The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12

by Grace Burrowes

  Resignation to that fate ought to have been a matter of long habit. The respite of widowhood could not last forever. Nothing sweet, comforting, or dear lasted forever, after all.

  “Jeanette will sign the damned documents and be married to Jerome by this time next week.” Beardsley hadn’t raised his voice, but in the very coldness of his tone, he’d sounded exactly like his deceased older brother.

  The effect on Viola and Jerome was interesting. They looked to each other, mother and son united in rare commiseration.

  “I will read the settlements,” Jeanette said. “Jerome and I discussed precise terms, and I want to ensure that those terms are reflected accurately.” Even the old marquess had cautioned her never to sign a document she hadn’t read, his caution taking the form of tiresomely repetitious sermons.

  “You will sign the documents,” Beardsley said. “They say what I want them to say, and that is all that matters.”

  Jerome, the traitor, was absorbed with a study of the gleaming andirons, while Viola had decided to plumb her reticule for heaven knew what.

  “I will read the documents,” Jeanette said, “lest I enter a bargain in ignorance of its terms and thus render the agreement unenforceable.”

  “Papa, I told you she would never—” Jerome began, only to be cut off by his father slashing a hand through the air.

  Beardsley produced a sheaf of papers bound up with a red ribbon and waved them at Jeanette.

  “You will take these to the library and sign them now. You will threaten me with no lawsuits, my lady. No consultations with the solicitors, no marginalia or hasty amendments. Your brother has been teetering on the brink of ruin for years. The rumors regarding his treasonous misdeeds never go entirely silent, and I can ensure they never do. If that doesn’t motivate you to see reason, I will set about destroying the Coventry for good measure.”

  And there it was, the loaded gun pointed directly at Sycamore Dorning’s happiness, and ultimately at the social standing and financial security of the whole Dorning family.

  Jeanette rose and took the rolled-up documents from Beardsley, though her knees had gone weak, and she felt again as if she’d eaten bad mushrooms. Peem had at some point slipped back into the room and stood near the door, looking pained and elderly.

  “You slandered Orion?” Jeanette asked, pacing away from Beardsley. She had known that Sycamore’s enterprise was in jeopardy, but that Orion had already become a target for her in-laws ambushed her resolve.

  Beardsley’s smile was smug. “Viola gave me the idea. She was grumbling about his lack of consequence, about him being in trade, about his departure from the military being under a cloud, else he might have been among the escorts standing up with his nieces by marriage. He’s not bad looking, in Viola’s opinion, but he was very nearly bad ton. For me to nudge him a few steps farther along the path to disgrace was the work of a moment and only reignited the glowing embers of old scandal. Nobody would ever attribute to jovial Lord Beardsley anything approaching a nefarious motive.”

  Jerome was on his feet. “Papa, that’s not something a fellow ought to—”

  “Hush,” Viola said. “Goddard weathers periodic talk adequately.”

  Had Viola helped Orion weather that talk? Put in a quiet good word for him despite Beardsley’s campaign? Or had she fanned the flames?

  “My lady,” Peem began.

  “Not now.” Ire gave Jeanette’s voice an uncharacteristic edge as she rounded on Beardsley. “You have defamed my brother, or as good as. You are clearly much of the reason he and I have remained estranged. He is my only brother, and you…” She fell silent as Beardsley regarded her with patient bemusement. “Why? Why do that to a man who hasn’t harmed you in any way?”

  Though if his lordship would attack Orion, he’d not hesitate to ruin the Coventry.

  Beardsley waved a hand in another gesture the late marquess had favored. “You are easier to manage without a meddlesome brother to encourage your headstrong tendencies. Goddard’s own fellow officers don’t speak well of him, and haven’t for years. Then too, dashing Uncle Rye was the war hero in Trevor’s eyes. I didn’t care for that.”

  Jeanette crossed the room to stand toe-to-toe with Beardsley. “Now you think you can get your hands on my fortune, run tame in Trevor’s house, and steer him to the bride of your choice by threatening my brother all over again?”

