Jeanette knew two things.
First, she had had a very narrow escape. Her signature on a lot of legal papers would have created a tangled web of binding obligations that even Sycamore’s ferocious determination would have been hard put to cut through.
Second, she should have married Sycamore when she’d had the chance. He’d sensed the complications swirling around her, when all she’d seen was Beardsley’s need for coin and one of his plans to extract it from her. Attempted kidnappings, Viola’s notes, legitimate bastards… Jeanette had had no clue how complicated the tangled web had grown and still did not entirely grasp the details.
“The late marquess had a certain gruff charm,” Viola said. “Or he did twenty-odd years ago. He’d been married for years by that point. His wife was in good health, and they’d had no children. I was fertile. If the Vincent family knew nothing else about me by then, they knew I was fertile.”
“You were also lonely,” Beardsley said, “and your consequence married to me was far less than you’d envisioned. My brother put the scheme to me, and I told him that as long as no force was involved, I was amenable. He was willing to persist with the affair until a boy child resulted.”
Sycamore’s hand was warm in Jeanette’s grasp, his voice was arctic. “How much did the marquess offer you for the privilege of seducing your wife?”
Beardsley gazed at Jerome. “Ten thousand pounds, which pulled me from the River Tick for a few years. Tavistock never once offered to take on the burden of my debts himself. I suspect he allowed my problems to mount precisely to facilitate his scheme with Viola.”
“The scheme,” Viola said dryly, “was obvious to me only in hindsight. Tavistock’s marriage was a disappointment to him. He confided in me, he praised my daughters, he praised me for my maternal devotion. He lamented that the one thing he sought in life had been denied him, but hinted broadly that I, as the lovely wife of the Vincent family spare, could grant him that boon.”
“You were manipulated by a pair of schemers,” Sycamore said, sparing Jeanette the admission.
Pity for Viola was as unwelcome as it was inevitable. She’d been young, a neglected wife, an overburdened mother, and the late marquess had offered her the means to revenge every slight and indignity while calling her actions a noble sacrifice.
“Tavistock would not relent,” Viola said, “and I well knew Beardsley was playing me false by then—had been from the first year of our marriage. I was angry, lonely, and not getting any younger. I did care for Tavistock, and I hope in some regard, he cared for me.”
Jeanette doubted that, but kept her peace. Viola had been used, and then she’d had to watch as Tavistock later fathered the boy who’d depose Viola’s son as heir to the title. Used, cast aside, and left to believe that she’d betrayed the husband who’d set her up to be seduced.
“Tavistock established a trust for Jerome,” Viola said. “Modest, but something. That trust gave my son a gentleman’s education and has been his sole support in recent years.”
“I thought I had a great-auntie,” Jerome said, sinking into a wing chair. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”
“I thought you were my cousin,” Trevor said, looking bemused. “Appears that’s not the whole story.”
“I thought the Vincents were my family,” Jeanette said. “I thought my own brother had willingly turned his back on me, that my husband had no spare of the body, that Beardsley was a benign if negligent guardian to my step-son. I believed a parcel of lies, and if there are any more untruths to be aired, please air them now.”
Jeanette could make that demand because Sycamore sat beside her, holding her hand and exuding a brisk pragmatism in the face of family upheaval.
“Well, I certainly don’t want to marry you,” Jerome said. “Another one of Papa’s—I mean, Lord Beardsley’s—schemes. Meaning no offense, such a marriage would be distasteful in light of present disclosures.”
“Orion?” Jeanette said, regarding her brother. “What do you want? Beardsley wronged you, and you have suffered much as a result.”
“The deepest hurt,” Rye said, his smile a ghost of his old ebullience, “was that you thought I had shunned you willingly. I honestly don’t know why my fellow officers hold me in such contempt, but they do, and Beardsley’s whispering campaign ensures they will for some time to come. My objective, Jeanette, has been to preserve the family legacy in France, so I can bequeath that to you as some sort of reparation for all the sacrifices you made for me.”
