Page 45 of My Own True Duchess
“Younger siblings have a tendency to nosiness. I have four, and the trait bred true.”
Anselm’s guest took down a bound monograph on the propagation of tulips. The angle of the sunlight coming through the tall windows played a trick, making Sycamore Dorning look older than his years and scholarly. Contemplative, even.
The lingering effects of a surfeit of Tresham’s good brandy were not to be underestimated.
“Does Jonathan Tresham own The Coventry Club?” Sycamore asked, leafing through the treatise.
He might just as well have asked if the French had invaded Yorkshire. “I beg your pardon?” Nobody knew of Tresham’s association with the club, and it was certainly no business of an impecunious younger son.
“Tresham, our host last night,” Sycamore said. “You and he are friends, or as good as. You don’t have a private conversation that turns a man’s countenance murderous unless you’re either friends or enemies with him. Enemies are tedious. You have no patience for tedium. Therefore, you and he must be friends.”
“You are blazingly confident in your syllogism.”
“And you do not deny my conclusion. I mean the man no harm. In fact, I think he could use another friend. These illustrations are lovely.”
“Tresham is a ducal heir. He must choose his friends carefully.”
Sycamore reshelved the treatise where he’d found it. “Oh, right, of course, Your Grace. The rest of us can simply associate at will with all and sundry, no need for prudence or care. Swindlers and card sharps will do for us, while the likes of you lot must only associate with paragons and war heroes.”
He wandered off in the direction of the biographies, the dog’s gaze following him.
“Now that you’ve stuck out your figurative tongue at me,” Anselm said, “why are you here?” Sycamore Dorning— this version of Sycamore Dorning—would not have willingly called on a duke.
“Tresham wears a particular fragrance, one that blends gardenia, tuberose, and jasmine. I came across it on him in Paris and assume it’s either proprietary or quite expensive. I’ve smelled it at The Coventry on occasion as I sip my champagne in the little nook beneath the screened stairway. Took me an age to place the fragrance, but then I realized that the tread on the stair was familiar to me as well.”
“How in the hell can you distinguish a man’s footfalls?”
Dorning took a seat uninvited, appropriating the reading chair next to his dog. “You know your duchess’s walk, Anselm.”
“She is my duchess.” Anselm knew her walks, her sighs, her smiles, her silences, and she knew his.
“When you begin life at the bottom of a large pile of siblings, you learn to pay attention to them. Who is home, who is out? Which brother is spoiling for a fight, which one needs a pounding? Which sister is prepared to deliver it to him? “One learns to pay attention,” Dorning went on, “because nothing is explained, nothing is rendered sensible by adult interpretation. I can tell you which of my brothers is coming up the steps and whether he’s sober, well-rested, exhausted, or furious based on his tread on the stairs—not that he’d admit any of that to me. This is why I like numbers. They behave rationally, except the ones that don’t, and even those enjoy a fixed definition.”
Dorning shot his cuffs, the gesture curiously sophisticated. “Tresham pops up three steps, then pauses to look about, then three more, like a well-trained cavalry patrol in unfamiliar territory. When he escorts his guests above stairs, the rhythm is unmistakable.”
A problem indeed. “Assuming your recitation is true,” Anselm said, “how is it relevant, and why present yourself and your hound on my doorstep before noon?”
The hound turned a patient gaze on Anselm, as if the duke, rather than Dorning, were the presuming upstart.
“I’m concerned somebody at The Coventry is cheating,” Dorning said. “Tresham seems a decent fellow. If he’s the owner, he needs to put a stop to it before harm results.”
Another simple exercise in logic, with profound consequences. Anselm sank into the second reading chair, sorting and discarding possibilities.
“We will discuss hypotheticals,” he said slowly, “and we will discuss them in confidence.”
Dorning waved a hand. “Tresham is a decent sort, and he’s awash in money. He has no need to run a crooked house. Somebody wants to ruin The Coventry or ruin Tresham. The play is honest. I’ve watched closely, and when the house takes a cut from every pot, crooked tables would be errant stupidity.”
Dorning was a hotheaded stripling, but his assurance was so absolute, almost casual, that Anselm believed him.
“Explain yourself.” So that I might have time to think.
“At The Coventry, the house keeps a percentage of every pot, which means a percentage of every bet placed, at every table, without exception. Revenue for the house is assured as long as the tables are busy. No need to create rules or break rules to keep the money coming in. The most imbecilic, irredeemable blunder the owner of the premises could make would be to allow rumors of crooked play to start.”
Anselm knew this. He did not know what to do about such rumors. “You’re certain the owner has committed such a blunder?”
Sycamore rose. The dog followed him with his gaze, but remained, chin on paws, before the hearth.
“What sort of question is that for a duke to ask about his friend, Anselm? You disappoint me, and we callow youths need our good examples. I’m sure that Tresham has not committed such a blunder, but somebody has. A skilled player could do it, a team, an employee dealing at the tables working with a team. The place is busy. Many a sore loser would like to see it fail. I’ve watched for five straight nights and seen nothing beyond decks of cards reused more frequently than they should be, but then, I’m not a natural cheat.”
