“Bad manners,” Sycamore said, pausing in the doorway. “Very bad manners to treat a lady thus, Lord Beardsley, for shame. Marchioness, good day. Sorry about the portrait, but the frame can be repaired.”
A knife protruded from the frame of the portrait over the mantel, Beardsley’s sleeve held fast until he jerked the blade loose and tossed the knife to the floor.
“What manner of barbarian throws a knife at an unarmed man?” Beardsley shot back. “Peem, summon the footmen to eject this scoundrel.”
Trevor slipped into the room, followed by Orion. “Uncle,” Trevor said, “this is not your house. God willing, it never will be. Peem, you may leave us. Mr. Dorning has matters in hand.”
Peem melted away without so much as a bow.
Sycamore snatched his knife from the floor and slipped it into his boot. “If you were intent on a family gathering, Vincent, you should have at least included Lord Tavistock and Sir Orion. I am here at the lady’s sufferance, but I doubt she will object to my call.”
“I do not object,” Jeanette said, sinking onto the sofa. “I do not object in the slightest.”
Sycamore had not seen this parlor previously, and he took a moment to study the portrait over the mantel. The marquess had been a good-looking devil, sharing with both Trevor and Jerome flowing blond locks, a somewhat prominent nose, and a certain cast to his brow. Trevor was taller and leaner than his father had been, while Jerome had a rounder chin, though the family resemblance was strong.
Beardsley had inherited the blond hair and the nose, but the resemblance between Trevor and Jerome was closer than that between Beardsley and his late older brother. Another rendering of the marquess hung between the windows, this time with a brace of hounds at his feet and an open blunderbuss cradled over his arm.
What a bloody perishing bore he’d been, even when pictured at his recreations.
“My lady, you really must redecorate,” Sycamore said. “The sight of your oppressor glaring down from two walls shades into martyrdom. You have paid a high enough price for your marital heroics.”
Jeanette rubbed her wrist and looked at a coil of papers on the carpet as if it were the pantry mouser’s latest accident.
“Beardsley set out to destroy the remains of Orion’s reputation,” she said. “I married into this family thinking to solve my brother’s problems, and all I did was make them worse.”
“Don’t say that,” Goddard retorted. “I was desperate to buy my colors, and the family business will come right eventually. Then too, since mustering out, my reputation has never been what I’d wish it was. Beardsley, name your seconds.”
“And don’t,” Sycamore said, “think to involve the lads. Their loyalties are divided, and besides, Jeanette wouldn’t allow them to indulge in such nonsense.”
Trevor stood next to Jerome before the hearth. While Jerome was clearly aquiver to involve himself in his first affair of honor, Trevor’s distaste was plain on his handsome face. Had Sycamore not known better, he would have said that Trevor was the elder of the two, for he was certainly the wiser.
But then, younger siblings seldom enjoyed the respect they were due.
“No duels,” Viola Vincent said. “Please, no duels. Diana and Hera cannot in any way be associated—”
“Madam,” Sycamore interjected, taking the place beside Jeanette on the sofa, “putting aside the issue of Sir Orion’s social standing, Lord Beardsley was also just now on the point of extorting Jeanette’s widow’s portion from her as well as her personal freedom. Unless I miss my guess, Diana’s come out is part of the reason Beardsley felt justified in his larceny.”
Trevor propped an elbow on the mantel. “We cannot have my uncles dueling, Mr. Dorning. These things never stay quiet for long. Moreover, Uncle Beardsley would lose, and he might be a scoundrel and a halfwit, but he’s still my uncle.”
Beside Sycamore, Jeanette was as still and quiet as a garden saint. “My lady,” Sycamore said, covering her hand with his, “what say you? Will you permit your brother to seek satisfaction? Will you allow him to put a bullet between Beardsley’s eyes? A quick end would be kinder than transportation or the gallows, if you want my opinion.”
Jeanette’s fingers were as cold as her composure, though Sycamore knew her calm for the well-rehearsed act it was. The words permit and allow earned him her regard. She gazed at him steadily, her thoughts unfathomable.
The old marquess had taught her that trick, how to hide in plain sight, how to become a sphinx in marchioness’s clothing, but what had been learned could be unlearned.
“No duels,” Jeanette said. “No duels, no transportation, no gallows.”
“Of course not,” Beardsley retorted, “because all I’ve done is repeat a little ancient gossip where Goddard is concerned and try to effectuate a marriage between family members when Jeanette has nobody to speak for her.”
Oh, the fool. The hopeless, yammering fool.
“I can speak for myself,” Jeanette said, “and Mr. Dorning doubtless has the right of it. You are approaching dun territory, Beardsley, with two more daughters to launch, a son headed for the sponging house, a wife determined to maintain appearances, and not one whit of financial self-discipline to your name. You launched your campaign against me rather than moderate your lifestyle, and now you have dragged your loved ones to the brink of real scandal.”
“If intimidating a widow, setting ruffians on a nephew, and lying about an in-law isn’t scandalous,” Sycamore said, “I don’t know what is.”
“Jerome must marry,” Beardsley said, “and Jeanette never provided the sons Tavistock was due. Why should she keep every penny of those settlements for herself when she hardly entertains, has no intention of remarrying, and has no daughters to support?”
“Papa,” Jerome said, “I don’t want to marry Jeanette. Jeanette is a fine lady and all, but she’s… I would make her a miserable husband. She already put up with the old martinet for years, and why didn’t you tell me
