They’d reached the back entrance to the maze, and Ash longed to dodge between the tall hedges and lose himself in wandering. Except, he knew this maze, knew exactly how to reach the little Cupid statue at the center, and knew Sycamore would simply follow him through every turn.
“What tournament?”
“When the weather refused to oblige the ladies’ kites, somebody suggested we get up a tournament of games. Every day will offer an afternoon session and an evening session, save for Sunday. Teams of two, double elimination play. The games will rotate among whist, piquet, and cribbage, possibly billiards, I’m not sure what else. Archery perhaps. It’s a clever idea, and if it works, we should try it out at the Coventry.”
Ash kept walking past the opening to the maze. “Did Chastain make this suggestion?”
“I believe Francis Portly came up with it, or perhaps I might have mentioned the notion, and Portly took it up.”
The idea of a multiple-game tournament over a period of days was actually interesting. “Is this why you’ve invited yourself to this gathering, because you wanted to try out a novel idea before testing it at the club?”
Sycamore jammed his hands into his pockets. “Of course not. I am here to pleasure the willing and stand up with the shy. A friend to womankind at large, as usual. Some obliging brother might mention to the marchioness what a capital fellow I am.”
Ash rounded the corner and started back in the direction of the house. “You concocted this tournament so you can partner Lady Tavistock over a period of days. Assist her to aim her shots at the billiards table, discuss strategy with her between hands of cards. She will take you into profound dislike before the house party is half over.”
“She will appreciate how effectively I keep the vultures from pestering her. She’s quite well-off and a damned fine-looking female. Some men have no restraint.”
And the marchioness was a very astute gambler. She won consistently, always considered the odds, bet prudently, and was never afraid to walk away from a losing streak. Ash considered reminding Sycamore of that last characteristic, but discarded the notion.
“I have wondered about something,” Ash said, steps slowing, “regarding Chastain.”
“He’s not to be underestimated, Ash. I pity his new wife.”
“She warned Della at breakfast that Chastain is carrying a grudge. Della was also surprised to learn that William will be kept on a tight rein financially because Clarice’s papa took that little jaunt to Alconbury amiss.”
Sycamore wrinkled his nose. “Chastain will hate being forced to live on an allowance. Odd, that. We expect the ladies to budget their pin money without complaint, but many grown men can tolerate no fetters on their spending.”
“And that raises a question,” Ash said, keeping his voice down as they strolled along the maze’s long side. “If Chastain has been on such a miserly budget since coming down from university, how has he managed to consistently and in a timely manner pay his many debts of honor?”
Sycamore halted. “That is a troubling question. Accepting the proceeds of stolen goods would implicate the club in criminal activity, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ash said, stopping as well, “and worse yet, gambling hells are often used to transfer funds to legitimate purses from the other kind. Nearly any sudden windfall can be explained as a run of good luck at the tables.”
Sycamore resumed walking, his pace brisk. “Our tables are scrupulously clean. We are fanatical about that. Our dealers are honest, and we pay them enough to ensure their loyalty.”
“My question is all but idle,” Ash said, falling in step beside him. “One of those little thoughts that floats by on a passing breeze.” And yet, like ledgers that wouldn’t tally, the thought wanted further study. Ash ambled along in silence, until he and Sycamore had nearly returned to the foot of the garden.
A giggle emanated from the gazebo several yards off. The little structure was hung with multiple layers of netting, so the occupants were shielded from view.
“Is that the sole allure of house parties?” Ash muttered. “Frolicking, strumming, and getting a leg over somebody else’s spouse?”
“Asks the man whose wife is off napping sans mari.”
Ash jabbed an elbow into Sycamore’s breadbasket, hard—harder than he should have. The blow wasn’t planned, and that only added to Ash’s unsettled mood.
“Jesus, Ash,” Sycamore wheezed, hands braced on his thighs. “Jesus and all the little angels. Have you been working on that move? You’d drop the average footpad where he stood.”
Though Ash had hardly slowed his brother down. “You impugn Della’s loyalty at your peril.”
Sycamore straightened. “I was impugning your common sense, you lackwit, for leaving your new wife to nap all on her lonesome not three days after speaking your vows.”
A groan came from the direction of the gazebo, and Ash wanted to deliver a few more blows to the unsuspecting.
“Della needed to catch up on her sleep.”
Sycamore sauntered toward the back terrace. “Well, that’s all right, then. The honor of the House of Dorning has been upheld, and the lady needs her rest. I meant what I said about the marchioness.”
Ash struggled to recall Sycamore saying anything of merit. “When you said what?”
“About putting in a good word for me. She can have her pick of the fellows, and my only advantage is faultless charm.”
“And bottomless hubris, not to mention an absurd fascination with wielding your microscopic poker and a compensatory obsession with knives.”
When Sycamore should have retorted with equal parts hubris and humor, he instead winced. “You’re in a rotten mood for a newly wed Dorning.”
And that was the damned truth. “Sorry.” Sycamore’s pizzle was in proportion to the rest of him, hence the jest was permitted between brothers when private, but Ash’s remark was still… a bit much, particularly following an unreciprocated blow. “I am out of sorts, and I do apologize.”
“Are you managing, Ash?”
“I am tired, and Chastain’s wife accosting Della at breakfast was the outside of too much. Mrs. Chastain was pleasant, but Della was upset by the encounter. I thought to leave my wife some solitude to gather her wits. Perhaps I’m in need of a nap myself.”
Sycamore gave him the sort of up-and-down perusal that made Ash want to howl.
“It can start like this,” Sycamore said. “You get irritable and nasty, and then the melancholia descends.”
A thousand irritable and nasty retorts sprang to mind, which only underscored Sycamore’s point.
“I know,” Ash said. “Damned if I have a clue what to do about it.” Particularly with Della begging him not to let her out of his sight, Chastain circling like a hungry boar hog, and two more weeks of Lady Wentwhistle’s dubious hospitality to endure.
“Not the shawl,” Della said, retrieving it from the maid’s grasp. “I keep that with me.” Moreover, washing a crocheted shawl when that article was clean made no sense.
The maid, a rosy-cheeked, blond young lady by the name of Trask, curtseyed for the fifteenth time.