“That is… that is true.” Trevor pursed his lips and stared at plaster Cupids cavorting along the corners of the room’s molding. “Jerome doesn’t see limited funds as a check on Aunt’s schemes.”
“You can explain it to him when next you share a meal, and there’s something else to bear in mind, my lord.”
“You are ‘my lording’ me so early in the day, and me with a bad head.”
And you, already eighteen. Only last week, so it seemed to Jeanette, a small boy had been bellowing for her to watch how high his kite could fly.
“Jerome has his own funds,” Jeanette said, “modest though they are. He has two parents heavily invested in his wellbeing, and Viola, at least, has brothers and cousins and one fairly well-off uncle. If Aunt Viola knows you will open the Tavistock coffers for Jerome now, before there’s any real need, she won’t hesitate to importune you on behalf of your female cousins.”
Or on behalf of her legion of grandchildren, nieces, godchildren, and Lord knew who else. Viola was a meddler by nature, and her husband, Lord Beardsley, had learned to leave her to it, lest she meddle with her husband instead. The Tavistock coffers would be opened to assist with settlements for Trevor’s unmarried cousins—Jeanette would ensure that much—but they would not be used to lure bachelors to the altar.
“You make Auntie sound a bit ruthless.”
Only a bit? “Beardsley abets her, and I have reason to know his means are not as lavish as a marquess’s son might wish.” Something Trevor would grasp if he once accompanied Jeanette to meet with the solicitors. “If Cousin Maribelle had made a spectacular match, matters would have gone better for Cousin Harriet or Cousin Lucinda, but none of them made a priority of money when choosing a spouse.”
Maribelle’s firstborn had arrived not quite seven months after the wedding, which had prompted the late marquess to direct endless snide observations toward his own wife’s laggardly performance.
“Is Uncle Beardsley pockets to let?” Trevor asked, taking a bite of toast.
“Uncle has two more daughters to fire off, Trevor. He is probably hoping Jerome marries well and thus improves his sisters’ prospects, but he’s letting Aunt manage the situation. Is that a bruise over your eye?”
Only now did Jeanette realize that Trevor had remained slightly turned away from her. She’d sensed he was avoiding the light, but then, drawing the drapes closed had also made his bruise less apparent.
“Got into a bit of a dustup walking home from the club. Some of the other fellows were walking not far behind me, and between us, we routed the blackguards. A stout walking stick proves useful on occasion.”
This is why you should take the coach and footmen. This is why I worry. If one of those blackguards had had a knife…
“Common pickpockets?” Jeanette asked, choosing a currant bun from the basket in the center of the table.
Trevor drained his coffee cup. “Rather large for pickpockets, but they scampered off quickly enough when Fisher and Durante joined the affray. Durante considers himself a pugilist, and Fisher loves a good scrap.”
The streets of London were notoriously unsafe, particularly after dark. Drunken swells were a favorite target of the bolder thieves, and Trevor had doubtless been the worse for drink by the time he’d left Jerome.
“Where was Jerome?”
“Stayed behind at the club for another few hands. He was winning, while I was ready to leave. What are your plans for the day?”
Jeanette longed to ask how much Trevor had lost. She’d arranged for the increase in his allowance to become effective immediately, and that would have to suffice.
“I have some research to do regarding a few investments.” Research that would start with chatting up Cook regarding pineapples.
Trevor shuddered. “Investments?”
Jeanette was essentially managing the marquessate with an occasional nod in Beardsley’s direction. Beardsley was Trevor’s nominal guardian, though Trevor had made it plain upon his father’s death that he considered his place to be with Jeanette. Beardsley, awash in children at the time, had conceded the point with apparent relief.
“Investments, which is where most of your wealth comes from, my lord. The cent-per-cents are fine for slow, steady growth, but we have the means to diversify, and that is only prudent when the price of corn fluctuates so wildly. You really ought to accompany me to my next meeting with the solicitors, Trevor. They must know you can catch them out in mistakes and dissembling, or they will grow lax.”
Or worse, ambitious.
“Uncle Beardsley can explain matters to me when the time comes.”
Uncle Beardsley did not understand matters well enough to offer that explanation. The late marquess, for all his myriad faults, had taken management of his wealth seriously and had ensured that Jeanette was educated regarding the family’s means. That Tavistock had trusted her rather than his own brother to safeguard Trevor’s holdings was probably the only compliment his late lordship had paid her.
Ever.
“Uncle Beardsley takes little interest in the marquessate, Trevor. Your father had nothing but contempt for Beardsley in that regard.”
“Not contempt, Step-mama. Papa was simply somewhat colorful in his language sometimes. I do believe a bit of sustenance has had a salubrious effect on my outlook. Perhaps I’ll change into riding attire and brave the park after all.”
Trevor rose, bowed, and took himself off without coming closer to Jeanette than four feet. She knew why: She’d smell the drink on him, even now, for he’d had far too much, lost badly at cards, nearly come to grief at the hands of footpads, and could not clearly remember the details of his evening.
Perhaps Trevor was more like his father than Jeanette was willing to admit.
That Sycamore was reduced to calling on Worth Kettering, Lord Trysting, was one of life’s many