  “No,” Beardsley said, his gaze running over her in a manner that made her flesh crawl. “Goddard has learned his lesson, tending to his vineyards and keeping to the social shadows. I’ll remind you of your place by destroying the Coventry. The Dornings are notably impecunious, with that club as their sole means of avoiding cash shortages and other emergencies. If I can wreck that one venture, I imperil the whole family. And a rumor of crooked tables is enough to close the Coventry’s doors.”

  Jeanette felt again the sense of the late marquess sneering at her, while Jerome would not meet her gaze, and Viola’s expression was unreadable. Beardsley’s scheming was precisely what she’d predicted, but the arrogance with which he owned his plans took her aback.

  “My lady,” Peem said, “you have callers.”

  “Send them away,” Beardsley retorted. “Her ladyship is not receiving and will be indisposed until such time as she speaks her vows.”

  Jeanette wanted to shred the damned settlement agreements to bits. She wanted to lay about with the fireplace poker. She had accepted that the Vincent family meant to get their hands on her money, accepted that she had become a liability to Sycamore and might well have to tolerate Jerome as a husband.

  But she had sorely underestimated Beardsley’s capacity for sheer evil, and that blunder frightened her badly. Sycamore, I was wrong. I was so very wrong.

  “Her ladyship has documents to sign,” Beardsley said, leaning closer. “Fetch her pen and ink, Peem.”

  Peem slipped out the door as Jeanette realized that Beardsley even wore the same cloying, bay-and-clove scent his late brother had. That scent brought with it memories of staring at the floor while being lectured, staring at the bed canopy while praying for dawn, staring at a mirror that reflected a frightened young girl where a new marchioness ought to have been.

  Jeanette pushed the memories aside and tried desperately to think. She’d miscalculated. She was without allies and signing the documents could well be the same as signing her own death warrant.

  “Beardsley, I am barren,” Jeanette said. “You cannot think to marry your only son to me.”

  Beardsley grabbed her wrist. “Sign the damned documents, Jeanette. I have had quite enough of your meddling with the solicitors, keeping Trevor in leading strings, and hoarding wealth you never earned.”

  Jeanette tried to wrest free, which sent the papers careening from her grasp, and gave Beardsley the leverage he needed to jerk her arm over her head.

  “Behave,” he snarled, “or you will wish you had.”

  “Papa,” Jerome began, “a gentleman doesn’t… That is to say—”

  A whisper as soft as a night breeze was Jeanette’s only warning, and then her hand was free.

  “Bad manners,” Sycamore said, pausing in the doorway. “Very bad manners to treat a lady thus, Lord Beardsley, for shame. Marchioness, good day. Sorry about the portrait, but the frame can be repaired.”

  A knife protruded from the frame of the portrait over the mantel, Beardsley’s sleeve held fast until he jerked the blade loose and tossed the knife to the floor.

  “What manner of barbarian throws a knife at an unarmed man?” Beardsley shot back. “Peem, summon the footmen to eject this scoundrel.”

  Trevor slipped into the room, followed by Orion. “Uncle,” Trevor said, “this is not your house. God willing, it never will be. Peem, you may leave us. Mr. Dorning has matters in hand.”

  Peem melted away without so much as a bow.

  Sycamore snatched his knife from the floor and slipped it into his boot. “If you were intent on a family gathering, Vincent, you shou
ld have at least included Lord Tavistock and Sir Orion. I am here at the lady’s sufferance, but I doubt she will object to my call.”

  “I do not object,” Jeanette said, sinking onto the sofa. “I do not object in the slightest.”

  Sycamore had not seen this parlor previously, and he took a moment to study the portrait over the mantel. The marquess had been a good-looking devil, sharing with both Trevor and Jerome flowing blond locks, a somewhat prominent nose, and a certain cast to his brow. Trevor was taller and leaner than his father had been, while Jerome had a rounder chin, though the family resemblance was strong.

  Beardsley had inherited the blond hair and the nose, but the resemblance between Trevor and Jerome was closer than that between Beardsley and his late older brother. Another rendering of the marquess hung between the windows, this time with a brace of hounds at his feet and an open blunderbuss cradled over his arm.

  What a bloody perishing bore he’d been, even when pictured at his recreations.

