Goddard slapped the potatoes onto his plate. “I want her to be happy, and if she and I associate, that isn’t possible.”
“I marvel at how two siblings—only two—can so badly bollix up being a family. I thought a half dozen was the necessary complement for such crossed purposes, but perhaps the Goddards have a talent in this regard.”
“Shall you wear that glass of wine, Dorning? Seems a shame to waste such a fine vintage.”
That was standard sibling blather. “Jeanette is content by force of will, she is not happy. She is lonely, a condition with which I am acquainted, and no, I do not refer to those longings afflicting all in a state of randy bachelorhood. I mean loneliness, nobody to sit by the fire with on a cold night, nobody to bemoan an overly long sermon with, or recall how silly the old dog was in his puppyhood. Nobody to grow sentimental with on certain anniversaries.”
Goddard stared at him as if he’d burst into a soprano aria. “You are smitten with her. This cannot end well, Dorning. Not for you, anyway.”
“Your sister is widowed after years of hard combat on the marital battlefield. She is weary of heart. When she thought she faced a renewed threat, she did not turn to the one man who ought to be looking out for her. She instead turned to me. That preempts all duels, arguments, fisticuffs, and snide repartee from you, sir. Jeanette asked me to teach her how to throw a knife, because your damned gang of rogues frightened her into thinking she was being followed.”
Goddard frowned, then cut into his steak. “My young friends are too skilled to be so obvious in their surveillance.”
Sycamore had suspected as much, which was no reassurance whatsoever. “But you admit setting them to the task?”
“I admit that my authority over the lads is dubious and fleeting. They might have taken some initiative of their own or—if they are involved—they might have noticed somebody else pursuing my coach when Jeanette borrowed it, and assigned themselves to further reconnaissance.”
“You don’t know what your feral boys have got up to?”
“Gentlemen at large do not take kindly to inquisitions.” Goddard chewed his steak. “This undercook of yours, is she yet unmarried?”
The question was a prevarication, or possibly an attempt at humor. “Talk to your minions, Goddard, and shake the truth from them if you must. Somebody is trying to hound Jeanette from Town just as the social whirl is resuming, and somebody is definitely having her followed, or they were. If you are not behind this mischief, who is?”
Goddard stared at the ceiling, then at the little pot of violets in the center of the table. “Tell me what you know, and withhold nothing.”
Sycamore’s steak grew cold while he reported almost everything that he knew to Goddard.
“Papa, I am not managing well,” Jerome said. “I am ashamed of myself, but particularly since Cousin Trevor has come to Town, my expenses have been significant.”
Beardsley regarded his only son and considered what the late marquess would have done with the boy. This audience was taking place in Beardsley’s private office, and Jerome had not sent word ahead to warn his mother he’d be staying for a meal.
This was to be a confidential chat, apparently. “Why should Tavistock’s company increase your expenses?” Beardsley asked. “He’s the titleholder, and it’s his place to be beneficent toward his relations.” Not how the late marquess had regarded the patriarchal role, but dear Trevor was built of more malleable and tenderhearted stuff.
“Trevor is generous,” Jerome retorted, tossing himself onto the sofa and crossing a boot over a knee. “He’s been feeding me from the Tavistock larders since Monday, and he told the club to put my meals on his bill for the rest of the month. He’s not the problem.”
“But his lordship is new to Town,” Beardsley said, “so you’re showing off. Taking him around to the fancier hells, making wagers to impress him. Your behavior is understandable.”
Jerome was a handsome young man in the usual Vincent tradition, all golden locks, aristocratic features, and exquisite tailoring. To Beardsley’s eye, the boy was nonetheless looking a bit ragged. His boots had been merely dusted rather than polished. His cravat was tied in a simple mathematical rather than the elegant knots Jerome preferred. His eyes held an air of the dissipation that signaled the end of youth and the beginning of wisdom—or folly.
“I told Trevor I’m considering offering for Jeanette.” Jerome stared at the carpet as he made this announcement, his air that of a martyr offering a last prayer.
Beardsley would rather Jerome had not approached Trevor with this plan. Trevor was the nominal head of the family, and the more he was shown the deference due a patriarch, the more he’d step into the role.
“Trevor disapproves?”
“He all but laughs every time I bring it up. Says Jeanette won’t have me.”
Beardsley poured a drink for his guest, but refrained from indulging. Viola took a dim view of a husband who came to luncheon with spirits on his breath.
“Trevor’s opinion is not the one that matters,” Beardsley said, passing Jerome the glass. “Have you tried charming Jeanette?”
“That puts me in mind of charming a wolf. Not well advised for the charmer and both nutritious and entertaining for the wolf.” Jerome tossed back half his drink, confirming Beardsley’s suspicion that his heir was going through more than a passing rough patch.
Which was a stroke of good fortune for Beardsley, actually. “Offer her a white marriage, then. All the independence of widowhood, none of the bother of marriage.”
“I don’t want a white marriage, Papa. Nobody sane wants a white marriage, and lest you forget, securing the succession might fall to me if
