While Jerome was able to consume prodigious quantities and at least seem sober. “Three men accosted me at high noon. They scampered off when I repulsed their overtures, but one of them had a knife.”
“Knives.” Jerome made a face and sank into a reading chair. “Nasty business, knives. Not gentlemanly. Give me pistols or swords on a foggy morning, and let God decide the outcome.”
“Jerome, could that attack have been meant for you?”
Jerome set his glass on the floor. “For me?”
“They called me a bloody fop, and you are more of a dandy than I am. I told only Step-mama of my morning appointments. You, on the other hand, arranged with a half-dozen fellows to spend the morning at Angelo’s. Those three men were waiting for me, or for someone.”
Jerome ran a pale hand through hair that was for once not artfully styled. “Everybody nips around to the alley to take a piss or enjoy a quick tup, Tavistock. Of course ruffians would lurk there.”
“Ruffians don’t lurk in St. James’s. Fine gents and Corinthians do. To accost me there was very bold, even desperate.”
“Foolish, too, I gather, if you ran them off.”
“Prize ring rules were not observed.” And Jerome was not answering the question.
“Do tell. Did you resort to schoolyard tactics? Toss dirt in their faces?”
“Brandy, and I kicked the knife from one fellow’s hand and delivered a blow to another fellow’s tallywags. Hated to do it, but needs must.”
“And where was I while you were having such fun?” Jerome reached for the drink at his feet and knocked it over. “Damnation, that is the last of the everyday. We’ll have to break out the good stuff now.”
Trevor passed over his flask, which he’d taken to keeping full since Friday. “Not quite yet. In any case, Jeanette was alarmed at my mishap and more alarmed that I failed to mention it to her before she heard of it through a third party.”
Jerome took a good, long pull from the flask. “The Tavistock cellars do not disappoint. Don’t suppose you could send over a couple bottles of this?”
“Of course. You must have a birthday coming up one of these months.”
“Or you do,” Jerome replied, passing back the flask. “Maybe Fremont does. If all else fails, we can celebrate old King George’s natal day early, eh? Did Dorning peach on you?”
“He didn’t know he was peaching on me. I’d told Jeanette that I’d gone a few rounds at Jackson’s, which I sometimes do, but this time… I glossed over the truth.” And despite all posturing to the contrary, Trevor felt bloody awful about lying to Jeanette.
He felt bloody awful-er that she was being harassed by some snooping journalist and hadn’t seen fit to tell him. The conviction with which she’d hurled her knife suggested worse yet was afoot, but she either could not or would not confide the particulars to her mendacious step-son.
And that felt the bloody awful-est of all.
“I was a perishing prig to her,” Trevor said. “Tried to excuse a lie as gentlemanly consideration.”
“You meant well.” Jerome picked up the overturned glass from the carpet and shook the brandy dregs into his mouth. “Jeanette is too arrogant by half, Tav. You really need to remind her of her place. She’ll thank you for it.”
The last person to hand Trevor that advice had been a bullying house party cheat by the name of Chastain. He had decamped for Tuscany, last Trevor had heard, a horde of creditors on his heels, and not even his new wife was sorry to see him go.
“Jeanette was right,” Trevor said, “and I did not apologize.”
“Did she apologize?” Jerome asked, rising to return the glass to the mantel.
“I am a gentleman, and I was in the wrong.”
“So you’ll crawl home, stopping only to steal a placatory bouquet of daffodils from the garden? Promise to be a good boy, cross your heart, and never ever keep a few little things to yourself in the name of dignity and privacy? Will Jeanette interview your mistresses for you? Or will you remain as pure as Yorkshire snow, lest you disappoint Saint Jeanette?”
Coming here had most assuredly been a mistake. “You are drinking on an empty stomach, aren’t you?”
“P’raps I am. There’s a loaf of bread around here somewhere. I haven’t been down to the kitchen to check. I sacked Timmons, you know.”
“You did mention that. Wait here.” Trevor found bread and butter in the downstairs kitchen, put together a tea tray, and brought it up to Jerome’s study.
Jerome was nodding off in his chair, his dressing gown gaping open to reveal a pale chest. A trick of the afternoon sun turned him into an aging roué, rather than a scion from a titled house, but he snapped awake, grinned, and the illusion was dispelled.
“You found buried treasure. Bless you, my child.”
Trevor used his foot to push a hassock before Jerome’s chair. “Manna from heaven and all that. When does Uncle Beardsley send out your next payment?”
“Soon, though it’s never enough. God, I hate tea.” He slurped from a steaming cup nonetheless. “You will think me quite daft, but I really am considering taking a wife.”
Trevor paused between emptying the second and the third trays of ashes into the dustbin. “I can’t imagine why. You’d give up all this for companionship, cleanliness, regular meals, and wifely comforts. Perhaps you suffered a blow to the head.”
“The place is a bit squalid on purpose, Tav. I want to see if the new valet is up to my weight, so to speak.”
“The place is a disgrace. Timmons has been gone for at least a week, your larder is empty, and you are reduced to drinking the desperation rations. Timmons left because you could not afford to pay him, and your next allowance isn’t due for at least a fortnight.”
“Forgive me,” Jerome said, setting down his tea cup. “I wasn’t aware that I’d been assigned a nanny. How do you prefer to be addressed, Miss… Miss Vincent?”
Trevor put the stack of papers he’d