Sycamore passed Jeanette a handkerchief, though he remained silent. That wasn’t like him, to sit back and watch, but even a silent Sycamore fortified her.
“I don’t want a lot of perishing grapes, Rye. I want my only sibling.” Had Jeanette not had an audience, she would have presumed so far as to hug her brother. “You will call upon me next week, please.”
Sycamore sent Rye a look that glance held daring and reassurance both. Equal parts don’t let me down and I won’t abandon you. Jeanette had let Sycamore down and abandoned him, which had her dabbing at her eyes and tucking his handkerchief away.
“I will call upon you tomorrow,” Rye said. “What shall we do with Beardsley?”
Jeanette did not care what became of Beardsley, provided he never troubled her again.
“We could send him to the dower house,” Trevor said, “except I intend to sign that over to you, Jeanette. If you don’t want to spend your dotage in Derbyshire, you can sell the damned place. The estate is self-supporting and would bring you considerable coin.”
Jeanette regarded the tall young man lounging by the mantel. “You have been paying attention.”
He shot his cuffs. “I read the reports. Can’t allow you to have all the fun.”
“You’ve been hanging back regarding the finances?” she asked. “Allowing me free rein and pretending you had no interest?”
Trevor pushed away from the mantel and went to the sideboard. “When I bungled so badly at last year’s house party, I had a talk with myself. What the hell sort of marquess won’t turn his hand to either university studies or his own affairs? I saw the Dornings, sons of an earl, taking on the Coventry and making no apologies for it. They have another brother who writes books, one who raises fancy dogs. They figure out how to go on and then sally forth. I was disappointing you. Papa disappointed you. Your brother disappointed you. The trend was lowering. Would anybody care for a drink?”
This little speech both hurt—Trevor had grown up when Jeanette wasn’t looking—and comforted. He was already the marquess and a compliment to the peerage.
“A bracer for my nerves,” Viola said. “Jeanette, I am sorry. Had I known how far Beardsley was blundering from decency, I would have done more than have Peem slip you a few notes.”
Sycamore accepted a drink from Trevor and passed it to Jeanette. “What of the food poisoning?” Sycamore asked. “Was that your doing?”
Orion accepted a drink as well, and seemed content to hold his peace—for now.
“The mushrooms were a mistake,” Viola said. “A very serious mistake, for which I abjectly apologize. I wanted Jeanette to leave London and grew too desperate in my schemes, though the worst she would suffer as a profound bellyache. If Trevor could be talked into marrying one of his cousins, then Beardsley’s schemes for Jerome and Jeanette would become unnecessary. Trevor would never allow his wife’s family—his own cousins, aunt, and uncle—to come to financial grief.”
Jeanette sipped her brandy, finding it nearly as good as what Sycamore served at the club. “You could have simply asked me for help, or asked Trevor. You did not need to skulk about, either one of you.”
They could have done as Sycamore had—as Jeanette had never done—and confronted family difficulties with equal parts goodwill and blunt courage.
“And you,” Beardsley said, “would have put me on an allowance, would have seen two of my daughters wearing the same presentation gown, would have seen Viola shamed by economies.”
And that was why Jeanette loved Sycamore Dorning. Because he was honest with himself and others, because he faced life squarely and took the path of truth when others wilted at such a prospect. Because he worried about those he cared for. He loved passionately, and wasn’t afraid to be seen holding hands with a woman who desperately needed his hand to hold.
“If it’s money,” Beardsley began, “I would remind you all that my wife and daughters are blameless.”
“Viola is far from blameless.” Trevor made that statement as he passed Jerome a drink. “And she would have foisted me off on a cousin and considered that a triumph. I will cheerfully dower both of them, Auntie. You had only to ask.”
“You could have offered,” Viola said, chin coming up.
“His lordship is not even of age,” Jeanette retorted. “I could have helped with their dowries too. I could have helped with their presentations, but you, Viola, had to hoard those honors for yourself.”
