“You are truly a gentleman,” Jeanette said, a brooding admission accompanied by a perusal of his person.
“I am also a Dorning. I have family coming out my ears. Willow can provide you a watch dog. Ash will teach Trevor the finer points of pugilism. Kettering is merely an in-law, but he can acquaint us with the details of young Jerome’s finances, and darling Margaret will brew you up a potion to banish the worst of your monthly pains. Casriel is an earl—earls come in handy at odd moments—and his beloved Beatitude corresponds with every literate gossip in England.
“I remain attached to my family,” he went on, “because they are all the safety I have, Jeanette, and I offer them to you for the same purpose.”
Not quite what he’d wanted to say, but then, Please, for the love of God, marry me wouldn’t serve either.
Jeanette braced her hands on the bench and leaned forward, brushing her slippers against the cobbles. “I want to keep you safe too, Sycamore. I haven’t finished my knife lessons, after all, and you wield a blade very competently.”
Had any other woman made that observation, Sycamore would have known she was flirting. “I do, and we have a bargain, and I will make a very biddable suitor, I promise you.”
“No,” she said, “you won’t, and you are not to court me, Sycamore. You are to attempt to court me. To consider courting me. To try to interest me in a passing liaison. Pay me enough attention to help me solve the puzzles currently vexing me, but don’t start too much talk.”
Progress indeed, over the status of clandestine dining partner. “I am the soul of discretion,” he said, “and I never start talk.” His entire family, including Willow’s dogs, would be overcome with hilarity at that pronouncement, but his family wasn’t sitting on a bench with Jeanette, longing to hold her hand again and mentally vowing to punish whoever had disturbed her peace.
Jeanette sat back and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Be patient with me, Sycamore. I don’t want to draw you into my troubles, and against all good sense, I like you, very much. That leaves me in a badly timed muddle.”
“I like you too, Jeanette.” He liked her passionately. “I’ll have the blacksmith cast you a full set of knives, shall I?”
“Please.”
They remained on the bench for another few moments, the sound of horses munching hay an accompaniment to an odd fluttering of both joy and anxiety in Sycamore’s heart. Threatening notes were bad, but liking him very much was good. He bowed over Jeanette’s hand at her garden gate and agreed to call on her the following day, possible-suitor fashion.
Or trustworthy-gentleman fashion. Both roles were lovely to contemplate, though becoming Jeanette’s intended would be lovelier still. Her marriage truly had been a horror, the damage worse than Sycamore had first suspected.
He was rambling along in the alley, his thoughts swirling from Jerome’s possible debts to picnicking with Jeanette at Richmond Park, to Trevor’s apparent gift for dishonesty, when out of nowhere, a fist like iron clipped him hard across the jaw.
“Taking the garden air?” Trevor asked as Jeanette let herself into the house through the library’s French doors.
The afternoon light and the way he cocked his head combined to create a strong resemblance to his father. To the casual observer, the late marquess had been a handsome man making an elegant transition into distinguished maturity. Trevor would age well, too, and just now the boy was far less evident than the emerging young man. The faint bruise on his jaw did that, as did the fine tailoring and the indolence with which he occupied the chair at the desk.
“I have been throwing knives,” Jeanette said, “with Mr. Sycamore Dorning.”
Trevor put down his quill pen and came around the desk to brace his hips against it. “Step-mama, did I hear you aright? You were throwing knives with Mr. Sycamore Dorning?”
His tone was faintly disbelieving and put Jeanette in mind of all the times his father had mocked her.
You do not seriously intend to wear that in public, do you?
You thought to plan a menu all by yourself, without even consulting Viola. I applaud your initiative, but you will understand if I avoid consuming the results.
Oh, gracious. Her ladyship is endeavoring to read a book. Such a lofty ambition in one of her limited capabilities.
“Mr. Dorning and I practice weekly,” Jeanette said, “and he is having a set of knives made for my personal use.”
Trevor crossed his arms. “He’s said nothing about this to me, and I have been practically in his pocket of late.”
Jeanette wanted to order herself a hot water bottle and some ginger tea and spend the rest of her Sabbath reading in bed, but she and Trevor had business to discuss first.
More lost ground to recover. “Mr. Dorning has said nothing about my lessons to anybody, because I asked for his discretion. When did you plan to tell me that you were set upon by three brigands in an alley, Trevor?”
Trevor stalked across the library to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “You asked Dorning for discretion? Perhaps I should have insisted on it from him as well. What sort of gentleman tattles on another fellow?”
When had Trevor lost the quality of a gangly youth and instead become a tall and increasingly muscular young man?
“What sort of gentleman lies to a lady, Trevor? Your safety matters to me very much, and if those men had been intent on robbery, you’d have left the alley without your watch, sleeve buttons, rings, coat, and boots.”
“Did Dorning pass that along?” The question was nearly sneered.
“I saw you on Friday when you tried to sneak in from the mews, Trevor. Saw you dressed more or less as you’d left the breakfast table, before your round of fisticuffs at Jackson’s