  “My lady, you really must redecorate,” Sycamore said. “The sight of your oppressor glaring down from two walls shades into martyrdom. You have paid a high enough price for your marital heroics.”

  Jeanette rubbed her wrist and looked at a coil of papers on the carpet as if it were the pantry mouser’s latest accident.

  “Beardsley set out to destroy the remains of Orion’s reputation,” she said. “I married into this family thinking to solve my brother’s problems, and all I did was make them worse.”

  “Don’t say that,” Goddard retorted. “I was desperate to buy my colors, and the family business will come right eventually. Then too, since mustering out, my reputation has never been what I’d wish it was. Beardsley, name your seconds.”

  “And don’t,” Sycamore said, “think to involve the lads. Their loyalties are divided, and besides, Jeanette wouldn’t allow them to indulge in such nonsense.”

  Trevor stood next to Jerome before the hearth. While Jerome was clearly aquiver to involve himself in his first affair of honor, Trevor’s distaste was plain on his handsome face. Had Sycamore not known better, he would have said that Trevor was the elder of the two, for he was certainly the wiser.

  But then, younger siblings seldom enjoyed the respect they were due.

  “No duels,” Viola Vincent said. “Please, no duels. Diana and Hera cannot in any way be associated—”

  “Madam,” Sycamore interjected, taking the place beside Jeanette on the sofa, “putting aside the issue of Sir Orion’s social standing, Lord Beardsley was also just now on the point of extorting Jeanette’s widow’s portion from her as well as her personal freedom. Unless I miss my guess, Diana’s come out is part of the reason Beardsley felt justified in his larceny.”

  Trevor propped an elbow on the mantel. “We cannot have my uncles dueling, Mr. Dorning. These things never stay quiet for long. Moreover, Uncle Beardsley would lose, and he might be a scoundrel and a halfwit, but he’s still my uncle.”

  Beside Sycamore, Jeanette was as still and quiet as a garden saint. “My lady,” Sycamore said, covering her hand with his, “what say you? Will you permit your brother to seek satisfaction? Will you allow him to put a bullet between Beardsley’s eyes? A quick end would be kinder than transportation or the gallows, if you want my opinion.”

  Jeanette’s fingers were as cold as her composure, though Sycamore knew her calm for the well-rehearsed act it was. The words permit and allow earned him her regard. She gazed at him steadily, her thoughts unfathomable.

  The old marquess had taught her that trick, how to hide in plain sight, how to become a sphinx in marchioness’s clothing, but what had been learned could be unlearned.

  “No duels,” Jeanette said. “No duels, no transportation, no gallows.”

  “Of course not,” Beardsley retorted, “because all I’ve done is repeat a little ancient gossip where Goddard is concerned and try to effectuate a marriage between family members when Jeanette has nobody to speak for her.”

  Oh, the fool. The hopeless, yammering fool.

  “I can speak for myself,” Jeanette said, “and Mr. Dorning doubtless has the right of it. You are approaching dun territory, Beardsley, with two more daughters to launch, a son headed for the sponging house, a wife determined to maintain appearances, and not one whit of financial self-discipline to your name. You launched your campaign against me rather than moderate your lifestyle, and now you have dragged your loved ones to the brink of real scandal.”

  “If intimidating a widow, setting ruffians on a nephew, and lying about an in-law isn’t scandalous,” Sycamore said, “I don’t know what is.”

  “Jerome must marry,” Beardsley said, “and Jeanette never provided the sons Tavistock was due. Why should she keep every penny of those settlements for herself when she hardly entertains, has no intention of remarrying, and has no daughters to support?”

  “Papa,” Jerome said, “I don’t want to marry Jeanette. Jeanette is a fine lady and all, but she’s… I would make her a miserable husband. She already put up with the old martinet for years, and why didn’t you tell me we were in trouble?”

  “Why not tell me?” Jeanette retorted. “Why not give me the chance to take more of a role in the girls’ situation? I am still the rubbishing marchioness. I’ve made more than one match, and I know well the perils of a poor choice.”

  “You?” Beardsley’s dismay was palpable in a single syllable. “Involve yourself with my finances? You’re a woman.”

