“I have observed all of those miseries before,” he said, taking Jeanette’s hand. “My father was a botanist, and because mushrooms can be deadly, he took a passing interest in them. Your symptoms were typical of those caused by a dose of Clitocybe rivulosa, Fool’s Funnel in the vernacular, which in moderation is an effective purge. The species has the audacity to grow among edible varieties, and thus Papa made sure we knew how to identify it.”
Holding Sycamore’s hand was good medicine. The unease in Jeanette’s belly receded and the pounding in her temples diminished, even as a different ache started up in her heart.
“Where does your household acquire its mushrooms this time of year, Jeanette?”
Of course, Sycamore would ask that. “Mushrooms are not yet in season, so I assume Cook had them sent up from the glass houses at the family seat. We get a weekly delivery of produce from Kent, as does Lord Beardsley’s household. The same wagon brings provisions for both Viola’s kitchen and my own. I am the only person at the town house who will eat a mushroom omelet, so we don’t need many.”
Sycamore kissed her knuckles. “The likelihood of a poisonous mushroom growing among a glass house crop is small, Jeanette, and the omelet I saw on your sideboard was barely more than one person would consume.”
“You are trying to make a point, or leaping to a conclusion.” A conclusion all but obvious to the casual observer, unfortunately.
“You ate little more than half of your omelet before I whisked you off to Richmond. Do you normally eat the whole thing?”
“Yes.”
Sycamore enfolded her hand in both of his. “The indications are you were poisoned. The question is, were you intended to consume a fatal dose, or was this a warning?”
Oh, it was a warning. Of that Jeanette was certain. Jerome’s brooding looks had been another warning, as had Viola’s call, as had the notes, and possibly even the beatings Tavistock had endured. If Jeanette ignored this warning, Orion’s business would be targeted next—perhaps it already had been—and even the Coventry was not safe.
That last thought made Jeannette ill all over again. Sycamore had worked so hard to build the club into the impressive venue it was, and he was so rightly proud of what he’d accomplished.
He kissed her knuckles and smoothed a hand over her brow. “The thought of you returning to Tavistock House is unbearable. Say you will marry me, Jeanette, and I’ll have a preacher and special license here by noon tomorrow.”
Sycamore had remained outwardly calm when Jeanette had asked to be taken straight back to Town. He’d remained calm as her body had done its best to reject the poison she’d ingested. He’d remained calm as the doctor had peered into Jeanette’s eyes and measured her pulse, and he’d maintained a façade of manners as preparations for an evening’s business had begun at the club.
But inside, where a growing boy had watched his enormous family come unraveled year by year, where an adult male knew the metallic taste of terror, and where a fellow in love was nigh insane with the need to keep his beloved safe, Sycamore had panicked.
And he had planned.
The application for a special license had been lodged before sunset. Goddard’s minions had already set a watch at Sycamore’s expense on the Tavistock town house. Ash had been summoned to arrive at the Coventry in the next hour, and a quick note had been dashed off to the Duchess of Quimbey.
Jeanette’s hand in Sycamore’s was cool, her face pale. He had just proposed marriage to her, and she showed no reaction at all.
“You think the solution to my situation is marriage?” she asked, gaze on their joined hands. “I don’t see how that fixes anything.”
“Marriage to me gets you out of the Tavistock town house and away from the Vincent family. Marriage to me will keep you safe, Jeanette. We can be in a fast coach headed for Dorsetshire within the hour.”
“I don’t want to go to Dorsetshire.” She spoke slowly, and Sycamore realized he was blundering. The situation called for reason, for sweet reassurances, and more blasted calm.
“Your safety must be of paramount importance, Jeanette, and at Dorning Hall, the loyalty of everybody from the earl himself to the goose girl is beyond doubt.”
Jeanette withdrew her hand, and Sycamore’s panic escalated to blind determination.
“I have been safe enough at Tavistock House for nearly ten years, Sycamore. You are overreacting to what could easily have been a mistake. You said yourself that the bad mushrooms often grow in proximity to the good.”
“Jeanette, please do not turn up stubborn now.” Sycamore resisted the urge to go down on his knees beside the bed, lest he be dismissed as histrionic. “Bad mushrooms do not spring up beside the good in a hothouse or conservatory. You were poisoned, and you must marry me.”
She sent him a brooding look. “Must?”
Do not tell her what to do. Do not order this woman about. Every brother who’d ever taken up residence in Sycamore’s mental Greek chorus of critics and judges warned him to back away from the discussion and leave a reasonable woman to come to a reasonable conclusion.
And he mentally shouted them down. “What if you’d finished that omelet, Jeanette? The omelet prepared exclusively for you. I cannot allow you to totter out of here without any sort of plan to ensure you are safe.”
Still, she merely gazed at him, her vast reserves of self-possession apparently none the worse for her ordeal.
“We don’t know that an omelet had anything to do with it. I might have simply suffered a passing stomach ailment. Eggs go bad even without the addition of questionable mushrooms.”
“Not eggs brought in fresh from your own country estate, Jeanette. Please apply a scintilla of logic to the situation and realize that somebody has
