Sycamore patted her wrist—more of a caress, really—and because nobody wore gloves at breakfast, Jeanette felt that fleeting touch clear to her… middle.
“You are so fierce,” he said. “Sir Orion worries for you, and you worry for him, and all the while, you tiptoe in a circle around each other like cats of new acquaintance. This is exactly the sort of ridiculousness families indulge in, but who would look askance if you and he enjoyed a quiet cup of tea from time to time?”
“Half the tabbies in polite society.”
“I doubt you need worry about the tabbies, my lady.” Sycamore rose without warning and stalked silently to the door. “Peem, if her ladyship has need of you, she will use the bell-pull.” In the space of a single sentence, Sycamore had gone from an affable gentleman caller to a man seriously affronted on behalf of his hostess.
He returned to the table and sat for a moment, staring at his apple tarts. “You are deciding whether to castigate me for presuming or thank me for interceding. Peem is your butler, Jeanette, and his place is by the front door, not lurking outside the breakfast parlor after you’ve dismissed him. Besides, I wanted his ire directed toward the disgracefully presuming Mr. Dorning, rather than at you.”
“I am too upset with Peem to be angry with you. How did you know he was out there?”
Sycamore tapped his nose. “Peem wears bay rum. My father was particularly critical of it as a scent, and Papa knew of what he sniffed. Dare I suggest once again that you sack the old fellow?”
“You dare.” Jeanette finished her tea, which had gone tepid. “You dare much. Peem doesn’t hear well enough to eavesdrop well.”
“Are you sure of that?”
Jeanette rose and went to the window that looked out over the garden. “I am not sure of much, Sycamore. Trevor and I had a blazing row after you left me on Sunday. We’ve been cordial but distant since then. He now either misses breakfast or brings at least three friends with him and has luncheon and supper at his club. Then he spends his evenings with you.”
Sycamore bit into an apple tart. “What was your row about?”
“I confronted him about lying to me regarding the attack in the alley, and I told him I’d been followed. He was peevish because I had kept that to myself, and I was disappointed that he’d dissemble regarding a potentially fatal encounter. I asked him not to lie to me again and assured him he would have honesty from me.”
“And he swore eternal honesty to you?”
“He threatened to move into the Albany with Jerome.”
Sycamore took the place at Jeanette’s elbow, and his mere presence was a comfort. “Tavistock has been preoccupied all week at the club. Staring off into space, marching out smartly smack into a faro table, missing the dealers’ attempts to flirt with him. He’s doubtless upset with himself and fretting on your behalf.”
The door to the breakfast parlor was still open, and yet, Jeanette let herself lean, just a little, against Sycamore.
“There’s more,” she said. “Trevor asked if I ever considered leaving Town, abandoning the social whirl. He volunteered to escort me down to Tavistock Hall, though I pointed out to him that he would be accosted by marriageable cousins if we rusticated at the family seat.”
Sycamore slipped an arm around her waist, and Jeanette rested her head against his shoulder.
“You worry that you should have told Trevor about the notes, but wonder if he sent them. My lady, you should not be afflicted with all this intrigue and drama.”
“Is the solution to marry you?”
Sycamore’s posture subtly changed so their situation became more of a cuddle. “Marrying me would solve any number of dilemmas, but I sense you’d be unreceptive to such an overture at the moment. You are sad to think Tavistock will go out into the world as young men do, leaving you here with aging retainers of dubious loyalty.
“You are worried,” he went on, “about your brother and perhaps resentful that he would dine with me and not with you. He was swayed by my endless charm, so you cannot be too wroth with him, my lady. And you are vexed to think somebody wishes you or Tavistock ill, when neither one of you wishes harm to anybody.”
Jeanette closed her eyes and turned to wrap her arms around Sycamore’s waist, feeling all out of sorts and unaccountably sentimental. Sycamore obliged with a gentle embrace, and that made things both better and worse.
“You are telling me what I feel,” she said.
“And you are not berating me for my presumption, because I have put into words what you had not wanted to admit. Admit this too, Jeanette. A day of fresh air and spring sunshine will do wonders to restore your spirits, and mine too.” He leaned near enough to nuzzle her ear. “I brought your new knives, my lady. Wickedly hard and sharp and eager for your touch.”
Jeanette remained in his embrace for the length of three heartbeats, the better to hide her smile. “You are being naughty.” And that was a wonder, that Sycamore Dorning—handsome, outspoken, funny, passionate, and protective—would be naughty with her.
“Between adults who know what they want, naughtiness doesn’t signify. Come with me, Jeanette, try out your new toys, and forget your cares for a few hours. Your troubles will all patiently await your return, I assure you.”
Of that, Jeanette was certain. “You will tell me what Rye had to say?”
“I will, and I will tell you what he did not say. Siblings really ought not to be estranged, Jeanette. I feel quite strongly about that.”
She stepped back, though that took an effort. “You feel strongly about everything.”
“Bear that in mind when you assess my regard for you.” He kissed her cheek—the wretch—and winged his arm.
Jeanette let him escort her from the parlor, collected a hat, shawl, reticule, and cloak, and did not tell Peem where she was going or when she’d return.