“I can also assist with dowering the young ladies,” Sycamore said, “and even dear Uncle Rye might contribute to the family project, but what of Beardsley? He has betrayed his family, from wife and daughters, to nephews—note the plural—to widowed sister-in-law.”
Jeanette considered Beardsley, who had no son of his own, no fortune, no real friends, and a marriage that imprisoned the parties far more than it sheltered them. Then too, in a sense, Beardsley had been betrayed by his own brother.
“We could do nothing,” she said. “Simply put him on remittance at the family seat.”
Trevor wrinkled his nose. “Unacceptable. That is the family seat, the staff would show him undue loyalty, and the rest of us would avoid Tavistock Hall to avoid his company.”
“The dower house appeals to me,” Viola said. “It’s remote, but still a family holding. I could retire there once the girls are launched.”
Sycamore held his peace, and Jeanette realized why. He was allowing the Vincent-Goddard family to muddle through a problem to its solution. Showing them the way without saying a word.
“What about France?” Trevor said quietly. “I’ve a mind to learn the vintner’s trade. There’s money to be made purveying fine wines, and if the colonel could point me in the right direction, I’d happily apply myself to it.”
Jerome studied his drink. “Don’t suppose you could use company in that endeavor? I’m not stupid, and my French is almost as good as yours, but Papa—Lord Beardsley—was never one for encouraging me into a trade or profession. If you’re planning to buy up some vineyards, you could use a fellow to manage them.”
“Jeanette?” Orion cocked his head. “Shall we banish Beardsley to France until the last of his flotilla of daughters is launched? I can show the lads the basics of winemaking, though it’s an art not learned in a few months. They can keep an eye on Beardsley, and he can live inexpensively while keeping a proper distance from those who don’t care to see him.”
“And I can do something besides kick up my heels while I’m waiting to come of age,” Trevor muttered.
Trevor wanted to go to France, that was clear. Jerome needed to go, and Orion was anxious to make amends by shepherding the young men about the Goddard family vineyards. Viola looked hopeful, and Sycamore would speak up if he objected.
And clearly, he did not object.
What Beardsley wanted… did not signify. Jeanette tried to feel some guilt about the conclusion, some compassion, some pity even, but Beardsley hadn’t spared anybody else any pity, and neither had his damned brother.
They’d thought only of themselves and their wants, and all around them—Jeanette included—had colluded to allow them their monstrous selfishness.
“France is a solution,” Jeanette said slowly. “If Beardsley is accompanied by the colonel, Lord Tavistock, and Jerome, the journey will have the appearance of a family excursion. Nobody should depart until after Diana’s presentation.”
“Thank you,” Viola said, rising. “If that’s settled, I will return to Surrey and explain this situation to the girls.”
Trevor collected her glass. “You will inform my cousins that their brother is also my brother. Either you tell them, Auntie, or I will. Jerome shouldn’t have to have that discussion with them, and we cannot trust Beardsley to handle it.”
Viola nodded and spared her husband a glance. “I’ll send a trunk to your club, my lord. The girls and I will see you off when you depart for France.”
Beardsley rose. “I’ll escort you to the coach.”
Viola gave him a long, complicated look, then took his arm. They left the parlor in silence, though Jeanette predicted that at some point, a blazing row would take place.
Or maybe not. The Vincents were new to the habit of honesty and, with the exception of Trevor, not a very courageous bunch.
Orion set his empty glass on the sideboard. “If I’m to plan a trip to France, I’d best be on my way. Tavistock, Vincent, expect to travel light, because the Goddard family holdings are scattered in both the north and south of the country, and we will visit them all.”
“Should we develop an itinerary?” Trevor asked, brows knitting. “Jeanette will want to know where we bide, and we must find a suitably obscure village in which to deposit Beardsley.”
“I know just the village,” Orion said. “Run by an order of nuns and abetted by a phalanx of grannies. Let’s repair to your club, and we can sketch out our route.”
