“Is that an apology, your lordship?”
Kettering grinned—more of his damned charm. “Yes. Yes, that is an apology for insulting you and your forest of brothers. The Dorning family is getting on quite well, and it galls me to be needed so little in that endeavor. Tell me about Lady Tavistock.”
Kettering was not needed at all, save to keep Jacaranda happy. “This goes no further.”
“Now you insult me.”
“I mean no further, Kettering. Not to Jacaranda, not to your flock of clerks, not to your coded journals.”
Kettering eased away. “My word as a gentleman.”
“Somebody has taken to following Lady Tavistock of an evening, and I believe she is worried for her safety. She manages the Tavistock accounts, she is the closest thing to a good influence on the young marquess, and the heir and spare—the titleholder’s uncle and cousin, respectively—might well find her influence over her step-son inconvenient.”
Sycamore had promised to keep the knife lessons private, and they worried him most of all.
“Lady Tavistock’s brother has enemies,” Kettering said. “Orion Goddard has enemies on both sides of the Channel, and on the Peninsula, and if that man cares for anybody—an open question—he cares for his sister.”
“His problems might have become hers?”
Kettering nodded, only the once. “Possibly.”
“Then I’d best make Mr. Goddard’s acquaintance.”
“Colonel Sir Orion Goddard, though I don’t think he uses his honorific.”
In a country that pretended to venerate its aristocracy, why eschew mention of the knighthood? “Then I will make the colonel’s acquaintance. Thank you for your time, Kettering.”
“Will you plant me a facer if I tell you to be careful?”
“Goddard is that difficult?” Sycamore was reminded that her ladyship worried for her brother, mostly from a polite distance.
“He had a rough go of it in the military,” Kettering said. “Nobody will quite say what happened. He’s known to have a temper, and he and his sister are not friendly. He might not be received, so it’s fortunate he doesn’t socialize.”
A difficult, self-absorbed, unhappy man. The Coventry was full of them on any given night and boasted its share of difficult, self-absorbed, unhappy women too. Even the staff was prone to the occasional tantrum or broken dish.
“Anything else I should know?” Sycamore asked.
Kettering’s smile was faint, but genuine. “If her ladyship would like to invest with us, I suggest she buy in by purchasing from each of us a quarter of our shares.”
“That results in her having only two-thirds the shares we each hold.”
Kettering’s smile faded. “You’d bring her in as an equal partner?”
“An equal partner, or not at all. Good day, Kettering, and thank you for your time.”
Kettering looked as if he wanted to say more, to resume cajolery as usual, but Sycamore had put up with years of such condescension and was no longer inclined to indulge Kettering’s whims.
He slipped through the door, retrieved his hat and cane, and saw himself out.
The knives, such delightful new acquaintances on first meeting, turned up contrary at the second lesson. Jeanette took a step closer to the target, which was once more sitting on a chair several yards down the corridor, and let fly.
“Blast and perdition.” The knife bounced off the wood and clattered to the cobbled floor.
Mr. Dorning, in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat today, cravat still neatly pinned, ambled forward. “You can do better than that.”
“I am trying my best, Mr. Dorning.” And yet, the occasional throw missed the wood entirely and sailed into the shadows at the end of the corridor.
Mr. Dorning retrieved five blades from various corners of the target and the sixth from the floor. Jeanette liked watching him move, liked the flex of his haunches when he bent to pick up a knife, liked how his fingers wrapped around the hilts. The man was wretchedly distracting even when not half naked.
“I meant,” he said, approaching with the knives, “with your profanity. There’s nobody here to judge, nobody to repeat your epithets. I have heard far worse than ‘blast and perdition.’ You won’t shock me, your ladyship.”
He passed Jeanette five of the blades and toed the imaginary line, then waited for Jeanette to move behind him.
“Watch how far back I cock my arm, then how far forward it travels. Much of the momentum of the knife comes not from my arm or hand, but from my body. You’ll see no flick of the wrist, just an opportune release. The index finger caresses the blade in a lingering farewell. Last week, you were throwing with more of your whole body. This week, you are too tightly laced, or something.”
The knife, of course, buried itself dead center in the target. He held out his hand, and Jeanette slapped the hilt of the second blade into his palm. Five more throws resulted in a rosette of blades clustered around the first throw.
“What did you notice?” Mr. Dorning asked, prowling forward to retrieve his knives.
Jeanette noticed his bum, which filled out his breeches with an admirable quantity of tight, rounded muscle. She noticed his wrists, which managed to be elegant, and noticed the frigid focus in his eyes whenever he handled a knife. Would he wear the same expression when handling a woman, or would those marvelous eyes warm with tenderness?
“I noticed that you are accurate, and today, I am utterly incompetent.” The disappointment was inordinate.
He passed her a knife. “You are unfocused. What has distracted you?”
What had not distracted her? Trevor hadn’t come down to breakfast at all either that morning or the previous Thursday. Jeanette handled the social correspondence, and she doubted he’d been up late swilling brandy at the Lewis musicale. Sopranos were not Trevor’s idea of a fine diversion.
“I am a bit fatigued,” Jeanette said, stepping forward.
“Fatigue does not necessarily affect aim,” Mr. Dorning replied, taking up a lean against the wall behind her and crossing his arms. “Part of the delight of wielding a knife is that it takes very little strength. If you are quick enough, the knife has tremendous force, and you can be quite
