Page 11 of Miss Determined
“You live at Twidboro Hall? Well, that is interesting. I thought—”
Whatever Mr. Dorning thought, his whole focus was consumed in the next moment by the rearing, bucking, and bolting of a horse intent on eluding all the demons of hell, or—failing that—tossing his rider from the saddle while all of Crosspatch Corners beheld the poor man’s undoing.
“Jeanette claims Tavistock is determined to take a bride,” Sycamore Dorning said, pouring himself a cup of gunpowder and lacing it with honey.
“Tavistock’s determination is not to be underestimated,” Colonel Sir Orion Goddard replied, taking up a green ledger book. “I have never met anybody as keen to learn every detail of winemaking. Tavistock wasn’t content to unravel the mysteries of champagne. He had to stash himself in Fournier’s pocket and learn the secrets of the clarets too. He also spent nearly a year sailing up and down the Rhine, and his German is flawless, provided he’s discussing Rhenish vintages.”
In the light of a spring morning, The Coventry Club’s gaming floor might have been the gallery of any commodious country house after a late-night card party. The carpets were spotless, the windows sparkling, the chairs done up in matching velvets grouped by table. Green for vingt-et-un, rose for whist, black for piquet, and so forth.
The serenade coming from the kitchen, though, was pure corner pub on darts night, and Sycamore would not have had it any other way. A singing staff was a happy staff, and the Coventry thrived in part because Goddard, who was Sycamore’s brother-by-marriage, kept the staff mostly happy.
Goddard’s wife, Ann, in charge of the kitchen, kept the guests well fed, and the Coventry’s extensive cellars ensured the whole business sauntered forward on congenial and profitable footing.
“We’ve had a good week,” Goddard said, jotting a figure at the bottom of a column. “Isn’t it about time you went out to Richmond and oversaw the planting?”
“You’ll have to try harder than that, Goddard. With Tavistock home from France, Jeanette is resurrecting her mother hen skills, or step-mother hen. His lordship’s future won’t be determined by the matchmakers when Jeanette is on hand to see the job done properly.”
“He’s young.” Goddard scratched another figure at the bottom of another column. “Why the haste? Nobody would begrudge Tavistock a year or two to enjoy the blandishments of Town.”
Sycamore made himself attend the wine ledger, though he lacked Goddard’s head for figures. “He’s not that young. My father had an heir and spare in the nursery when he was Tavistock’s age, and your father was likely at least wed.”
“Tavistock has an heir.”
“Does he?” The ledger tallied down and across, which was a small disappointment. Sycamore delighted in finding Goddard’s rare mistakes, though most of the time the error was with Sycamore’s eyesight, not Goddard’s math. Continental sevens and ones were confusing.
Goddard set down his pencil and poured himself a cup of tea. “Do you know something I don’t? Jerome Vincent is legitimate, at least on paper, and he’s Tavistock’s cousin through a paternal uncle. He’d be acceptable as an heir to the Committee for Privileges.”
Sycamore totaled the last column and took a sip of his tea. “Didn’t it strike you as odd that when Tavistock made his flying passes through Town in previous years, Jerome never came with him?”
“Jerome likely had creditors to contend with, and they have long memories.”
In the morning light, Goddard looked weary and a little worn around the edges. He’d been up until all hours overseeing the club’s busy evening, then he’d likely gone for a hack at dawn. That he could rely on himself to accurately balance the books at this hour suggested a former soldier’s talent for forced marches.
“Why do we hold this meeting so early?” Sycamore said.
Goddard’s smile was in his eyes, but it was a smile. “We were discussing Jerome Vincent, then it occurs to you that Jeanette is likely flitting about in her robe and slippers as we speak, and you—foolish fellow—could be flitting with her, but here you are.”
“Dorning men don’t flit.”
The smile bloomed, imbuing Goddard’s craggy, scarred features with an astonishing sweetness. “You flit mentally. I am happy to shift this meeting to later in the day—say five of the clock, when the kitchen is roaring to life, and the guests have yet to arrive. Or I could simply pass you a report, and you could drop by to look at the books at your leisure.”
“God spare me another report. About Jerome.”
“He took a passing interest in the making of champagne and became seriously fascinated with some prosperous publican’s daughter. The next thing I knew, he was off to Copenhagen, or claimed that was his destination. When Tavistock removed to Bordeaux, Jerome appeared again like a bad penny, and thus it went. Jerome did put in an appearance at his father’s funeral. I’m fairly certain he dashed home for his mama’s funeral too.”
“Tavistock has lost him and fears the worst. Hence, this sudden attack of matrimonial aspirations.” That wasn’t quite violating a confidence, but the next part might be.
“No other cousins?” Goddard asked. “Second cousins? Handy Americans bearing a strong family resemblance?”
“The Committee for Privileges wants documents for that sort of thing, and I don’t believe any such heirs exist. The previous marquess took desperate measures to ensure the succession, and Tavistock, despite his many fine qualities, is the old boy’s son.”
Goddard stuck the pencil behind his ear. “Hence the determination. Jeanette is worried?”
“She’s quiet, and that worriesme. All she’s ever wanted is for Tavistock to be happy, and a bad match can mean endless suffering.” As Jeanette, who’d been married to Tavistock’s father, well knew.
“Our marquess is sensible,” Goddard said, closing the ledger books one by one. “He grew bored at university because so much of what goes on there is rank stupidity. He has the knack of being likable, despite his title and good looks. He might well make a match that is both lucrative and affectionate.”
“Jeanette wants more for him.”
