“You resemble a marquess,” Sycamore retorted, threading his lordship’s watch chain through a buttonhole. “Who knew where you’d be this morning?”
“Step-mama. We tell each other our general plans for the day. Jerome met me at Angelo’s to watch. He and I were supposed to have lunch at his club afterward, but he was inclined to stay for the next match, and I was hungry. I’m always hungry. Will I do?”
Ash held up the repaired coat, from which Sycamore had also brushed the dried mud. “Did anybody say anything during your encounter with your assailants?”
Tavistock buttoned the coat closed. “I might have used some foul language. ‘Damn the lot of you,’ ‘what the devil,’ that sort of thing.”
“Such a wicked fellow,” Sycamore muttered. “Did the others say anything? Did they address each other, call any warnings to each other?”
Tavistock, looking only slightly the worse for wear, stared off at nothing. “The beating was singularly quiet, though one of them did say, ‘You’ve traded on your expectations for the last time.’ I haven’t any expectations. I’m past the expectation part and now wearing a title that sits upon my head like an oversized crown. I suppose he meant my general expectations as a young man-about-Town?”
“Did they say anything else?” Ash asked. “Anything that would hint at a regional accent, a station in life, a calling? Did they address you directly?”
“One of them said something like ‘bloody fop’ when I kicked the knife from his hand, but they were mostly intent on giving me a drubbing rather than chatting. Why am I suddenly in need of a nap?”
“You’ve had an adventure,” Sycamore said. “Napping is part of it. You can nap in the coach—tell the coachy to wake you upon arrival—and avoid going anywhere alone for a while, please.”
“You gave a brilliant account of yourself,” Ash said, “but if these men want to get back a bit of their own, they know you are not at your best right now. Let your friends take them on next time, though we must hope there is no next time.”
Tavistock picked up the last slice of buttered bread from the tray. “You lot know how to go on. I suspected you would, and I am in your debt. My thanks, and if there’s ever anything I can do, and all that.”
“Be off with you,” Sycamore said, shoving him—gently—toward the door. “You did well, Tavistock, both in defending yourself and in stopping by here on your way home. That you could not rely on your valet to deal with this situation tells you the man needs to be replaced, and that is not a task your step-mother can see to for you.”
Tavistock made a face. “Truer words… I’ll just be going, and again, my thanks.” He sauntered out, the picture of elegant young manhood, though his gait was a trifle conservative.
“Jeanette won’t like this,” Sycamore said.
“I don’t like it,” Ash replied. “He still had his watch, cravat pin, and sleeve buttons. This was not an attempted robbery. This was a warning of some sort.”
“I suspect it was, but perhaps for Jerome, not for the marquess. The two of them are peas in a pod, but for the difference in height, and Jerome, as the current spare, has expectations to trade on. I believe I should pay a call on young Mr. Vincent.”
“Be nice,” Ash said, gathering up the discarded shirt and cravat. “Our ladies frown on gratuitous displays of violence.”
“I haven’t a lady.” Yet.
“Yes,” Ash said gently, “you do. The question is, will she have you?”
Jeanette knew, by the relative haste with which Peem brought her the card, that Sycamore Dorning intended to be difficult.
“The gentleman insisted, my lady, and on the Sabbath. I do apologize.” Peem was not apologizing so much as he was disapproving.
“I will see Mr. Dorning in my sitting room, Peem.” Jeanette’s personal parlor was one floor above street level and thus safe from prying eyes. Or less unsafe.
“Shall I have the kitchen send up a tray?” Peem asked.
“A tray will not be necessary.” Mr. Dorning’s visit would be brief.
Jeanette had barely perched on her favorite sofa before Peem showed Sycamore into the room. “Mr. Sycamore Dorning of the Dorset Dornings,” Peem said, managing to make even that announcement chiding.
“My lady.” Sycamore bowed correctly. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“That will be all, Peem.”
The butler departed, leaving the door wide open.
“Mr. Dorning, have a seat.”
He flipped out his tails and took the wing chair angled beside the sofa. Too late she realized the error of having allowed him into the one room where her own taste had been given free rein.
“You like flowers,” Sycamore said, “and very bright colors.”
“My grandmother’s family holds land in Provence. Most of the paintings are of that region. The light is warmer in the South of France.”
“Land in Provence, vineyards in Champagne. How much of those holdings survived the wars?”
“You would have to ask my brother, who inherited from our French relatives. I have not ordered a tray because I trust you will not be staying long.” She added a pointed glance at the open door. “Today is Sunday, Mr. Dorning. While I might have invited you to join me for Sunday dinner, the marquess and I seldom bother with a weekly feast. The staff works hard enough without adding a large Sunday dinner to their duties.”
Sycamore touched a finger to the bouquet of red, white, and pink roses on the low table before the sofa. “Real,” he said. “Thorns and all. Are you truly indisposed?”
The diffident quality of his question surprised her. “Why would I have written you a note claiming indisposition if I was not truly unwell?”
“You don’t look unwell. Women sometimes resort to polite fictions when they are trying to be diplomatic, and with me, sooner or later the ladies are either diplomatic or exasperated. I’ve missed you.”
That last admission was grudging, maybe even a touch bewildered. Also another surprise. “Missed me?”
He snapped off a white rose and added it to the boutonnière
