“I offered the post of partner to Lady Della,” William said. “She suggested you would exert your husbandly authority to forbid her even that much diversion. You own a gambling hell, such as it is, and you deny your wife a few games among friends. Word of advice: People remark that sort of behavior, Dorning. It suggests you already don’t trust your wife to behave sensibly, or you can’t afford to drop a few pounds at the tables.”
Those remarks were, in William’s humble estimation, well-placed shots. Sycamore Dorning lounged on the shady side of the terrace in conversation with Mr. Golding. Miss Catherine Fairchild—nose in a book, as ever—sat not far from them.
Dorning would behave himself in front of such witnesses, alas for all concerned.
“Thank you for that advice, Chastain,” Dorning said. “Regarding the card tournament, I would not want a fellow guest to miss out on the remaining play, and thus I offer myself as your partner. My role managing the Coventry means I don’t often have the opportunity to engage in friendly games, and my wife is not inclined to accommodate you. She needs her rest, being newly married. Late nights at the tables don’t appeal to her.”
Dorning for a partner? That was not part of William’s plan. “You’re newly married too.”
“And that happy circumstance frequently renews my energies. I’m sure you grasp the notion, having so recently spoken your own vows. What say you, Chastain? A few friendly hands over the next several days, my skill combined with yours, and devil take the hindmost? Tavistock’s slate has already been wiped clean, and yet, you have substantial losses to recoup.”
Lord Tavistock—or rather, the marchioness—was supposed to cover William’s losses to date. She was proving hard to catch alone, though, and Golding had been less useful at manufacturing fodder for threats.
Golding, in fact, had completely bungled the business with young Tavistock, according to Portly. But then, William had played his hand with Golding subtly, lest the fellow realize he’d been manipulated.
A shrewd man knew when to change tactics, and recouping losses rather than increasing them was always a better strategy. Lady Fairchild’s baubles might well be paste—who brought their finest jewels to a rural house party, after all?—and Mrs. Tremont was inclined to hoist her skirts rather than pay for William’s discretion in actual coin.
Which took a lot of the fun out of the whole endeavor.
Besides, if William continued losing, he’d just threaten to expose Lady Della’s mental instability, and Dorning would pay off the debts willingly enough.
“Dorning, I accept your offer, and devil take the hindmost.”
Dorning bowed and ambled off, while William congratulated himself on knowing when to bend circumstances to his advantage. If he won, so much the better. If he lost, Dorning would pay and pay and pay.
A delightful plan indeed.
“Chastain will ruin you,” Sycamore said, pacing the length of the gallery. “He will ruin you—my business partner and brother—and Della, or finish ruining her. You cannot best him, Ash, not with the cards you hold now. If you sink him into substantial debt, he takes you down with him. If you earn him buckets of money, he’ll be encouraged to try the same scheme again and make you repeat the performance.”
Sycamore was prone to dramatics, but Ash had to concede these fears were sensible. The gallery had been set up for the afternoon’s play—piquet—while at the sideboard, servants laid out sandwiches, canapés, and two different blends of punch.
The session would begin in twenty minutes, and this was as close to privacy as Ash was likely to have with his brother.
“What would you have me do, Sycamore? Chastain threatened Della with rape—again. He’s menacing every female, from the maids to Lady Fairchild. He’s threatened to ruin Mrs. Tremont and her brother, and he’s already driven Tavistock off and cost his lordship dearly. Somebody has to stop him.”
Sycamore waited until the footman at the sideboard had departed. “Why is that someone you, Ash? You’ve already had a bad day, dodging out of Sunday services, lurking in the window. You missed breakfast and luncheon today, and you are freshly shaved at midafternoon. I know the signs of impending doom, and without putting too fine a point on matters, you are not at your best.”
“True, but Chastain will underestimate me as a result. I suspect I have underestimated myself.” Ash had come to this conclusion while swaddled in Della’s shawl, his cheek pillowed on her breast. A good place to think, that, sprawled over his wife’s luscious, drowsing, sated form.
Sycamore helped himself to a sandwich. “How can you underestimate yourself?”
“Della trusts me to see this through. I trust Della to support me in the endeavor. She has been struggling with her own demons, and Chastain has been preying on her insecurities. If I don’t stop him, he will simply continue his bad behavior and very likely make an attempt to wreck the Coventry’s reputation too.”
Sycamore paused, the remains of the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “He’d go after the Coventry? That is the bleeding outside of bloody too much, Ash. Tresham is still a partner in the club, and Tresham won’t take kindly to a baby baronet spreading schoolyard rumors.”
Ash ladled a tot from the men’s punchbowl and passed the glass to Sycamore. “I tell you Chastain has twice threatened Della with rape, and you urge me to caution. I mention the Coventry, and you are up in arms. You disappoint me, Sycamore.” Not a sentiment Ash had often voiced, though he’d frequently experienced it.
Sycamore sniffed at the glass and set it aside. “I am upset, and I beg your pardon. Chastain of course deserves to be called out on Della’s behalf, or soundly thrashed at least, but you won’t allow me that pleasure, nor indulge in it yourself. This ordeal by cards will go on for nerve-racking days. Why not simply lure Chastain to the stables and sort him out with your fists?”
“I might do that as well, if Della permits it, but Chastain’s comeuppance must be public and by using the weapons he himself has chosen. I can handle myself at the tables, Cam, but you are not to create any unnecessary drama.”
Sycamore resumed demolishing his sandwich. “I never create unnecessary drama.”
“Two duels that I know of. Sent down from university twice in the same term, which cost Casriel dearly in academic donations. Horse races without number. A rotation of upset ladies in and out of your bed, some of whom air their grievances at the club. Rows with everybody from our sommelier to our dessert chef to the second coachman. I could go on.”
“Not rows, pointed discussions, and no aggrieved ladies have aired their disappointments at the club for months. Avoid the men’s punch, by the by. Lady Wentwhistle is trying to mask inferior spirits with an abundance of treacly cordial. Tell me about Della’s insecurities.”
Ash and Della had discussed what exactly should be said to family regarding her infirmity. Della had been reluctant to disclose her ailment, but Ash had pointed out that his whole family knew of his difficulties and had only tried to help.
As much as he’d allowed them to help.
“Della is prone to fits of intense dread, to anxieties that she knows are out of proportion to any rational fear, though they overtake her mind nonetheless. In the grip of her panic, she feels shaky, she has difficulty breathing, her imagination comes untethered from logic and sense.”