Della came into the library, looking lovely in a dinner gown of raspberry velvet. She kissed Ash’s cheek and graced him with a whiff of honeysuckle.
“Win or lose, Ash Dorning, I love you madly.”
He kissed her back smack on the lips. “Win or lose, Lady Della Dorning, I love you madly. Where is your shawl?”
“Already packed. I know travel on the Sabbath is frowned upon, but I don’t see any reason we shouldn’t leave after services tomorrow.”
Sycamore lurked at the sideboard, taking the stopper from each decanter and sniffing the contents by turns.
“Sycamore,” Ash said, “you’ll follow us to Dorning Hall?”
The last stopper settled back into the bottle with a light clink. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re coming to Dorning Hall,” Della said, making it a statement. “Ash and I want to celebrate our nuptials with the whole Dorning family, so we’ve asked Oak to jaunt down from Hampshire and Jacaranda to bring her brood from Trysting. Willow’s puppies are safely born, so he and Susannah can join us too. Casriel was amenable, and if you can bear to give up the blandishments of London for another fortnight, you will make the family gathering complete.”
Sycamore for once looked at a loss for words. Ash etched the image on his memory and thanked Della for it. When he’d discussed Sycamore’s situation with her, she’d proposed a Dorning family reunion—an annual event if the first one went well—and Ash had been so pleased with the notion, he’d kissed her, and well… the discussion had paused while other matters had taken temporary precedence.
“I wouldn’t mind popping over to Dorset,” Sycamore said, “but the Coventry doesn’t run itself.”
Nice try. “I sent Tresham a note,” Ash said, “and he’s happy to keep an eye on the club for the duration. Play is slowing now that hunt season is in full cry.”
Sycamore ran a hand through his hair, stared at the carpet, took out his flask again, then seemed to recall that he’d just imbibed.
“Dorset it is, I suppose. The whole noisy lot of us, with children and in-laws, and Willow’s dogs, and all of it. One finds the prospect somewhat daunting.”
“Good,” Della said. “A periodic challenge will give you something to dwell on besides your boundless charm, devastating good looks, and complete lack of humility. Shall we up to the mezzanine?”
She took Sycamore by the arm, and he, looking somewhat dazed and bashful, went without a peep. Surely the sky would soon fill with winged pigs.
For the final match, the session had been moved to the library, which allowed spectators to gather on the mezzanine above, or to play casual games at the several tables set up for that purpose. Guests filed in chatting and laughing, for the libation at supper had been ample and good quality.
Mrs. Tremont and Lady Tavistock took their places at the table, while Ash waited.
Chastain eventually sauntered in, Portly on one side, Mrs. Chastain on the other.
“Luck to all,” Portly said, bowing to the ladies. To Ash, he offered a nod that might have held something of a warning.
“Dorning,” Chastain said, “a word.”
Ash joined Chastain near the fireplace. “Are you drunk?”
“Of course not, but good wine should not go to waste. You?”
Absolutely sober. “I’m prepared to enjoy myself this evening. I’ve moderated my drinking in anticipation of a celebration at the end of the night’s play.” A celebration with Della. And the wonderful part was, it didn’t matter if that celebration included sexual intimacy, good wine, or any other traditional pleasure.
It probably would, it might not. The celebration would be joyous and intimate nonetheless, provided Chastain received the drubbing he deserved.
“I do enjoy celebrations, and these women need to be taught a lesson. The marchioness in particular is too proud by half. I might let her work off some of her debt to me, if you get my drift.”
If Chastain had rubbed his crotch, his drift could not have been more obvious. “You settle your markers, I’ll settle mine,” Ash said. “But be warned: My strategy for the evening is to lull the ladies into a false sense of confidence. I want them to think our luck has turned for the worse.”
Chastain regarded the two women across the room. “I fancy that notion. Set them up for a hard fall. The Tremont bitch mocked me. Said things to my face no woman should say when a man’s at his pleasures. Not sporting of her.”
Not sporting, to mock a man who used extortion to gain sexual favors? Perhaps Chastain was the truly addled party at the gathering.
“Then I hope justice is on the side of fair play tonight,” Ash said, “but you must not flinch when we pile up initial losses. I mean to be daring, Chastain. I want this house party talked about for months.”
Chastain patted Ash’s shoulder. “Count on me, Dorning. We’ve made a surprisingly good team, despite my little adventure with your wife. You’re welcome to her, by the way. I never did fancy her.”
Sycamore’s words, about feeding body parts to rabid dogs, came to mind. “Fortunately, her ladyship does fancy me. Shall we to the table?”
Ash took the seat that let him keep Della in his peripheral vision, for he needed the reassurance her presence provided. Sycamore looked bored sitting beside her, and that was reassuring too.
The evening went as Ash had planned, as if for once the fate that had dealt him such low cards in some regards had decided to pay off her IOUs. The ladies won steadily throughout the first hour, then lost just as steadily. The whole time, Chastain affected his typical blasé indifference, though he became increasingly fidgety as the sums owed by the ladies climbed.
He grew still as the second hour progressed, and then he began to drink in earnest. He peered at the cards as if he’d no notion of their significance. The hands on the clock advanced, and the library grew silent, save for the shuffling of the deck and the placing of bets. Play had ceased at all the other tables, and Ash was reminded of the sparring ring at Jackson’s. When a good match got under way, it became a spectator event.
“Final hand,” Lord Wentwhistle pronounced. “Gentlemen, you are quite well to go, and the first bet is yours.”
Ash looked up to find Della faintly smiling down at him. She blew him a kiss.
Win or lose, he had her love. Mulligrubs, blue devils, the bumptious baby baronet… They could all be dealt with when Della beamed such calm regard at him.
“Chastain, let’s make it interesting, shall we?” Ash said. “Let’s bet the lot of it.”
Chastain scooted about in his chair, ran a finger around the inside of his cravat, and stared hard at Ash. “Every penny?”
“Takes courage, I know,” Ash said. “If we lose, the ladies will own us, but we haven’t been losing for the last hour, have we? We’ve put our opponents quite handily in their places. Let’s finish this.”
The marchioness was pale and composed, but her eyes flashed green fire. Mrs. Tremont’s expression was carefully blank. They had played well, but Ash had played better, and luck had—up to that point—been with him.
“Right you are, Dorning,” Chastain said, thumping the table with a fist. “Luck is with us, our skill is superior, and the damned females oughtn’t to get above themselves.”