Page 5 of Miss Determined
Trevor sipped his wine and cast around for a topic other than Casriel’s connubial bliss. “Do you trust your solicitors?”
Sycamore finished his drink and set the empty glass on the sideboard. “Most of my business is handled by my brother Ash, who also takes care of our brother Oak’s portrait commissions, our brother Valerian’s publishing arrangements, and so on. Yes, I trust my brother, and I keep clerks on my payroll who can verify Ash’s figures and are answerable only to me.”
When one was raised as an only child, the finer points of sibling interactions were terra incognita, but Dorning seemed to be implying…
“Tavistock, if you have to ask whether to trust your solicitors, then you already question either their competence or their integrity. Jeanette kept a very close eye on Smithers and Purse Strings, and I suggest you do likewise.”
“I thought I was. I read the damned reports, Dorning. Before I left for France, Jeanette made sure I grasped the fundamentals of my inheritance. I find all the ledgers and receipts and heretofores so much drudgery, though I nonetheless reviewed every document sent to me.”
Trevor was hoping that Dorning, who ran a complicated business and also managed a large estate out by Richmond, would laugh, refer to the mystery of annual fluctuations in revenue, and tell Trevor the Tavistock ship would doubtless right itself.
“Do you have all those ledgers and reports?” Sycamore asked.
“Most of them are in Paris. I grabbed a few for light reading in the event I’m plagued by a bout of insomnia. I’m having the rest packed up and sent along. My decision to return to London was somewhat precipitous.”
“You were afraid you’d lose your nerve.”
If this was a sample of what having brothers was like, Trevor was almost glad to have been spared. “You asked why now?” He rose, the conversation having yielded little in the way of comfort and too much in the way of misgivings.
“Jeanette is in alt to have you back,” Dorning replied, “but one does wonder at the timing. Had you made a quiet return in the autumn, or even summer, the matchmakers would have given you some time to find your feet. As it is, I regret to inform you that you will be the catch of the Season.”
“Don’t sound so pleased.” Trevor finished his wine and set the glass on Dorning’s desk blotter. The doodles thereupon included Jeanette’s name with all sorts of floral embellishments.Bon Dieu.“I have tried to keep an eye on Jerome.”
“Your… cousin.”
“My heir. His sisters are all comfortably settled and adequately dowered.”
Dorning collected the empty glass and set it on the sideboard. “Thanks to you.”
“As is their right, given the familial expectation, but about two years ago, Jerome told me he no longer needed or wanted an allowance.”
“One would hope he’d eventually find his way to independence, being several years your senior.”
Trevor plucked his hat from the hook on the back of the door and took down his greatcoat. “Jerome found his way to Nice, Lisbon, Berlin… Border crossings on the Continent are often effected more easily than moving through London’s turnpikes. Only in the capital cities and the ports does officialdom truly take much notice of anybody’s country of origin.”
“You lost him.” No accusation colored that observation, but then, Dorning didn’t much care for Jerome.
“Or he escaped. The primary benefit of keeping him on remittance was that I knew where he was. His letters were always cheerful recitations about weather, food, women, and accommodations, never any indication that he’d found a paying post. In January, I realized that I had not heard from Jerome for a year, despite having sent half a dozen letters to his preferred haunts. If my sole heir is that cavalier about remaining in touch with me, then I had best plan for contingencies, hadn’t I?”
Dorning took Trevor’s coat and held it for him. “I’m sorry. Jerome is your cousin, he was a friend of sorts at least for a time, and his disappearance must worry you. Has he written to his sisters?”
“I’ve sent inquiries to them, and I have contacts on the Continent looking for him. With any luck, he will turn up as the cicisbeo of some widowed Polish countess, and all my worry will be for naught.”
“Or the cicisbeo of a Polish count, which might explain his taking French leave.”
Interesting theory, though at variance with Jerome’s observed behaviors, as far as Trevor knew them. “The French call itfiler à l'anglaise.” To leave English-style.
“When do you depart for Surrey, marquess-style?”
“Tomorrow, though I plan to start my inspection tour in Berkshire.”
“What’s in Berkshire, besides a lot of racing stables, forests, and an old castle or two?”
Trevor settled his hat on his head and accepted his walking stick from Dorning. “I’m not sure, but I intend to find out. I’ll start by looking in on one of the marquessate’s smaller estates near a village called Crosspatch Corners. I actually brought the Berkshire quarterly reports home with me, as it happens. My love to Jeanette.”
“I’ll tell everybody you’re bound for Surrey.”
“Why would… Oh. Thank you. Right. Surrey. The family seat. And I will go there, just not directly.”
