“But to those who don’t know them, or to whom every gent in St. James’s is a peacock, that’s a distinction without a difference. I can think of many reasons why somebody might want to beat some humility into young Mr. Vincent.”
The little bird came back, or another very like it, while Jeanette appeared to consider Sycamore’s theories. “Jerome has debts. Trevor has let that much slip.”
“Jerome might well have taken liberties with somebody’s sister or companion, led somebody else’s brother into the River Tick, or offered an insult to someone’s mother. He is an only son, from a titled family, and of an age to be quite stupid.”
“Quite arrogant,” Jeanette said. “Of all Trevor’s fine qualities, what I love in him most is his decency. He’s not consumed with his own consequence. If I seek to safeguard any aspect of his character, it’s that reservoir of humility. Do you think Jerome is trying to banish me to the country, the better to gain influence over Trevor?”
Not a theory Sycamore would have come up with, though it fit. “Somebody is determined to beat Jerome silly. If he’s deeply in debt or has committed some serious breach of honor, then sending you two hundred miles away allows Jerome to move in with Trevor and shelter under the marquess’s consequence.”
“And get his cousinly fingers into the marquess’s purse.” Jeanette rose to pace the cobbled walkway beneath the overhang. “How does Jerome’s situation connect with somebody following me?”
“Perhaps,” Sycamore said slowly, “the next beating is intended for you. Somebody is trying to scare you clear back to Derbyshire.”
Jeanette half turned away from him, her hand rubbing absently over her belly. “I hate this. I want to scoff, stick my nose in the air, and conduct myself with complete indifference toward a lot of foolish dramatics.”
Sycamore rose. “Instead, you sought to arm yourself and kept the whole business from the marquess lest you trouble his handsome head. Jeanette, there is another course between ignoring the problem and taking the whole matter on in solo combat.”
“I can retreat to Derbyshire. It’s not even near the family seat, just some property acquired in an advantageous marriage a couple of centuries ago. Rye would never see me, Trevor would correspond with me out of duty, and I would receive an annual invitation from Viola to come to Kent in the autumn when the men were off shooting, but she’d hope I’d decline—and I would.”
“That’s not the option I refer to and not one I’d suggest. Until you know who is trying to bully you and why, leaving Town doesn’t necessarily keep you safe. In Derbyshire, you would be quite easy to dispose of.”
She paced back to him and kept coming, slipping her arms around his waist. “You do not try to hide the truth from me. I treasure your honesty, but I am afraid, Sycamore. I hate being afraid. I was afraid for too long, of never having my husband’s respect, of every overheard whisper in the ladies’ retiring room. I became sick with dread and began to fear I’d be set aside—or worse—so the late marquess could try for his spares with a third and fertile wife.”
She leaned on Sycamore, the sweetest, most precious gesture of trust in the world, also alarming. Men from kings to paupers had set aside troublesome wives for affronts less serious than barrenness, and Jeanette had lived with that fear for several years.
“Nobody would care if I suffered a tragic accident, Sycamore, but I would care. Rye might shed a few tears, the charities I support would miss my coin, but a week on, nobody would care.”
I would care profoundly. “Tavistock would be devastated.”
“What if Trevor sent the notes? What if he’s too polite to tell me to leave him a clear field here in Town?”
Jeanette’s marriage had taught her to fret like this. “An odd sort of manners, that threatens a woman’s peace of mind with vile notes.” And yet, the theory had merit. Sycamore was reminded that Tavistock had claimed to be a skilled liar, an odd but credible boast.
“Please hear me out,” Sycamore said, guiding Jeanette back to the bench and keeping an arm around her shoulders. “You trusted me enough to ask me for instructions on how to use a knife. You trusted me enough to take me to bed. Can you trust me enough to enlist me as an ally in the effort to keep you safe?”
She sat beside him, her hand on her belly, her gaze on the bull’s-eye scored into the carriage house planks across the yard.
“I already have enlisted you as an ally, though nobody is more surprised to find it so than I am.”
Surprised, and not exactly pleased, apparently. Sycamore charged on nonetheless. “Let me pay you my addresses, Jeanette. As a regular caller, as a devoted suitor, I can keep a closer eye on everybody around you and do a better job of investigating the beatings, the notes, and whoever is following you.”
She pulled away and sat up very straight. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have no wish to marry ever again, Sycamore. You must know that. Marriage to Lord Tavistock was hell. Lapdogs are treated better than I was, and I will never again become a man’s property, to be used intimately and insulted at his whim.”
Well, damn. Sycamore had not seen that knife whistling toward him in the dark, but he should have.
“I hadn’t meant to propose actual marriage, Jeanette.” Sycamore had. He absolutely had. Marriage, a home of their own, safety for her, pleasure for them both. The whole bit, including—maybe, eventually—a few fat, chortling babies to put paid to the late marquess’s worst insults to Jeanette. “I meant to propose a pleasant fiction that allows you to better direct me in aid of your safety.”
“You are trying to cozen me.”
“I am trying to keep you safe. We might not be the best of friends, but I am a gentleman, and
