Jerome left a half inch of wine in the glass. “Jeanette is not bad looking. I’ve thought of marrying her.”
Trevor nearly spluttered his tea all over the table. “I beg your pardon?”
“Jeanette. She’s only five years my senior, and that would keep her settlements in the family. When Mama stops nattering on about you marrying Diana or Hera, she lately takes up a refrain about the marchioness being young enough to remarry.”
Abruptly, even the tea rebelled. “What on earth can you say to such ridiculous notions?”
“I don’t have to say anything. Papa reminds Mama that Jeanette is barren, and Mama subsides into silence. The whole burden of the succession isn’t on you, dear boy. A portion of it is reserved for my humble and handsome self.”
“Which is more comfort to me than you can possibly know. Step-mama would never have you, though, so you are safe from Auntie’s schemes.”
Jerome laid his table napkin beside his plate. “You think the marchioness is some sort of paragon of feminine virtue, but she’s a woman like any other. She has needs, and she has far too much blunt for one female. I might win her over, given enough time. I can be charming, and I would not put excessive demands on her.”
“Hush,” Trevor said, more upset than he cared to show. “Hush and don’t speak of this again. If her ladyship had any inclination to remarry at all, I would know it, and I can assure you, that citadel will never crumble. Particularly not to suit your notions of keeping money within the family and conveniently within your reach.”
Jerome rose. “Never say never, Cousin, but do give the Coventry my regards.” He flourished a bow and strode off, a fashion plate on two legs, leaving Trevor upset in body, mind, and belly.
“My lord, let’s take this discussion upstairs, shall we?” Sycamore gestured in the direction of the Coventry’s office. He wore his most genial smile, the better to torment young Tavistock. If the marquess expected a lot of deference and delicacy, he was soon to be disappointed. “I trust you’ve come to pay off your vowels. I commend you for tending to your debts of honor promptly.”
The marquess’s fair complexion had a slight greenish cast, poor lad. He went up the steps as enthusiastically as a boy who expects not only a birching from Headmaster, but a lengthy lecture besides.
Sycamore closed the office door and crossed to the sideboard. “May I offer you some brandy? It’s a fine vintage, if I do say so myself.”
“No brandy for me, thank you.”
“You were doing your part to drain my stores of champagne on Saturday night, my lord. Dare I observe that copious drink and wagering are not a wise combination?”
Tavistock took out a pair of spectacles and peered at the Gillray print. “Is that why you serve free champagne, to make people foolish?”
Not exactly the question of a penitent. “I do not make people foolish any more than I can make the foolish wise. Shall you have a seat, my lord?”
“I don’t want to sit,” Tavistock said. “I want to bolt out that door and never set foot in this establishment again.”
Sycamore took the chair behind the desk, a minor disrespect given Tavistock’s rank. “But here you are.”
Tavistock left off pretending to study visual humor that he was too young to truly comprehend. “I need a little time, Mr. Dorning. My allowance is adequate to cover my losses, but not until the next payment. If you would permit me to tend to my vowels in increments, I would appreciate it.”
Six months ago, Tavistock had had some boyish charm to go with his inexperience. London, or somebody in London, was not having a good effect on his lordship.
“And if I don’t care to wait on your next quarterly installment?” Sycamore said, leaning back. “I run a business, my lord, and if you cannot pay in coin, then you should be looking for a way to pay in kind. A gentleman pays his debts of honor timely.”
Tavistock took the chair opposite the desk. “You won’t give me even a few weeks? That’s a bit harsh, Mr. Dorning.”
“Men have been called out for less, my lord. Debts of honor are exactly that. I cannot haul you into court on a gambling marker, and why should I have to? You own several estates, an entire dressing closet of finery, at least three riding horses, any number of matched teams, gold cravat pins, jeweled snuffboxes … You are more than able to pay. You simply choose not to.”
Tavistock’s expression was perplexed. “I’m to surrender my goods to you?”
The seraphic chorus might be more innocent than the marquess, but not by much. “I could take a horse in payment, if I needed one, but I don’t, and horseflesh is devilish expensive to keep in Town. Have your manservant take some of your uglier jeweled sleeve buttons, rings, or shoe buckles around to the pawnshops, and they’ll make an offer. You can redeem the goods at exorbitant rates, but it’s not exactly usury, so the authorities turn a blind eye.”
“My valet was inherited from my father. He can barely get up the steps to dress me of a morning.”
“Put your dilemma to your butler. A good London butler is part magician.”
Tavistock crossed his legs at the knee. “Peem is nearly as old as my valet, and to tell him anything, I would have to shout. I’d rather Lady Tavistock remain unaware of my wagering.”
I was never this young, was I? “Half the club saw you losing your quarterly allowance along with your common sense and self-restraint. You can’t keep this from her, my lord.”
Tavistock ran a hand through blond curls. “Her ladyship won’t say a word. You have no idea, Mr. Dorning, no idea how her silences can rend a fellow’s wits. Her disappointment was always worse than my
