She recited this tiredly, all the animation gone from her eyes. She was glad to not have children, a degree of bitterness Sycamore could hardly fathom, for she would be a wonderful mother, and who could resist loving a baby?
“You were not responsible for his lordship’s drinking, my lady, and his death is cause for rejoicing. Did anybody suggest you had a hand in his demise?” Sycamore mentally scheduled a good, sweaty bout at Angelo’s with Ash, because this recitation involving damned cows, a randy middle-aged marquess, and a seventeen-year-old bride was provoking enough anger to mute his arousal.
Which was a lot of anger. Rage, even.
“An inquest was held,” she said. “I was told it was a formality. He fell from his horse and was doubtless the worse for drink at the time. Death by misadventure. You are right, though. I rejoiced to be free of him and free of the shame of having failed him. I should be going.”
“You are avoiding the topic of who is following you,” Sycamore said, rising and coming around to hold her chair. “We can discuss it in the coach.”
She stood, and her shawl drooped off to one side. Sycamore tucked the shawl back up, his hand lingering on her shoulder. “You endured your late husband’s attentions without complaint. You have no cause for shame, your ladyship. That you kept your dignity throughout the ordeal of your marriage suggests you ought to instead take pride in your self-possession.”
She leaned into him, not quite an embrace, but something. “I know that, but pride is little comfort when every time you walk into a room, you see pitying glances and hear whispers. The sympathetic whispers were worse than the mean ones.”
Sycamore allowed himself to embrace her, to take her in his arms, though she made no move to reciprocate, other than giving him her weight. No witty remark or flirtatious quip came to mind, but perhaps that was for the best.
He wasn’t feeling witty or flirtatious. He was feeling anger on her ladyship’s behalf; chronic, leashed desire for her person; and determination to solve the riddle of who was intruding on her privacy.
The combination was unsettling, and also a little wonderful.
“They will soon be in each other’s pockets,” Lord Beardsley Vincent said, propping an elbow on the parlor mantel. “Jerome took Tavistock to the Coventry last night, and half of Mayfair frequents that establishment.”
Viola sat on the blue velvet sofa, winding yarn into a ball, like one of the fates. Beardsley’s marriage to her had been a sound match, no excesses of sentiment on either side, but no excesses of animosity either. As a spare, Beardsley had been permitted to marry down, provided the bride had generous settlements. Six children and nearly three decades later, those settlements were a thing of fond and distant memory.
“Jerome cannot afford to frequent the Coventry,” Viola muttered, “and you are not to tell him I said that. A young man’s dignity must be his sternest teacher.”
“You’d see our boy in the sponging house?”
“Debts of honor don’t land anybody in the sponging house,” Viola replied, the yarn winding into an ever-larger ball. “He’ll pay the trades with his competence and lie low until the debts of honor are forgotten or his creditors leave Town.”
Beardsley sipped his nightcap, good quality brandy, but inferior to the Tavistock town house offerings.
“Jerome knows his station, my dear, and he will not flee Town just when all the best company is reassembling to enjoy the fine weather. He’s a bachelor in demand to make up the numbers, an excellent dancer, and more than willing to avail himself of free food and drink. Particularly if he keeps company with Tavistock—”
“Must you refer to Trevor by the title? He has not attained his majority, and neither has he completed his university studies. Our nephew is little more than an overgrown boy parading around in Bond Street finery. Somebody should send him on a grand tour with a bear leader, rather than pushing Jerome at him.”
Viola had aged well, but she had aged. With each child, she’d become more outspoken and opinionated, and on matters about which she knew little.
“If Jerome is seen in Trevor’s company, Viola, Jerome’s consequence increases. Matchmakers will use Jerome to gain access to Trevor. They will invite the pair of them, and the marquess will naturally turn to his older, wiser cousin for guidance.”
Viola came to the end of her yarn and tucked the ball into her workbasket. “Why isn’t Trevor turning to you, my lord? I’ll tell you why, because that woman still has him in leading strings. Trevor won’t turn to Jerome when he has his step-mama to nanny him over breakfast every day.”
Viola had never cared for Jeanette, but then, Viola cared for few people outside her circle of tabbies and godchildren. In Viola’s defense, Jeanette was chilly company. She’d been a timid, proper young bride who’d failed spectacularly in the one regard that had mattered to her late husband.
And thank God for her failure, because a nursery full of little spares would have reduced Jerome’s standing considerably—and Beardsley’s as well.
“Jeanette deserves our pity,” he said. “She is incapable of producing children, past her best years, and becoming a tolerated fixture in her step-son’s house. For Trevor to send her off to a dower property would be a mercy.”
The Vincent family dower property in Derbyshire would do nicely. An affordable, rustic cottage far from the solicitors’ offices in the City.
“Did you tell our son to insinuate himself into Trevor’s good graces?” Viola asked. “Somebody needs to ease Trevor away from Jeanette’s influence.”
Beardsley finished his drink and considered pouring another. But no. That way lay a sore head and an empty cellar.
“I asked Trevor to help me keep an eye on our
