That was the most mature, sensible sentiment Ash could recall hearing Sycamore express. “The Coventry is thriving, Cam, and that’s largely because you know whom to charm and whom to chide. If you want to sell up in a few years, I won’t object.”
“Marriage is working its wiles on you.”
Not marriage, but the knowledge that Della did not enjoy Town life, and neither, to be honest, did Ash.
“We have few friends in Town,” Ash said, “because everybody is a potential customer, and we keep a polite distance from them lest we end up being their creditors. When the dismals come over me, I face a hundred-twenty-mile journey back to Dorning Hall, and as to that, I’m married now. A property of my own closer to Della’s family in Kent makes much more sense.”
Sycamore finished his drink and wandered to the sideboard. “You want a property of your own?”
“Yes. I’m no Town dandy. The melancholia grew worse when I moved to London. It wasn’t so bad up in Oxford, nor at home.”
Sycamore poured himself another finger and held up the decanter. Ash shook his head. “But, Ash, you go back to Dorning Hall, and the condition doesn’t improve for weeks or months. Perhaps if you dwelled in the shires all year round, you’d be in worse shape. How’s Della managing?”
This conversation was extraordinary for its lack of fraternal posturing—on anybody’s part. Ash set aside for later consideration the notion that Sycamore behaved like a brat only because his brothers goaded him into it.
“She hates being in proximity to Chastain, but she’s coping.”
“She and he had some sort of confrontation here on”—Sycamore held his drink up to the candelabrum on the mantel—“Wednesday, I think it was. I was on the terrace and saw them through the window. Della was not happy, and Chastain looked positively thunderous.”
And Della hadn’t said a word about this—the confrontation she dreaded most—to her own husband.
“They were angry with each other?”
“Della gets this remote, prim look when she’s trying not to display a temper. She reminds me of the marchioness in that regard. Lady Tavistock is ready to plant her darling step-son a facer, but she never speaks a cross word to him.”
“Tavistock is seventeen. Cross words would only injure his fragile manly pride. Did Della say anything to you about her argument with Chastain?”
“She did not. I waited until Chastain left the library, then loitered in the corridor, admiring busts—of philosophers, not the other kind—and peering at paintings. When she remained in the library for a good ten minutes, I joined her.”
“Had she been crying?”
“Not that I could discern, but she was as pale as a goose’s arse. If you and I partnered at whist, we could ruin Chastain in three days’ time. I’ve been studying him, and you long ago discerned every weakness in his play.”
Ash sipped his drink, trying to sort out whether he was upset with Chastain, Della, himself, or all three. “Thank you for that kind and shrewd offer, Sycamore. I might take you up on it.”
“Or, I could ruin Mrs. Chastain,” Sycamore said, resuming his seat, “but she is blameless, pleasant, and already condemned to marriage with William. I like her laugh. I could cuckold Chastain, but again, the lady might suffer for having sought pleasure in my arms.”
“And Chastain might blow out your brains, leaving me to manage the Coventry when I haven’t your wit or gracious charm.”
“There is that. You’re managing, Ash?”
The late hour, the tenor of the discussion, and sheer fatigue of the spirit had Ash answering honestly.
“I am managing, but no more than managing. Marriage is an adjustment, and this house party was a bad idea, though I couldn’t know that when I suggested to Della that we come here. I’m restless and out of sorts, and that does not bode well for the days ahead.”
He didn’t need to be more specific, but he realized that he and Della must have a frank talk about many things, including what she should expect when the melancholia descended again, for it would.
It inevitably would. If anything signaled an approaching bout, it was a lack of interest in sexual intimacy, and Ash had never desired a woman as unrelentingly as he had desired Della. He could make all the excuses in the world—the weather, travel, the strain of too much company—but he had declined not twenty minutes ago to make love with his darling and lusty new bride.
Sycamore tossed back the last of his brandy, gathered up his book, and rose. “In the days ahead, please recall you have a brother who, in addition to his charm, graciousness, wit, and savoir faire, is also devoted to your welfare. If I thought it would help, I would kill Chastain for you, but I know Della would not approve.”
He wrapped an arm around Ash’s head, kissed his crown, and took his leave.
Ash remained behind, sipping brandy he did not taste and framing a discussion with Della that would be neither easy nor pleasant.
Chapter Thirteen
“Damn thirsty business,” William said, leading the way into the library, “fleecing the lambs.” He made straight for the sideboard, found three clean glasses, poured two of them half full, and filled the third nearly to the brim.
The half-full glasses he passed to Portly and to Trevor, Marquess of Tavistock.
“To fleecing the lambs,” William said, raising the third glass a few inches and then tossing back half its contents.
Tavistock, who had probably never stayed awake past midnight in his lordly little life, took the barest sip.
“Excuse me for pointing out the obvious, Chastain,” Tavistock said, “but when do we get to the actual fleecing part?”
“Got you there,” Portly murmured, subsiding into a wing chair. “Tavistock, be a love and add some coal to this dreary fire.”
Portly hadn’t a mean bone in his body, but his family was merely gentry, and he wasn’t above putting a marquess to a footman’s job for the deviltry of it. Tavistock complied, the stupid git, then took a wing chair for himself.
“If we’re gambling to win,” Tavistock said, “then it seems to me that the idea is to have the coins coming to our side of the table. We’ve been at this for three days and nights, Chastain, and my entire quarterly allowance has disappeared into pockets other than my own.”
William perched on the arm of Portly’s chair. “Patience, dear boy. We’re lulling the opposition into a false sense of confidence. The tide will turn, and we will take them all unawares.”
“That’s the theory,” Portly muttered.
William smacked him on the back of the head. “Partnering Clarice has put you out of sorts. Perhaps you ought to develop a sprained hand and drop out of the tournament.”
“I’ll partner Mrs. Chastain,” Tavistock said. “She’s won a damn sight more with Portly than I have with you, Chastain. If Portly wants to switch, I’m willing.”
The arrogant little puppy.
“Portly,” said the man himself, “is not about to change partners. That would be ungallant. Besides, Chastain won’t have me. Your lordship has much more cachet than a mere commoner like myself.”