  Viola had aged a decade in the course of this conversation. She gathered up her reticule and scooted to the edge of her seat. “We should be going. I trust all and sundry will forget this unfortunate meeting ever occurred. Jerome, your hand, please.”

  Sycamore rose and scooped up the papers from the floor. “Nobody is going anywhere until we resolve the little matter of felony attempts to kidnap his lordship—two attempts, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Kidnap me?” Trevor straightened. “Kidnap me?”

  “For ransom, I gather?” Jeanette’s gaze on Beardsley narrowed. “The street toughs who set upon you when you were alone or in your cups. Jerome knew your schedule, and Beardsley apparently was in Jerome’s confidence.”

  “Papa,” Jerome expostulated, “is this true? You had your own nephew set upon by rogues? Are you out of your mind?”

  “He’s out of money,” Sycamore said. “For some younger sons, that does equate to a loss of wits.”

  “You can’t prove anything,” Beardsley said. “London’s streets aren’t safe, and Tavistock was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “There,” Goddard said, “you would be wrong. I keep some interesting company, Beardsley, as does Mr. Dorning’s brother-in-law Worth Kettering. Between our various minions and their friends, we know exactly how much you paid to see Tavistock spirited away. The criminals you hired were smart enough not to take anything from Tavistock’s person and not to forcibly make off with a peer, though they did keep your money, didn’t they?”

  Jeanette was on her feet. “You couldn’t content yourself with menacing my brother and Mr. Dorning’s sole livelihood, you had to go after my step-son? That young man,”—she waved a hand at Trevor—“is among the most decent and honorable people I know, and you thought to steal from him and me both. I should let Mr. Dorning and each of his brothers go ten rounds with you at Jackson’s.”

  Ah, there was the glimmer of the true Jeanette that gave a man hope. “Tavistock deserves first crack,” Sycamore said. “Head of the family and all that. I suspect Goddard might want to teach the old man a few lessons as well, and I wouldn’t mind having a go at him.”

  Lady Viola should probably have been invited to join the queue as well.

  “I want a go at him,” Jeanette said. “What I don’t understand are the notes. Were you just trying to frighten me, Beardsley? Were you planning to have me kidnapped on the Great North Road and held for ransom?”

  Viola shrank back into her wing chair. “I sent the notes. I wan
ted you away from Town because I knew Beardsley was up to something. The modistes were humoring me, pretending to take an order for Diana’s carriage dress, then never delivering it. I knew the situation was growing dire. Beardsley has a temper, though he usually guards it well. I did not want that temper turning in your direction, Jeanette.”

  Jeanette resumed her seat beside Sycamore. “You don’t even like me. Why protect me like that?”

  Trevor and Jerome both turned at the same moment to regard Viola. Whether it was the angle of their heads, the shared look of expectation, or the resemblance to the nincompoop in the portrait, an explanation for Viola’s behavior popped into Sycamore’s head.

  “Viola’s conscience is guilty,” he said. “She had the one thing you, Jeanette, could not produce. She had the old marquess’s son.”

  A silence stretched, broken by the jingle of the harness on a passing gig.

  “I do not understand,” Jeanette said as Trevor and Jerome turned speculative gazes on each other. “Somebody explain this to me.”

  Beardsley dropped onto the love seat, while Viola clutched her reticule in her lap and said nothing.

  “It’s all right, Viola,” Beardsley said tiredly. “I’ve known all along, and when Dorning is underfoot, there is apparently no keeping secrets in this family. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It was my idea.”

  Sycamore’s aim in confronting Beardsley had been to win Jeanette free of a coerced marriage and stop the plundering of her financial security. Honor demanded that much of him, and love demanded that he then leave Jeanette free to enjoy her life as she saw fit.

  That she chose that moment to reach for his hand was thus a fierce and dear consolation. “Explain yourselves,” Sycamore said, closing his fingers around Jeanette’s. “Her ladyship and the young men are due the truth. You are family, after all, and you owe each other that much.”

  Jeanette shifted closer. “You heard Mr. Dorning. Somebody start talking, and don’t think to dissemble, or there will be consequences that make ten rounds at Jackson’s seem like a toddle in the park.”