She passed Sycamore his knife and watched as he returned it to the sheath in his boot. “I loathe being in debt to anybody,” she said, resuming her seat, “particularly a man. Women have little enough power, and a woman in debt is a woman all but asking to be exploited.”
Sycamore understood an independent nature, but not the bitterness behind her ladyship’s words. He also understood pride, however, and to become her ladyship’s instructor, he would have to surrender some scintilla of his own pride.
He had a bit to spare, after all. “Here is the favor I will accept in return for teaching you what you seek to know: Once a week, we will meet at the Coventry to practice throwing, and then you will dine with me on the premises.”
“Supper?” With a single word, she conjured a reference to all manner of hedonistic excesses.
“Food, wine, conversation. I can inflict some of my laughable French on you. You can tell me who is walking out with whom.”
The wariness had returned to her gaze, muted by curiosity. “You are serious?”
“I do not dissemble, even when my family dearly wishes I would.” Her ladyship still looked doubtful, so Sycamore resigned himself to explaining his situation to her.
“My brother Ash is my business partner, or he used to be. Now he’s too besotted with the wedded state to do more than keep an impatient eye on me at the club—not an eye on the club, mind you, an eye on me. When we talk, it’s ‘Della says,’ ‘Della hopes,’ and ‘my dear Della tells me.’ I love my sister by marriage—I love the entire herd of them—but Della has entirely made off with my dearest brother.”
Sycamore rose to pace rather than sit passively before her ladyship’s scrutiny. “I cannot gossip with anybody about club business, or with nobody but Tresham, and with him, it’s ‘Theodosia believes,’ ‘my darling Theo would say,’ and more of same. Casriel is the worst of the lot. He has daughters, which adds entire rhapsodic chapters to his litany.”
Sycamore paused before the corkboard, which would soon have to be replaced because the center was too pitted from multiple throws hitting the same mark.
“I spend almost every night,” he said, “amid the witty and wealthy, and while I can flirt, make small talk, and flatter until my eyelashes fall off, that’s not the same as a good meal with a pleasant companion.”
Her ladyship rose. She was tallish, but more than that, she carried herself regally. “I am rarely pleasant.”
“One of your many fine attributes.” Also one of Sycamore’s. “You are intelligent, well-read, honest, and knowledgeable about polite society. Let’s give it a month, shall we? The Coventry is closed on Sundays. We’ll have privacy there and some room to practice.”
She had come to make him a proposition, but he’d purposely put himself in the position of one making an offer.
“Four lessons and four suppers?”
“Or I can simply teach you to throw.” And thus put her subtly in his debt.
She stuck out a hand. “We have a bargain, Mr. Dorning. I will meet you at the side entrance to the Coventry at five on Sunday.”
Sycamore shook, pugilist fashion, then bowed over her hand, gentleman fashion. “I will look forward to it. Shall I call for my coach, or would you rather I walk you home?” He was several inches over six feet, though those inches had taken forever to show up. He also fenced, rode, and boxed and considered himself a match for any footpad, even without his knives.
“I prefer to walk, please.”
The faster option, given that a groom and coachman would have to be roused and the horses put to. Also the less conspicuous choice.
Sycamore contented himself with the role of gallant escort and parted from the lady at her front door. He made sure the night porter did not see him lurking at the foot of the terrace steps, and when her ladyship was safely behind a locked door, Sycamore returned to his own address by wandering several streets out of his way.
Two conclusions made his midnight stroll a thoughtful undertaking. First, in her determination to learn the art of the knife, her ladyship revealed a fear for her safety. Because she was neither fanciful nor stupid, Sycamore thus feared for her safety as well.
Second, whoever had followed her ladyship from Sycamore’s rooms had felt it unnecessary to follow Sycamore on his journey home.
Sycamore Dorning was like the knives he wielded—a dangerous ally. Jeanette had listed for him the advantages of the knife as a weapon, but she’d not mentioned the primary disadvantage: A knife had no loyalty and could become the weapon of anybody with the speed and skill to throw it. Guns, once fired, were of little use, particularly if cast into a handy patch of mud.
Jeanette had thought long and hard about paying a call on Mr. Dorning, and in the cold light of a spring morning, she was glad she had. Maybe even a little proud of herself for taking that much initiative.
“Good morning, Step-mama.” Trevor, Marquess of Tavistock, strode into the breakfast parlor looking like the embodiment of young English manhood at its finest. He had his father’s blond hair, height, and blue eyes, but he lacked the late titleholder’s cold heart. Trevor had been a good boy thanks mostly to his tutors and to Jeanette’s ingenuity.
He was well on his way to becoming a good man. “Good morning, Tavistock. How was your ride?”
“Splendid. I met Jerome in the park.” His lordship piled half his plate full of eggs, the other half full of crispy strips of bacon. “He invited
