“This is your melancholy brother?” Jeanette knew Ash Dorning, had seen him lending an air of gracious reserve to the Coventry, a subtle contrast to Sycamore’s more ebullient hospitality. She had also seen him at cards and knew his skill to be formidable.
“One doesn’t bruit Ash’s troubles about, but I trust your discretion. Tell me who is following you, because clearly, you trust my discretion as well.”
Jeanette would never be that blunt, but from Sycamore Dorning, she found direct speech welcome. “I don’t know who has taken an untoward interest in me. Some spy for the print shops or scandal sheets, I suppose. They are ever hungry to catch a wellborn woman in a peccadillo.”
Mr. Dorning removed his hat and set it on the opposite seat. “You were followed home from the Coventry last week, my lady. If somebody wanted to make scandal out of that, they could have already done so. We were alone behind locked doors for hours.”
Pleasant hours, oddly enough. “Prints take time to create, tattle takes time to write up.”
“You do not believe you are being pursued by some scandalmongering journalist, and neither do I. You were followed to the Andersons’ card party on Wednesday, where no scandal could possibly attach to you. Who is your heir?”
“What an odd question. Why would you…?” Her mind caught up with his line of inquiry. “You think somebody seeks to find me in a dark alley and put an end to me?”
“Humor me. I have a vivid imagination.”
He also had a lovely way of holding a woman that put no demands on her. That half embrace in the cozy parlor, when Jeanette had allowed herself to lean against him, had been luscious and dangerous. He’d taken her weight, wrapped his arms gently around her, and let her rest against him. For Jeanette, the moment had come perilously close to tears, and perhaps he’d sensed that.
The man was damnably perceptive, though what did Jeanette have to cry about? A wealthy, titled widow was in every way to be envied, and Trevor was simply behaving as young men did when new to Town.
“My heir,” Jeanette said, pulling her mind from the memory of a sweet embrace. “A few charities, but mostly my brother and his progeny, if any he has. If he should predecease me, more charities and Trevor.”
Jeanette had not traveled side by side with a male escort in ages. Trevor did not count, being prone to fidgets and often preferring to ride on the box. Sycamore Dorning had a gentleman’s reserve, and more than that, his muscular presence was reassuring.
“And if Trevor should predecease you?”
“The solicitors told me there’s a list, by law, and it starts with Rye because he is my only living close relation. We have some cousins scattered around, and Trevor and Lord Beardsley are on the list further down. I have no reason to believe either Orion or Trevor will go to their reward before I do, though. Why do you…?” Again, she made the leap. “You suspect my brother means to do me harm?”
“I suspect everybody and nobody. We have no motive for why your privacy is being jeopardized, so we must plan for the worst. Your brother is inured to violence. He has estranged himself from you and bears a grudge against the world, to hear you tell it. If he knows he is your heir, he might plot against you.”
The coach was plodding along at the walk, which was fine with Jeanette. She needed to sort her situation out, and Sycamore Dorning was—this still confounded her—a good listener.
“Orion abhors violence. He was an enthusiastic soldier when Papa bought him his colors, but Rye came home from the battlefields a changed man. His body is mostly whole, while his heart and mind… I no longer know him, but I cannot see him murdering his only sister.”
“He stays on the list. Pay a call on him, get a sense for who he is now.”
“Do not give me orders, Mr. Dorning.”
“Do not scold me over trivialities, my lady. I can mince about making suggestions, leaving innuendo in the air for you to consider, or I can speak my mind and trust you will give me the benefit of the doubt.”
Perhaps Jeanette had had too much good wine with dinner, perhaps the darkened coach interior and talk of murder had dislodged her wits. She had no other explanation for her reply.
“‘Spread your damned legs, woman,’” she said, easily echoing her late husband’s annoyance. “‘Cease your infernal whimpering. If you can’t show any enthusiasm, hold still and let me finish. Clothes off. I’m entitled to inspect my purchase. On the bed, and on your back, where you belong until you can fulfill the most basic of wifely duties.’”
Jeanette’s throat abruptly went tight, and the silence in the coach became as painful as a murdered dream.
“He never asked me for anything,” she said. “Never even asked me to marry him. My father didn’t ask if I wanted to be married. Orion never asked what I thought of a military career, because I could have told him he wasn’t suited to war. What you regard as a triviality—a demand rather than the courtesy of a suggestion or a request—I regard as a warning sign of impending disrespect. I will never again overlook such warning signs.”
The coach rolled along through the darkness, and Jeanette felt the first tear slip down her cheek. What in all creation was wrong with her that putting Sycamore Dorning in his place should upset her so? He said nothing, merely sat beside her in the shadows, his presence no longer reassuring.
“I am not ridiculous,” Jeanette said. “The marquess was ridiculous. I knew nothing of marital matters when I spoke my vows. My mother died when I was eleven, and I was
