“For a fellow who was larking about France, you are prodigiously well informed.”
Goddard slanted a glance in Sycamore’s direction. “Had you bothered to ask your great friend Her Grace of Quimbey, you could have gathered the same information. Is the Coventry doing as well as the gossips claim?”
“Better, probably, and yes, the tables are honest.”
“So why is Trevor frequenting your establishment? Jeanette keeps him on a tight financial rein, and he has no business consorting with that crowd.”
“Trevor slipped the leash, abetted by his cousin, Jerome Vincent, and a half-dozen simian cronies. I agreed to let his lordship work off an indenture rather than beggar himself with the pawnbrokers.”
“Because you are trying to get under Jeanette’s skirts?”
“Because Tavistock has no father or brothers to show him how to go on, and his step-uncle is too busy collecting gossip to pay the boy any mind. I don’t care for Jerome Vincent, or for idle ornaments in general—except the ones dropping fortunes at my tables, of course.”
“So out of the goodness of your solid-gold heart, you took Trevor under your wing?”
“I am working his skinny arse to flinders, and he is loving the challenge. I like having a loyal minion, truth be told, and my brother Ash, who is also my partner, is recently wed and of no use whatsoever to anybody save his wife.”
Goddard paused at another thoroughfare. “You jealous?”
“Pathetically.”
“Jeanette won’t marry you, Dorning. Resign yourself to worshipping her from afar, or a-near. She won’t be your consolation prize in the Dorning family’s marital sweepstakes.”
“That is for Jeanette to decide. Take the next turning to the right, and we can use an entrance to the club that opens onto the carriage house.”
“Why skulk about like that?” Goddard said, nonetheless turning his steps to the right.
“Because we are being followed.”
“What on earth brings you to my doorstep during daylight hours on the Sabbath, old boy?” Jerome Vincent made a production out of peering up at the sky outside his door. He was attired in a dressing gown and pajama trousers, with slippers on his otherwise bare feet. “Do come in, Tav, and tell Cousin Jere what’s amiss.”
“How can you tell something’s amiss?” Trevor replied, stepping over the threshold. Even Jerome’s foyer bore a taint of tobacco—with worse yet lurking beneath the smoke stench—and the lone fern in the window wasn’t long for this world. Cobwebs wafted from the chandelier, and a stack of correspondence—bills, most likely—was about to teeter from the edge of the deal table.
“I’m making an educated guess,” Jerome said, closing the door. “I base my conjecture on your downcast phiz, the strange hour, and logic.”
Trevor took off his hat and set it beside the letters. “What sort of logic?”
“The sort of logic that says if you don’t want to get leg-shackled to Hera or Diana, then you’d best get yourself leg-shackled to somebody else, and Auntie Jeanette, being a shrewd and female-ish sort of person, has doubtless started presenting you with lists of those somebody elses. The situation calls for a drink.”
Nearly every situation with Jerome called for a drink, and today Trevor wasn’t in the mood to argue. He was in the mood to be cheered up, though he wasn’t sure exactly why that should be.
“Jeanette has never breathed a word to me of the matchmaking variety,” Trevor said, except to commiserate with him regarding Viola’s schemes and to counsel forethought regarding his eventual choice of bride.
“The best matchmakers never do.” Jerome led the way down the corridor to his parlor-cum-study-cum-smoking-room. Newspapers were strewn about, along with two discarded cravats, one slipper, a hat with a crushed crown, a pair of spurs and a riding crop, a smoking jacket, and more correspondence. No less than three trays of cigar ashes needed emptying, and a pipe with a small bowl lay on the stones beside a hearth much in need of tidying.
“Where is Timmons?” Trevor asked, moving a stack of papers from a chair and taking a seat.
“Gave him the sack,” Jerome said, crossing to the sideboard to hold up a bottle to the sunlight slanting through a dingy window. “He was impertinent.”
The poor fellow had probably requested his delinquent wages. “You’ll hire another valet?”
“The agencies have already sent me three candidates. The first will start on a fortnight’s trial tomorrow. Tell me what troubles you.” Jerome found two glasses on the mantel and poured a slosh into each one. “A health to the ladies.”
Trevor drank to that, though Jerome offered a very indifferent brandy. “I had a spat with Jeanette.”
“About damned time. You treat her as if she’s your governess, not a dependent relation.”
“She’s not a dependent relation. Her settlements are generous, and she manages her funds exceedingly well.”
“She’s dependent,” Jerome retorted, tossing back his drink. “She’s dependent on you for a roof over her head, dependent on you for her consequence. Without you, she’d be just another slightly used widow trying to attach followers and generally failing. Why did she harangue you this time?”
Coming here had been an impulse, and now that the moment to discuss particulars was at hand, Trevor was afraid it had been a foolish impulse.
“Jeanette wasn’t haranguing me, Jerome. She is concerned for me.”
Jerome refilled his glass. “You are in good health, only passingly ugly, possessed of a lofty title, not all that stupid, and deucedly plump in the pocket. What manner of worry could Jeanette find to plague you about if not holy matrimony?”
“You recall I had a bit of a dustup in the alley behind Angelo’s on Friday?”
“Was it Friday? Of this year?”
“The day before yesterday. I mentioned this yesterday.”
“If you mentioned it over cards, I was too busy watching Fremont lose his curricle to Westerly, though my money says Westerly will have to give it back within a month. Neither of ’em can hold
