Orion accepted a drink as well, and seemed content to hold his peace—for now.
“The mushrooms were a mistake,” Viola said. “A very serious mistake, for which I abjectly apologize. I wanted Jeanette to leave London and grew too desperate in my schemes, though the worst she would suffer as a profound bellyache. If Trevor could be talked into marrying one of his cousins, then Beardsley’s schemes for Jerome and Jeanette would become unnecessary. Trevor would never allow his wife’s family—his own cousins, aunt, and uncle—to come to financial grief.”
Jeanette sipped her brandy, finding it nearly as good as what Sycamore served at the club. “You could have simply asked me for help, or asked Trevor. You did not need to skulk about, either one of you.”
They could have done as Sycamore had—as Jeanette had never done—and confronted family difficulties with equal parts goodwill and blunt courage.
“And you,” Beardsley said, “would have put me on an allowance, would have seen two of my daughters wearing the same presentation gown, would have seen Viola shamed by economies.”
Sycamore shook his head when offered a drink. “Pimping your wife to your brother rather appropriated the lion’s share of the shame, Vincent. How do you intend to make amends to the multitude of parties you’ve wronged?”
And that was why Jeanette loved Sycamore Dorning. Because he was honest with himself and others, because he faced life squarely and took the path of truth when others wilted at such a prospect. Because he worried about those he cared for. He loved passionately, and wasn’t afraid to be seen holding hands with a woman who desperately needed his hand to hold.
“If it’s money,” Beardsley began, “I would remind you all that my wife and daughters are blameless.”
“Viola is far from blameless.” Trevor made that statement as he passed Jerome a drink. “And she would have foisted me off on a cousin and considered that a triumph. I will cheerfully dower both of them, Auntie. You had only to ask.”
“You could have offered,” Viola said, chin coming up.
“His lordship is not even of age,” Jeanette retorted. “I could have helped with their dowries too. I could have helped with their presentations, but you, Viola, had to hoard those honors for yourself.”
“I can also assist with dowering the young ladies,” Sycamore said, “and even dear Uncle Rye might contribute to the family project, but what of Beardsley? He has betrayed his family, from wife and daughters, to nephews—note the plural—to widowed sister-in-law.”
Jeanette considered Beardsley, who had no son of his own, no fortune, no real friends, and a marriage that imprisoned the parties far more than it sheltered them. Then too, in a sense, Beardsley had been betrayed by his own brother.
“We could do nothing,” she said. “Simply put him on remittance at the family seat.”
Trevor wrinkled his nose. “Unacceptable. That is the family seat, the staff would show him undue loyalty, and the rest of us would avoid Tavistock Hall to avoid his company.”
“The dower house appeals to me,” Viola said. “It’s remote, but still a family holding. I could retire there once the girls are launched.”
Sycamore held his peace, and Jeanette realized why. He was allowing the Vincent-Goddard family to muddle through a problem to its solution. Showing them the way without saying a word.
“What about France?” Trevor said quietly. “I’ve a mind to learn the vintner’s trade. There’s money to be made purveying fine wines, and if the colonel could point me in the right direction, I’d happily apply myself to it.”
Jerome studied his drink. “Don’t suppose you could use company in that endeavor? I’m not stupid, and my French is almost as good as yours, but Papa—Lord Beardsley—was never one for encouraging me into a trade or profession. If you’re planning to buy up some vineyards, you could use a fellow to manage them.”
“Jeanette?” Orion cocked his head. “Shall we banish Beardsley to France until the last of his flotilla of daughters is launched? I can show the lads the basics of winemaking, though it’s an art not learned in a few months. They can keep an eye on Beardsley, and he can live inexpensively while keeping a proper distance from those who don’t care to see him.”
“And I can do something besides kick up my heels while I’m waiting to come of age,” Trevor muttered.
Trevor wanted to go to France, that was clear. Jerome needed to go, and Orion was anxious to make amends by shepherding the young men about the Goddard family vineyards. Viola looked hopeful, and Sycamore would speak up if he objected.
And clearly, he did not object.
What Beardsley wanted… did not signify. Jeanette tried to feel some guilt about the conclusion, some compassion, some pity even, but Beardsley hadn’t spared anybody else any pity, and neither had his damned brother.
They’d thought only of themselves and their wants, and all around them—Jeanette included—had colluded to allow them their monstrous selfishness.
“France is a solution,” Jeanette said slowly. “If Beardsley is accompanied by the colonel, Lord Tavistock, and Jerome, the journey will have the appearance of a family excursion. Nobody should depart until after Diana’s presentation.”
“Thank you,” Viola said, rising. “If that’s settled, I will return to Surrey and explain this situation to the girls.”
Trevor collected her glass. “You will inform my cousins that their brother is also my brother. Either you tell them, Auntie, or I will. Jerome shouldn’t have to have that discussion with them, and we cannot trust Beardsley to handle it.”
Viola nodded and spared her husband a glance. “I’ll send a trunk to your club, my lord. The girls and I will see you off when you depart for France.”
Beardsley rose. “I’ll escort you to the coach.”
Viola gave him a long, complicated look, then took his arm. They left the parlor in silence, though Jeanette predicted that at some point, a blazing row would take place.
Or maybe not. The Vincents were new to the habit of honesty and, with the exception of Trevor, not a very courageous bunch.
Orion set
