She positioned the knife and toed the line. The target wasn’t moving—moving targets were on the curriculum after the still targets presented no challenge—and last week, she’d been able to hit the damned thing.
“Trevor is acting like an ass.”
“I don’t suppose he’s very good at it. He’s a dear, earnest young man.”
Jeanette threw the knife and was rewarded with the thunk of metal biting into wood. She’d hit far off center, but a hit was a hit.
“He is a dear, earnest young man, but he is developing bad habits and secretiveness, which most people would refer to as a young man’s entitlement to privacy. Knife.”
Mr. Dorning passed her the second blade. “Wine, women, and wagering?”
The second knife was more obliging by two inches. “I don’t know about the women, but he’s over-imbibing and losing at cards. I’ve had to increase his allowance. Knife.”
Number three went wide on the other side of the target, landing only an inch from the edge.
“Focus, my lady. Think of whoever might be leading your lamb astray and let the knife drive them off.”
Number four was only a couple inches from the center of the target. “Trevor has one male cousin. Jerome isn’t a wastrel, but he’s fribbling about Town on an inheritance left to him by an auntie. He hasn’t enough coin to marry, he does no useful work, and he sets nothing aside for the funds. Knife.”
“And if you dare say something to Jerome about leaving Lord Tavistock alone, Jerome will tattle. You’re forgetting to breathe.”
Right. Breathe. Jeanette was also forgetting to relax before she threw. Mr. Dorning had explained that all the tension was to go into the throw, not the thrower. Number five benefited from either a good deep breath or relaxation—or luck—for it sank into the center of the wood.
“You’re finding your rhythm,” Mr. Dorning said, passing her the last knife. “Final throw, so enjoy it. You might ask Jerome for his help.”
“His help? He’s an idler who befriends other idlers. They think it great entertainment to watch each other dress, which exercise can take all morning and reduce a valet to tears. The Albany ought to change its name to the Dressing Closet by day and the Debauchery by night.”
The knife hit with a satisfying thump and stuck hard in the center of the target.
“Not debauchery,” Mr. Dorning said, once again striding forward to retrieve the blades. “Most young men prefer to do their dallying someplace other than their dwelling. That privacy you mentioned is too tender to be infiltrated by spies in petticoats. Home is where a bachelor-about-Town entertains his friends at cards, nurses a sore head, or takes secret delight in maudlin poetry and a solitary oyster dinner. You are worried for his lordship.”
He laid the knives in their velvet-lined case and lifted the target off its chair to set it against the nearest wine rack.
“I am worried,” Jeanette said. “I hate admitting that. Worry is pointless.”
“I worry a great deal,” Mr. Dorning said, passing Jeanette his coat.
She held it for him—was a man ever blessed with a more perfect set of shoulders and a more gracefully masculine back?—and smoothed the fabric before he stepped away.
“What could you possibly worry about, Mr. Dorning? Your club thrives, your family does as well. Your wealth and influence increase by the Season, and as an earl’s son, you are received everywhere.”
He left his coat unbuttoned and took up a shawl Jeanette had folded over a barrel. She allowed him to drape the wrap over her shoulders, a courtesy her own husband had never offered her.
“I worry about my business,” Mr. Dorning said. “The chef leaves, the undercook takes a notion to marry, and my kitchen is no longer up to standards. A rumor is circulated by a competitor that my tables are crooked, and my business fails in a fortnight. Two dozen hardworking people are unemployed, my suppliers lose income, my business associates lose faith in me. My brother Ash, who is my partner and friend…”
He strode off to replace the chair against the wall.
“Your brother Ash?”
“Ash is prone to serious bouts of melancholia. The Dorning family finances are not what they should be, though they are improving gradually. The staff is feuding over wages, and my champagne supplier has realized how much I depend on a volume discount to afford my customers the free drink that flows in such quantity after midnight.”
“The Goddards still have vineyards in France. I could make inquiries for you.”
He buttoned up his coat and offered his arm. “I would be very appreciative of such inquiries. My supplier was delighted to offer the Coventry a substantial discount when the club opened its doors, but this year he has become greedy. Greed and loyalty are poor bedfellows.”
They climbed the steps, and Jeanette realized that even though she’d thrown poorly, her mood had improved.
“Do you throw knives to manage the worry?”
A lit sconce at the top of the steps cast Mr. Dorning’s features in shadow, suggesting the serious, mature man he’d eventually become—or perhaps already was, upon closer examination.
“I have a capacity for worry that threatens to overwhelm me at times. I literally quake with dread out of all proportion to the moment, your ladyship, and yes, the knives help. Fencing and riding help. A rousing bout at Jackson’s helps, though my brother will no longer spar with me. Good, sensible company helps, which brings us back to your step-son. Why not ask Jerome to keep an eye on him?”
They passed into the hallway that ran between the pantries and on to the next set of steps.
“As Trevor’s older male cousin,” Jeanette said, “Jerome should already be keeping an eye on him, and from what I can see, the result is increasing inebriation, increasing losses at the tables, and God knows what else.”
“Tobacco, certainly,” Mr. Dorning said, leading Jeanette out onto the gambling floor. “Hashish is likely, as is an occasional pipe of opium. Opera dancers are nearly a foregone
