Beardsley had worked quickly, but then, he was motivated by money. “I’ll be along in a moment. Thank you, Peem.”
Jeanette waited until Peem had withdrawn to examine her appearance in the window’s reflection. She was no longer the timid bride she’d been, no longer the retiring widow.
She was also no longer Sycamore Dorning’s lover, her signal regret. She brushed her hand over the pocket where she’d sheathed her knife, spared a final sigh for a man who deserved better, and made her way to the family parlor.
“My lord, my lady, welcome. Jerome, good day.” She curtseyed to her guests, though as soon as she officially accepted Jerome’s suit, they would not be her guests. She would become the interloper at Tavistock House, and Trevor would assume the last of her authority here.
Somewhere beneath duty, expedience, common sense, and the other imperatives of responsible adulthood, a part of Jeanette quietly grieved.
I do not want to leave a home I’ve made comfortable, if not exactly welcoming.
I do not want to dwell so far from my only brother, even if he never wants to see me.
I do not want to marry a strutting fopling—Sycamore’s word—whose promise to leave me in peace is entirely unenforceable.
Most of all, she did not want to leave Sycamore, who must think very badly of her indeed.
“The tray will be here in a moment,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. “Please do have a seat. Viola, how is Diana managing?”
“Diana is quite well,” Voila said, taking Jeanette’s favorite wing chair, “and serenely awaiting the honor of her presentation. Jerome, stop pacing.”
Jerome sank into the second wing chair, leaving Jeanette to take a love seat rather than share the sofa with Beardsley, though his lordship was apparently inclined to remain on his feet.
“We can dispense with the tray,” Beardsley said. “When Jerome told me you’d agreed to his suit, I directed the solicitors to draw up the settlements posthaste. I have the final documents with me, and Jerome has applied for the special license. This whole business can be resolved within the next week. You, my lady, will remove your effects from the marchioness’s suite so that Viola can take over the duties of hostess here, and—”
“Papa,” Jerome said, “that is not what we discussed.”
“Don’t interrupt your father,” Viola chided. “And we most certainly will not dispense with the tea tray, my lord. The trip into Town was dusty, and I am parched.”
A portrait of the late marquess scowled down from over the mantel, and he seemed to be sneering directly at Jeanette. The role of passive victim was hers for the taking once more.
As Jerome and his parents fell to bickering—Jerome had expected to move into Tavistock House with Trevor, no parents allowed—Jeanette gained a new appreciation for Sycamore’s familial exasperations. His family would fill the parlor and the adjoining music room to overflowing, with a few left over to wander the library.
And he cared for them all, as they must inevitably care for him.
Peem wheeled in a trolley, which occasioned a ceasefire among the verbal skirmishers. He set the tea tray before Viola rather than Jeanette, then seemed to realize that Jeanette was not in her usual chair.
“I do beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, returning the tray to the cart. “Shall I pour?”
“We’ve no need for any damned tea,” Beardsley snapped. “Be off with you, Peem, and close the door behind you.”
Peem straightened slowly, glanced pointedly at the portrait over the mantel and then at Jeanette.
“You may be excused,” she said, somewhat surprised at the show of deference. Peem underscored his display of loyalty by leaving the door open.
“Mama and the girls should certainly bide here from time to time,” Jerome said, “but it’s Tav’s house, not ours, and we can’t just move in like a lot of beggars descending on a wealthy uncle.”
“Jerome, mind your tongue,” Viola muttered.
“Lord Tavistock remains my legal ward for the next three years,” Beardsley retorted. “He has nothing to say to it, and he should enjoy having his family about him. Jeanette has been lady of the manor quite long enough.”
“I am the Marchioness of Tavistock,” Jeanette said, wanting these people out of her house, “and until such time as I become Mrs. Jerome Vincent, Society will expect me to be treated as such.”
Viola sent her a brooding look. “A valid point, and for that matter, a special license has an aroma of unseemly haste about it. Nothing must be allowed to detract from the notice that Diana is due in her debut Season, perhaps her only Season.”
And they were off again, debating the special license, to which Jerome, oddly, was also opposed.
Jeanette let them bicker, because this was surely nothing more than a foretaste of what she’d endure on those occasions when they trotted her out for the sake of appearances. Every other year at Christmas, perhaps, or when the granddaughters made their come outs.
Resignation to that fate ought to have been a matter of long habit. The respite of widowhood could not last forever. Nothing sweet, comforting, or dear lasted forever, after all.
“Jeanette will sign the damned documents and be married to Jerome by this time next week.” Beardsley hadn’t raised his voice, but in the very coldness of his tone, he’d sounded exactly like his deceased older brother.
The effect on Viola and Jerome was interesting. They looked to each other, mother and son united in rare commiseration.
“I will read the settlements,” Jeanette said. “Jerome and I discussed precise terms, and I want to ensure that those terms are reflected accurately.” Even the old marquess had cautioned her never to sign a document she hadn’t read, his caution taking the form of tiresomely repetitious sermons.
“You will sign the documents,” Beardsley said. “They say what I want them to say, and that is all that matters.”
Jerome, the traitor, was absorbed with a study of the
