Sycamore’s hand was warm in Jeanette’s grasp, his voice was arctic. “How much did the marquess offer you for the privilege of seducing your wife?”
Beardsley gazed at Jerome. “Ten thousand pounds, which pulled me from the River Tick for a few years. Tavistock never once offered to take on the burden of my debts himself. I suspect he allowed my problems to mount precisely to facilitate his scheme with Viola.”
“The scheme,” Viola said dryly, “was obvious to me only in hindsight. Tavistock’s marriage was a disappointment to him. He confided in me, he praised my daughters, he praised me for my maternal devotion. He lamented that the one thing he sought in life had been denied him, but hinted broadly that I, as the lovely wife of the Vincent family spare, could grant him that boon.”
“You were manipulated by a pair of schemers,” Sycamore said, sparing Jeanette the admission.
Pity for Viola was as unwelcome as it was inevitable. She’d been young, a neglected wife, an overburdened mother, and the late marquess had offered her the means to revenge every slight and indignity while calling her actions a noble sacrifice.
“Tavistock would not relent,” Viola said, “and I well knew Beardsley was playing me false by then—had been from the first year of our marriage. I was angry, lonely, and not getting any younger. I did care for Tavistock, and I hope in some regard, he cared for me.”
Jeanette doubted that, but kept her peace. Viola had been used, and then she’d had to watch as Tavistock later fathered the boy who’d depose Viola’s son as heir to the title. Used, cast aside, and left to believe that she’d betrayed the husband who’d set her up to be seduced.
“Tavistock established a trust for Jerome,” Viola said. “Modest, but something. That trust gave my son a gentleman’s education and has been his sole support in recent years.”
“I thought I had a great-auntie,” Jerome said, sinking into a wing chair. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”
“I thought you were my cousin,” Trevor said, looking bemused. “Appears that’s not the whole story.”
“I thought the Vincents were my family,” Jeanette said. “I thought my own brother had willingly turned his back on me, that my husband had no spare of the body, that Beardsley was a benign if negligent guardian to my step-son. I believed a parcel of lies, and if there are any more untruths to be aired, please air them now.”
Jeanette could make that demand because Sycamore sat beside her, holding her hand and exuding a brisk pragmatism in the face of family upheaval.
“Well, I certainly don’t want to marry you,” Jerome said. “Another one of Papa’s—I mean, Lord Beardsley’s—schemes. Meaning no offense, such a marriage would be distasteful in light of present disclosures.”
“Orion?” Jeanette said, regarding her brother. “What do you want? Beardsley wronged you, and you have suffered much as a result.”
“The deepest hurt,” Rye said, his smile a ghost of his old ebullience, “was that you thought I had shunned you willingly. I honestly don’t know why my fellow officers hold me in such contempt, but they do, and Beardsley’s whispering campaign ensures they will for some time to come. My objective, Jeanette, has been to preserve the family legacy in France, so I can bequeath that to you as some sort of reparation for all the sacrifices you made for me.”
Sycamore passed Jeanette a handkerchief, though he remained silent. That wasn’t like him, to sit back and watch, but even a silent Sycamore fortified her.
“I don’t want a lot of perishing grapes, Rye. I want my only sibling.” Had Jeanette not had an audience, she would have presumed so far as to hug her brother. “You will call upon me next week, please.”
Sycamore sent Rye a look that glance held daring and reassurance both. Equal parts don’t let me down and I won’t abandon you. Jeanette had let Sycamore down and abandoned him, which had her dabbing at her eyes and tucking his handkerchief away.
“I will call upon you tomorrow,” Rye said. “What shall we do with Beardsley?”
Jeanette did not care what became of Beardsley, provided he never troubled her again.
“We could send him to the dower house,” Trevor said, “except I intend to sign that over to you, Jeanette. If you don’t want to spend your dotage in Derbyshire, you can sell the damned place. The estate is self-supporting and would bring you considerable coin.”
Jeanette regarded the tall young man lounging by the mantel. “You have been paying attention.”
He shot his cuffs. “I read the reports. Can’t allow you to have all the fun.”
“You’ve been hanging back regarding the finances?” she asked. “Allowing me free rein and pretending you had no interest?”
Trevor pushed away from the mantel and went to the sideboard. “When I bungled so badly at last year’s house party, I had a talk with myself. What the hell sort of marquess won’t turn his hand to either university studies or his own affairs? I saw the Dornings, sons of an earl, taking on the Coventry and making no apologies for it. They have another brother who writes books, one who raises fancy dogs. They figure out how to go on and then sally forth. I was disappointing you. Papa disappointed you. Your brother disappointed you. The trend was lowering. Would anybody care for a drink?”
This little speech both hurt—Trevor had grown up when Jeanette wasn’t looking—and comforted. He was already the marquess and a compliment to the peerage.
“A bracer for my nerves,” Viola said. “Jeanette, I am sorry. Had I known how far Beardsley was blundering from decency, I would have done more than have Peem slip you a few notes.”
Sycamore accepted a drink from Trevor and passed it to Jeanette. “What of the food poisoning?” Sycamore asked. “Was that
