The Last True Gentleman (True Gentlemen #12) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,6
premises.”
“Supper?” With a single word, she conjured a reference to all manner of hedonistic excesses.
“Food, wine, conversation. I can inflict some of my laughable French on you, you can tell me who is walking out with whom.”
The wariness had returned to her gaze, muted by curiosity. “You are serious?”
“I do not dissemble, even when my family dearly wishes I would.” Her ladyship still looked doubtful, so Sycamore resigned himself to explaining his situation to her.
“My brother Ash is my business partner, or he used to be. Now he’s too besotted with the wedded state to do more than keep an impatient eye on me at the club, not an eye on the club, mind you, an eye on me. When we talk it’s Della says, Della hopes, and my dear Della tells me. I love my sister by marriage—I love the entire herd of them—but Lady Della has entirely made off with my dearest brother.”
Sycamore rose to pace rather than sit passively before her ladyship’s scrutiny. “I cannot gossip with anybody about club business, or with nobody but Tresham, and with him it’s Theodosia believes, my darling Theo would say, and more of same. Casriel is the worst of the lot. He’s awash in daughters, which adds entire rhapsodic chapters to his litany.”
Sycamore paused before the corkboard, which would soon have to be replaced, because the center was too pitted from multiple throws hitting the same mark.
“I spend almost every night,” he said, “amid the witty and wealthy, and while I can flirt, make small talk, and flatter until my eyelashes fall off, that’s not the same as a good meal with a pleasant companion.”
Her ladyship rose. She was tallish, but more than that, she carried herself regally. “I am rarely pleasant.”
“One of your many fine attributes.” Also one of Sycamore’s. “You are intelligent, well read, honest, and knowledgeable about polite society. Let’s give it a month, shall we? The Coventry is closed on Sundays. We’ll have privacy there and some room to practice.”
She had come to make him a proposition, but he’d purposely put himself in the position of one making an offer.
“Four lessons and four suppers?”
“Or I can simply teach you to throw.”
She stuck out a hand. “We have a bargain, Mr. Dorning. I will meet you at the side entrance to the Coventry at five on Sunday.”
Sycamore shook, pugilist-fashion, then bowed over her hand, gentleman-fashion. “I will look forward to it. Shall I call for my coach, or would you rather I walk you home?” He was several inches over six feet, though those inches had taken forever to show up. He also fenced, rode, and boxed, and considered himself a match for any footpad, even without his knives.
“I prefer to walk, please.”
The faster option, given that a groom and coachman would have to roused and the horses put to. Also the less conspicuous choice.
Sycamore contented himself with the role of gallant escort, and parted from the lady at her front door. He made sure the night porter did not see him lurking at the foot of the terrace steps, and when her ladyship was safely behind a locked door, Sycamore returned to his own address by wandering several streets out of his way.
Two conclusions made his midnight stroll a thoughtful undertaking. First, in this compulsion to learn the art of the knife, her ladyship revealed a fear for her safety. Because she was neither fanciful nor stupid, Sycamore thus feared for her safety as well.
Second, whoever had followed her ladyship from Sycamore’s rooms had not felt it necessary to follow Sycamore on his return journey.
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This concludes the free sample text.
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Chapter Three
“Mr. Dorning, I come to offer you a proposition.”
Sycamore Dorning was frequently propositioned.
By ladies who’d played too deeply at The Coventry Club.
By gentlemen in the same unfortunate circumstances.
By gentlemen who’d gambled to excess, and thought to offer Sycamore a wife or mistress’s favors in exchange for forgiveness of a debt.
Jeanette Vincent, Marchioness of Tavistock owed the club not one penny, alas. “My lady, do come in.” Then too, she wasn’t calling on Sycamore at his gambling hell, but rather, at his private quarters.
She had no escort. Her coach was plain to the point of shabbiness. Neither coachy nor groom wore livery, and her cattle were stolid bays, not a hair of white between them.
“Walk ’em,” Sycamore called out to the coachy.
John Coachman merely looked askance at the marchioness.