goddard had clarified that much, which was an enormous relief. “She put a challenge before me, though she won’t see it like that.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Jeanette has added me to the collection of men whom she feels she must protect. I am honored to have her devotion, but I must take issue with how she expresses her regard for me. Come along, Goddard. We are off to pay a call on the estimable and insufferable Worth Kettering.”
Chapter Thirteen
The note came one week after Jeanette had recovered from her bout of food poisoning.
Now will you leave?
Four words that created something of a puzzle, considering that Jeanette had agreed to marry Jerome. The prospect was distasteful, though Jerome was amenable to a platonic union. Why would Viola, or Beardsley, or the pair of them still try to drive her off when she’d expressed a willingness to capitulate to their schemes?
“Will there be anything else, my lady?” Peem asked, hesitating by the sideboard.
“No, thank you, Peem.”
He bowed and withdrew from the breakfast parlor, his gait stately. Jeanette had hired two more footmen and a lady’s companion, but that staff would not take up their duties until the end of the week. She was safe until she married Jerome, and then she would, by arrangement with her intended, withdraw to the dower house.
Far from Beardsley, Viola, petty gossips… and the terrible temptation Sycamore Dorning presented.
Then too, Jerome lacked the old marquess’s bitterness, but he had enough of his late lordship’s mannerisms and appearance that Jeanette could never dwell comfortably under the same roof with him.
So she would flee to the shires and hope that her fortune was the only price she was made to pay for dwelling in obscurity. Her fortune, and her heart.
Jeanette no longer ate eggs when she broke her fast. She locked her sitting room and bedroom doors every night before retiring. She refused all invitations. The excuse of record was a spring cold, but she’d also taken to practicing with her knives when the alley was deserted. Until the settlements were signed, she wasn’t safe.
And thus Sycamore Dorning was not safe.
“Pardon me, my lady,” Peem said, returning to the breakfast parlor. “You have visitors. Lord and Lady Beardsley await you in the family parlor with Mr. Jerome Vincent.”
Beardsley had worked quickly, but then, he was motivated by money. “I’ll be along in a moment. Thank you, Peem.”
Jeanette waited until Peem had withdrawn to examine her appearance in the window’s reflection. She was no longer the timid bride she’d been, no longer the retiring widow.
She was also no longer Sycamore Dorning’s lover, her signal regret. She brushed her hand over the pocket where she’d sheathed her knife, spared a final sigh for a man who deserved better, and made her way to the family parlor.
“My lord, my lady, welcome. Jerome, good day.” She curtseyed to her guests, though as soon as she officially accepted Jerome’s suit, they would not be her guests. She would become the interloper at Tavistock House, and Trevor would assume the last of her authority here.
Somewhere beneath duty, expedience, common sense, and the other imperatives of responsible adulthood, a part of Jeanette quietly grieved.
I do not want to leave a home I’ve made comfortable, if not exactly welcoming.
I do not want to dwell so far from my only brother, even if he never wants to see me.
I do not want to marry a strutting fopling—Sycamore’s word—whose promise to leave me in peace is entirely unenforceable.
Most of all, she did not want to leave Sycamore, who must think very badly of her indeed.
“The tray will be here in a moment,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. “Please do have a seat. Viola, how is Diana managing?”
“Diana is quite well,” Voila said, taking Jeanette’s favorite wing chair, “and serenely awaiting the honor of her presentation. Jerome, stop pacing.”
Jerome sank into the second wing chair, leaving Jeanette to take a love seat rather than share the sofa with Beardsley, though his lordship was apparently inclined to remain on his feet.
“We can dispense with the tray,” Beardsley said. “When Jerome told me you’d agreed to his suit, I directed the solicitors to draw up the settlements posthaste. I have the final documents with me, and Jerome has applied for the special license. This whole business can be resolved within the next week. You, my lady, will remove your effects from the marchioness’s suite so that Viola can take over the duties of hostess here, and—”
“Papa,” Jerome said, “that is not what we discussed.”
“Don’t interrupt your father,” Viola chided. “And we most certainly will not dispense with the tea tray, my lord. The trip into Town was dusty, and I am parched.”
A portrait of the late marquess scowled down from over the mantel, and he seemed to be sneering directly at Jeanette. The role of passive victim was hers for the taking once more.
As Jerome and his parents fell to bickering—Jerome had expected to move into Tavistock House with Trevor, no parents allowed—Jeanette gained a new appreciation for Sycamore’s familial exasperations. His family would fill the parlor and the adjoining music room to overflowing, with a few left over to wander the library.
And he cared for them all, as they must inevitably care for him.
Peem wheeled in a trolley, which occasioned a ceasefire among the verbal skirmishers. He set the tea tray before Viola rather than Jeanette, then seemed to realize that Jeanette was not in her usual chair.
“I do beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, returning the tray to the cart. “Shall I pour?”
“We’ve no need for any damned tea,” Beardsley snapped. “Be off with you, Peem, and close the door behind you.”
Peem straightened slowly, glanced pointedly at the portrait over the mantel and then at Jeanette.
“You may be excused,” she said, somewhat surprised at the show of deference. Peem underscored his display of loyalty by leaving the door open.
“Mama and the girls should certainly bide here from time to time,” Jerome said, “but it’s Tav’s house, not ours, and we can’t just move in like a lot of beggars descending on a wealthy uncle.”
“Jerome, mind your tongue,” Viola muttered.
“Lord Tavistock remains my legal ward for the next three years,” Beardsley retorted. “He has nothing to say to it, and he should enjoy having his family about him. Jeanette has been lady of the manor quite long enough.”
“I am the Marchioness of Tavistock,” Jeanette said, wanting these people out of her house, “and until such time as I become Mrs. Jerome Vincent, Society will expect me to be treated as such.”
Viola sent her a brooding look. “A valid point, and for that matter, a special license has an aroma of unseemly haste about it. Nothing must be allowed to detract from the notice that Diana is due in her debut Season, perhaps her only Season.”
And they were off again, debating the special license, to which Jerome, oddly, was also opposed.
Jeanette let them bicker, because this was surely nothing more than a foretaste of what she’d endure on those occasions when they trotted her out for the sake of appearances. Every other year at Christmas, perhaps, or when the granddaughters made their come outs.
The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12 Page 25