Viola smiled at him, a warm, admiring smile he hadn’t seen from her in ages. “My lord, you astound me. That plan is elegantly simple and likely to work as all of my lectures and threats have not.”
“You had to try, my dear, and I do thank you for your efforts. Do you truly have Trevor in mind for Diana, or would you prefer to see him wed to Hera? Diana is only a few years Trevor’s senior, and older sisters generally marry first.”
Viola’s smile became wistful. “If I knew Tavistock was engaged to one of our girls—a real engagement, not one of these harum-scarum overnight courtships—I could turn my energies to seeing Jerome wed. He is older than Trevor and still in line for the succession. He really ought to be taking a bride.”
Exactly what I’ve told him over and over. “Let’s not build castles in Spain, my dear. First, we will free Trevor from his step-mother’s meddling, then we will see what develops for him in terms of marriage to a cousin. Tell me more about this house party of Lady Wentwhistle’s.”
Viola took a place on her tufted sofa and prattled on about trysts, tournaments, and tattle until Beardsley felt like the glassy-eyed bear, sitting perpetually before a tea tray he would never enjoy. When Viola eventually wound down, Beardsley patted her shoulder, kissed her forehead, and bid her good day.
An impromptu call on his mistress was in order. A plan years in the making was smoothly under way, and that was cause for celebration.
“Mr. Doorknob?” The Tavistock butler peered at Sycamore’s card. “I will see if the marchioness is in, sir. Please do make yourself comfortable.” He toddled off down the corridor, Sycamore’s card in his hand.
Leaving Sycamore to doff his greatcoat and hat, hanging each on a hook opposite the porter’s nook. He laid his walking stick across the hooks, lest he forget it. This was his first venture into Jeanette’s home territory, and he would be damned if he’d linger in the hallway like a penitent outside the confessional.
He made a circuit of the spotless grand foyer, early afternoon light pouring onto the parquet marble floor from a skylight overhead. Romanesque busts occupied opposing alcoves, overgrown ferns billowing at the foot of the plinths. A portrait of what had to be the late marquess hung in the space between the alcoves.
His lordship was a severe-looking fellow depicted in formal attire, a painting of some ancestor or other tucked into the background of his own portrait. The composition was designed to make his lordship look imposing—the perspective slightly low relative to the subject, the somber colors, the coat of arms over the mantel.
Cold eyes, a grim mouth, pale hands… This was the lover Jeanette had cuddled up to as a seventeen-year-old bride.
“My late husband,” said the lady herself, the butler hovering at her elbow. “That was done two years before his death. His hair wasn’t so uniformly dark then, but the artist had a commission to earn.”
A riding crop, roweled spurs, dueling pistols, fowling piece, crossbow, and huntsman’s coiled whip were discreetly included in the marquess’s portrait, each probably intended to subtly reinforce his masculinity and vigor. A globe, presenting Britain at the center of the Northern Hemisphere, occupied the desk behind him.
Not a knife to be seen, though, and nothing of learning, beauty, or grace. “A thoroughly jovial fellow, wasn’t he?” Sycamore said.
Jeanette glanced at the butler. “Peem, a tea tray in the blue parlor.”
“Very good, my lady.” He bowed and withdrew at a funereal pace.
“I was hoping to drive out with you,” Sycamore said. “The day is lovely.” And so are you. She wore a soft green velvet afternoon dress, a hint of lace across a modest décolletage, pink embroidery adding a graceful touch on the bodice and cuffs.
“I would have to change into a carriage dress,” she replied. “Let’s find somewhere comfortable to chat.”
Jeanette appeared composed and calm, and she did not look particularly happy to see Sycamore. She showed him to a small parlor across the corridor from a yawning library. Sycamore paused to examine the library, which smelled of books and coal and boasted more dull portraiture presiding over perfectly symmetric groupings of perfectly matched furniture.
“I’ve never met anybody who lived in a mausoleum before,” Sycamore said, joining Jeanette by the parlor door. “I can almost hear the angel choirs singing their panegyrics to the late marquess. How do you stand it?”
Jeanette left the parlor door open, which was not a good sign. “This is the home of the present marquess, who doubtless finds respect for tradition comforting. I make sure the staff is content and the house well run. It’s not my place to comment on the decorations.”
“Something has upset you,” Sycamore said, considering the slight tension around her mouth, the anxiety in her gaze. “Please tell me.”
She gestured to a sofa in the same blue as the flocked wallpaper. The carpet, curtains, and the rest of the upholstery were all embroidered in the blue and gold theme, with hints of pink the only nod to variety. Gilt-framed landscapes were a marginal improvement over the disapproving stares of the dead, and an arrangement of pink silk roses on the low table before the sofa suggested this parlor was for entertaining ladies.
“I am not upset,” Jeanette said, settling on the sofa. “Please do sit.”
Rather than sit beside her like the hopeful, presuming bachelor he was, Sycamore chose a wing chair angled at the end of the sofa.
“What exactly has you not upset?” he asked. “Was it the note I sent?”
“Partly.”
Was it the passionate lovemaking? In her present mood, she would pitch him out
