“My lady, you have a caller.” Peem took her bonnet and cloak.
“Did this caller have a card?”
The old fellow looked momentarily confused, then patted his pockets. He passed over a little rectangle of cream linen. Lady Della Dorning.
Well. Lady Della had attended the Wentwhistles’ house party, but Jeanette did not consider her ladyship a close acquaintance. Jeanette didn’t consider anybody a close acquaintance, not even Sycamore.
He was a lover, possibly a friend, and even more likely a problem. Two weeks hence, turning him into a fond memory would be no mean feat.
“Where is her ladyship?” Jeanette asked.
“The blue parlor, madam.”
Jeanette took herself down the corridor, Lady Della’s card tucked into a pocket. She hadn’t had real callers since the previous Season, when one at-home every fortnight had been sufficient to allow the gawkers to look Trevor over and measure him as a groom for their daughters and nieces.
“Lady Della.” Jeanette curtseyed. “A pleasure. I hope married life is agreeing with you.”
Her ladyship was petite. Her hair was an in-between brown, neither auburn nor blond, and her features, while pretty, were unremarkable. What distinguished Lady Della was a sense of leashed energy, a quality of focus and purpose that gave her a larger and more memorable presence.
“Lady Tavistock, good day. Married life is the fulfillment of all my cherished dreams and not a few of my girlish fantasies. How fare you?”
“Well, thank you. Shall we be seated? Oh, dear.” Jeanette was mortified to see that nobody had removed the tea tray, much less provided a fresh one. “I do apologize. Shall I ring for a fresh pot?”
“No need,” Lady Della said, removing her gloves and taking a seat in a wing chair. “I gather Sycamore called on you before he took you driving?”
Jeanette hadn’t been home five minutes, and already she was being interrogated. “Would Mr. Dorning appreciate your curiosity about his socializing, my lady?” Jeanette took a seat on the sofa, not as affronted as she wanted to sound. To be noticed, to have one’s companion remarked, was a little flattering, wasn’t it?
On the heels of that thought came another: If Lady Della already knew that Jeanette had spent an hour in the park with Sycamore Dorning, who else knew? Jeanette hadn’t been followed that she’d noticed—Sycamore would have said something, wouldn’t he?—but she’d been seen.
“Sycamore told his brother his plans for the afternoon. I am married to that brother, ergo, I knew Sycamore’s plans. May I help myself to the shortbread? I realize the request is quite forward, but my digestion has become unreliable, and right now, the thought of a buttery nibble of shortbread…” Lady Della smiled, and Jeanette knew why Ash Dorning had lost his heart to this woman.
“Help yourself, of course.”
Her ladyship selected two pieces and put them on a plate. “Sycamore says Lord Tavistock is actually of some use at the club. That is high praise, but what do you think of the marquess attaching himself to the Dorning brothers at this juncture?”
How different Lady Della’s call was from Viola’s. No lectures here, no sermons. “I was under the impression Lord Tavistock is mostly at Mr. Sycamore Dorning’s beck and call. The marquess is working off a debt of honor and gaining a rapid education in how not to waste his inheritance, I hope.”
“Ash is going over the books with the marquess later this week. Tavistock seems like a bright young fellow, though I should warn you, the Coventry can be seductive.”
Her ladyship was doing justice to the shortbread, though she stopped at two pieces.
“The Coventry can be seductive? I would say rather that Sycamore Dorning is seductive.”
Lady Della dusted her hands, and Jeanette realized what exactly she’d revealed with her observation.
“Like that, is it?” Lady Della said. “I thought so. I hoped so. Sycamore was quite taken with you at the Wentwhistles’ house party, and not his usual infatuation either.”
“Mr. Dorning kindly advanced me needed sums for a short time at the house party.”
“But he didn’t charm his way into your bed, did he? That is very curious.”
He had expressed a willingness to join her in bed, and Jeanette had been so shocked, she’d brushed him off and spent the whole winter regretting it.
“Your question is quite bold, my lady. Might I ask you to come to the point?” Jeanette would have asked her ladyship to leave, except that Lady Della’s gaze was both puzzled and benign. She was not trolling for gossip or making any sort of threat.
Jeanette did not know what Lady Della was about, but then, her ladyship had married a Dorning, and Dornings apparently did not adhere to Society’s usual expectations.
“That Sycamore exercised some restraint where you are concerned is a vast compliment,” Lady Della said. “He is quite,”—she waved a hand—“frolicsome in the ordinary course. He plays by the rules, never mixes business and pleasure, and does the pretty when the occasion requires proper manners, but with you, Cam is all at sea.”
Cam. Sycamore had a nickname, a family name, one he’d mentioned but never directly invited Jeanette to use. To Jeanette’s brother, she had once upon a time been Nettie, a name that had always carried a hint of endearment because only Rye referred to her as such. Nobody had called her Nettie for years.
“Mr. Dorning seems very self-possessed to me.” Under all circumstances, particularly the intimate ones.
Lady Della rose to study the landscape hanging over the sideboard, though even in that image, a troop of soldiers emerged from dark woods into rolling countryside. Billowing clouds dotted the sky above, and an eagle flew at the head of the military column.
A stupid composition, all symbolism and no story, no beauty. The blue sky qualified it for admission to this insipid little parlor, and abruptly, Jeanette wanted to toss the damned thing out the window.
Toss her insipid life out the window.
“Mr. Dorning has you all at sea too, doesn’t he?” Lady Della asked, sending a sympathetic glance over her shoulder.