Too late, Jeanette realized that her darling brother and her doting step-son were conspiring to leave her alone with Sycamore. She rose, and Sycamore stood as well.
“I will want that itinerary,” she said. “And I will see you off as well.”
“Of course,” Trevor said, patting her shoulder. “We will not leave without giving you a full accounting of our plans first.” He bowed and pulled Jerome by the arm from the room.
“I can’t speak for Jerome,” Sycamore said, “but heed me on this, Goddard. Tavistock is one of those people who never says much, and thus you assume he’s not thinking much. Then he opens his mouth, and you realize he’s not only noticed every single detail, he’s pondered and parsed the connections you never made. I had hopes for him at the Coventry, but alas, he’s off to France.”
“A bright lad,” Orion said. “He’s had the benefit of good examples. Nettie, I will call on you tomorrow.”
Do you promise? Jeanette could not quite put that question into words, so she instead hugged her brother for the first time in years.
“We’ll talk,” he murmured. “I have much to tell you, and we’ll talk.”
“Come early,” Jeanette said. “Please come early.” She stepped back, though she never wanted to let him out of her sight again. She did not realize she’d taken Sycamore’s hand until he linked arms with her, and they walked Orion to the front door.
When Orion had gone jaunting on his way, Sycamore bowed over Jeanette’s hand, kissed her cheek, and followed the others out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
“You’ve been invited to supper,” Ash said, passing Sycamore a single folded sheet of vellum. “Looks like her ladyship penned it herself.”
Sycamore snatched the paper from Ash’s grasp. “You opened my mail?”
Ash made his way between the club’s tables, which were deserted at this midmorning hour. “If she was tossing you over with one of those dreadful letters about fond memories and eternal friendship, you would need somebody to get you drunk.”
Sycamore perused the invitation, which had, indeed, been written in Jeanette’s tidy hand. “You’ve received many such letters?” Sycamore sniffed the page, though he knew Ash watched him do it. So bloody what? He was rewarded with a faint whiff of jasmine—and hope.
“I’ve written a few myself,” Ash said, using a hooked device to open
a window on the alley side of the club. “Della thinks you should call on her ladyship privately.”
“Why?” Sycamore reread the invitation, looking for some clue that it was anything more than a polite gesture to scotch talk.
Ash opened another window. “Because what you have to say to the marchioness requires privacy.”
“How can Della know what I have to say to Jeanette—to her ladyship—when I’ve hardly sorted that out for myself?” A week ago, Sycamore had kissed Jeanette’s cheek and left her alone in her foyer. She had been buffeted by multiple betrayals and intrigues. Piling a renewed marriage proposal onto her plate would have seemed… opportunistic, impetuous, ungentlemanly.
Rash and selfish, and those were not attributes Sycamore aspired to.
“You love her,” Ash said. “Tell her that.”
“I already did. Told her I wanted to marry her, keep her safe, and spend the rest of my life with her, more or less. She wasn’t impressed.” He’d told her that he cared for her too.
Ash set aside the hook and ambled behind the bar. He poured two glasses of lemonade and brought Sycamore one of them.
“But did you tell her you love her? Did you say the words, Sycamore? You are among the bravest men I know, but those three little words, when sincerely offered, make even the stoutest knight quake in his armor.”
“I’m brave?” Sycamore did not feel very brave. “I am frustrated, uncertain, and lonely in ways that… If Jeanette refuses me this time, Ash, I can’t tell myself she’s again protecting me as she protected every dunderheaded male in her family.”
“If she turns you down,” Ash said, touching his glass to Sycamore’s, “she’s the dunderhead, and I do not take her ladyship for a dunderhead. Neither does Della.”
The lemonade was both tart and sweet, as Jeanette could be. “Della said that?”
“She says you’re perfect for each other, and no less authority than our own Lady Casriel concurs. Jacaranda has also been consulted and agrees you and the marchioness would make a fine match.”
The Last True Gentleman: The True Gentlemen — Book 12 Page 27