“And yet, you made a complete cake of yourself with a half dozen of your very best friends cheering you on. Have any of them offered to make you a loan?”
Tavistock blinked. “Why would they?”
“Because they are your friends?”
Tavistock uncrossed his legs. “I am a year or two behind most of them, but spending more time at university studying Latin that I could translate before I left Eton struck me as silly.”
Sycamore was tempted to relent, but this young sprig had no older brothers, and he was to be pitied that poverty. “And losing a small fortune was wise?”
“I was an idiot,” Tavistock said, bolting to his feet. “If you’d like me to beg for your forgiveness, I’m not sure I’m capable. Begging is quite infra dig.”
Infra dignitatem. Beneath one’s dignity. “No, actually, it isn’t. I would beg for one more walk alone with my father through the Dorsetshire countryside. I’d beg for the lives of my siblings or their spouses and offspring. I’d beg for their happiness and health, and I’d beg for your life, Tavistock, because the marchioness would grieve to lose you. I’ll ask something of you far more challenging than simple begging.”
“What could possibly make a greater demand on a man’s amour propre than abasing himself before another?”
“I seek to challenge more than your overdeveloped pride, Tavistock. I will challenge your patience, your ingenuity, your manners, and your mind.”
Tavistock’s features shuttered into caution. His lordship was entirely too easy to read and very much in need of the sort of education the Coventry—and Sycamore—could provide him.
“I want you to work off your debt to me, Tavistock. Give me your time and your best efforts and assist me to keep this club running smoothly a few nights a week.”
Tavistock examined a pocket watch that would have put a noticeable dent in his debt to Sycamore.
“Work for you? You want me to carry a tray of champagne around like a dancing bear?”
Six months ago, Tavistock would not have attempted that haughty arch of his eyebrow. All he needed was a jewel-handled quizzing glass and a flatulent pug to become truly obnoxious.
“I have personally offered champagne to my guests when the waiters are run off their feet, Tavistock, because I want the people who come to my club to be treated as guests, and I want my staff to know they matter to me as well. I have taken an occasional empty platter back to the kitchen, because it’s more important that the tray be refilled than that I impersonate the idle ornaments whiling away their evenings at the table. I work at the Coventry, and I earn my way. If honest labor is beneath you, then I can withdraw the offer.”
For the first time, a hint of vulnerability showed in Tavistock’s blue eyes. “Honest labor is not beneath me, for I have incurred a debt and I mean to pay you. You should know, though, that I tend to make a muddle of everything. Aunt Viola says my dancing is too enthusiastic, by which she means that I have no grace. My valet tells me that I’m not up to my father’s standards in terms of fashion, and even when I do shout, Peem still sometimes refers to me by the courtesy title rather than as Tavistock.”
The marquess paced the carpet before the desk, clearly not finished with his soliloquy. “Cousin Jerome got all the panache and refinement. I got the extra height and the title. Auntie wants me to marry my cousin Diana, but I like the woman, and the shuddery part that we’re cousins aside, she deserves a husband who can manage a waltz without falling on his bum. I want very much to live up to my father’s memory, Mr. Dorning, but the job is more complicated than you might think, and I am not suited to it at all.”
Tavistock did not resume his seat so much as he collapsed in a brooding heap of fine tailoring and lanky limbs.
Had Casriel felt this overwhelmed and inept when Papa had tossed him the earldom’s business and gone botanizing in rural Ireland? From earliest childhood, Casriel had seemed even more adult than Papa, even more forbearing and patient.
Sycamore entertained the possibility—so slight as to be theoretical—that he was not the only Dorning brother to feel invisible among a horde of siblings. That he was not the only brother whose needs and wants had gone unheard beneath the fraternal din and Mama’s incessant whining.
“Tavistock, calm yourself. Your duties here at the Coventry would mostly consist of keeping an eye on matters where I cannot. Taking inventory in the wine cellar, monitoring the buffet, and smiling. If anybody asks, tell them you are helping me out a few nights a week.”
“I’m not, though,” Tavistock said miserably. “I cannot manage my funds. I let Jerome and his cronies goad me into playing too deep, and I can’t even sell you my horse. I like him—my horse, that is—so it’s as well you won’t take him.”
Sycamore rose and opened the door. “I’m sure he’s a very fine animal, Tavistock. I suggest you have a long talk with him before supper, and for God’s sake, take a nap and swill at least a quart of lemonade and chew half a bushel of parsley. Your head will thank you for it. Be back here by about nine, and we’ll get started.”
“Nine tonight?”
“Yes, nine tonight. Formal attire, as if you were hosting a supper for thirty. Away with you, and let your step-mother know what’s afoot so she won’t worry. What you say to Jerome Vincent is your business, but if I were you, I’d exercise a bit of discretion.” For once.
Tavistock rose. He was nearly as tall as Sycamore, but not half so muscular. Time would solve that problem—time and determination.
“Until nine tonight, Mr. Dorning.” He marched out the
