Violets were an exquisite complement to Sycamore’s eyes, but they also had symbolic meanings: modesty, which did not strike Jeanette as apropos to Sycamore Dorning in any mood, also faithfulness and humility. The white rose carried sentiments of new love, grace, and again, humility.
“Sycamore, I am indisposed.”
His expression became puzzled. “As ladies are indisposed?”
Heat rose across Jeanette’s cheeks. “Exactly thus.”
“Truly?”
“We are not discussing this.”
“Does this indisposition that we are not discussing cause you discomfort?”
Jeanette resisted the urge to bury her face in a pillow, but Sycamore was nothing if not persistent, so she dispensed with futile gestures. She instead focused on the painting of Grandmother’s lavender fields in full bloom under a spectacular azure sky.
“There is some discomfort.”
“You hurt. Does the ginger tea help?”
“What ginger tea?”
“Ginger-ginger tea. Works best if you start drinking it before the pains start. Among the kitchen staff at the club, fennel also has a following, and the pot girl’s granny swears by some pine bark infusion from the South of France. If all else fails, there’s always the poppy. Where’s your hot water bottle?”
“I am receiving a caller,” Jeanette said. “I do not typically receive callers while clutching a hot water bottle to my… my middle.” And yet, she was glad to see him. Mortified, but glad. Sycamore’s gaze held concern, and he was making helpful suggestions—or trying to.
He rose, and if he’d been intent on closing the door, Jeanette would have scolded him severely. He instead cracked a window.
“The roses will last longer if the air isn’t so stuffy,” he said. “You don’t order a hot water bottle because you don’t want the staff to know of your indisposition, which is silly. They know everything anyway. I brought you a peace offering.”
“Are we at war?”
“I thought we might be. I adore you, and my adoration sometimes provokes… Well, that is to say…” He regarded her with a brooding sort of frown. “Never mind that now.” He bent to withdraw something from his boot and presented Jeanette with a flat, dark curve of metal, sharpened to a lethal point at one end. “For you.”
“A knife?” Not like any knife Jeanette had seen before. The darkness of the metal, the elegance of the curve, and the wicked point all announced that this was a deadly weapon rather than a serviceable tool.
“A trial design. We could give it a toss in the mews, see if it fits your hand.”
“You brought me a present.” The metal was smooth and cool, the weight exquisitely balanced. This knife was sleeker than the ones Jeanette had thrown previously and not quite as long.
“I know calling on the Sabbath isn’t the done thing, my lady, but somebody is following you, then Tavistock is set upon in an alley, and now you tell me you are indisposed. I leaped to fearful conclusions. I often do, which is not entirely a bad thing, because if one anticipates fearful outcomes, then one can—I am babbling.”
He took the place beside Jeanette—very presuming of him—and Jeanette lost a piece of her heart to him. A passionate Sycamore was arousing and impressive. A babbling Sycamore, bearing gifts and spouting off about tisanes, was a dear man, indeed.
“Every month,” Jeanette said, passing him back the knife, “I am reminded of my unfitness for the title I bear. In years of incessant attempts to conceive, I could not produce a single child, Sycamore. Not even a daughter, as my husband reminded me month after month. I was interrogated and examined by physicians, accoucheurs, and midwives. I drank vile concoctions, I took the waters at half the spa towns in the realm, and I prayed without ceasing to an indifferent God. I hate this time of the month, and it’s as if my body hates it too.”
“Did the late marquess ever impose his attentions on you at this time of the month?”
Where had the knife gone? Probably back into Sycamore’s boot, though Jeanette hadn’t seen him put it away. “Of course not.”
Sycamore put a large hand low on her belly and kneaded gently. “If the mumps wasn’t the problem, that might be why you didn’t conceive. My sister-in-law Margaret is a genius with herbs, and between her, the countess, and my sister Daisy, I’ve overhead more about lady’s ailments than you can imagine. Gives a fellow pause.”
“You should not be sitting next to me, Sycamore.”
“You should not be suffering, Jeanette. Does this help?” He used firmer pressure.
“Yes, damn you. Nobody conceives while the womb is bleeding.”
“Says who? The late Marquess of Mopery? He got all of one woman pregnant that we know of, and that doubtless took heroic forbearance on the part of his wives, mistresses, and casual romps. Perhaps you would conceive right as the bleeding ends, and the business wants a few days head start.”
As Sycamore’s shocking familiarities continued, Jeanette resisted the urge to rest her head against his shoulder. He was contradicting medical science, and also making sense.
“Peem will be up here with a tray,” she said. “I told him we were not to be disturbed, but he’s set in his ways.”
“He’s softening toward me,” Sycamore said, working his way across Jeanette’s belly. “Witness, I am no longer Mr. Doorknob. Let’s see how your new favorite toy fits your hand.”
“You are flirting with me.”
“No, I am not. If I invited you to fit your hand to my favorite toy, then I would be flirting. Shall we sneak off to the mews and engage in a little diversion, my lady?”
She wanted to see how the knife behaved, and she wanted to sneak off with Sycamore. Not in that order.
“A few throws only, and that assumes the mews are deserted.”
“Of course.” He rose with his usual energy and offered her his hand.
Jeanette got to her feet more slowly and realized the horrendous cramping, which made her ache
