“From Mr. Dorning,” Della said, hand on the door latch, “you can always expect gallantry. I certainly do.”
Clarice resumed her place on the mezzanine beside Portly, accepting a glass of punch from him. She smiled and leaned in as if to listen more closely amid the chatter of a dozen conversations. Portly bent nearer to her as well, and though he was smiling, Della detected the pain of resignation in his eyes.
Portly’s firstborn would call another man father—albeit a man with a minor title. Another man would avail himself intimately of the woman Portly loved. Portly would not wake up morning after morning cuddling his darling close. He would not confide in her his worst fears with any hope that she would be at his side to best those fears.
“How can you possibly look so sad,” Sycamore muttered, “when you are about to see your nemesis foiled?”
“Clarice, William, and Portly are entangled in a sad situation, and William probably suspects as much on some instinctive level—or he will soon—and there’s nothing he can do about it.”
“You pity him?”
“I do, and I cannot convey to you adequately what a pleasure it is, what a relief, to pity that man. In another quarter hour, I will pity him yet more. I want everybody to be happy, but some of us wouldn’t know happiness if it bit us on the arse.”
Sycamore passed Della her reticule. “Put in a good word for me with the marchioness, if you’re determined to see everybody happy. Her esteem would make me very happy indeed.”
“Earn her esteem, Sycamore, and she will be happy too.”
Sycamore regarded the marchioness, who was taking her seat at a card table topped with fresh linen on the main library floor below. “If I knew how to do that, I would be partnering her ladyship at yonder table, and a few other places as well.”
“She typically bides in Town over the winter,” Della said, “and now you will hush so that I might watch my husband mete out justice to a knave long overdue for punishment.”
A thought popped into Della’s head—where is my shawl?—but she knew where her shawl was, folded neatly between Ash’s waistcoats and Della’s spare night-robe in a trunk in her dressing closet. Besides, she did not need to be dragging a shawl with her everywhere when she had Ash’s smiles to keep her warm.
Ash had saved the hands of vingt-et-un for the final night’s play, because Chastain, being fundamentally reckless, would predictably ask for another card when any fool knew to stand on a count of seventeen or better.
And Ash, having a bevy of brothers and a surfeit of experience with tired, arrogant, half-drunk gamblers, trusted himself to turn Chastain’s recklessness into ruin.
“Ladies,” Ash said, taking up a fresh deck, “same bets?”
Lady Tavistock glanced at Mrs. Tremont, who nodded tersely.
“Don’t fret,” Chastain said. “I intend to be generous in victory—generous to you both.”
Ash dealt the cards, noting that Lady Tavistock had an ace showing. She chose to stand rather than take more cards, an encouraging sign. Mrs. Tremont had a nine showing and also chose to stand.
“And you, Chastain?” Ash said, holding the deck as if poised to toss him a card. “Are you feeling cautious or lucky?” Chastain had an eight showing, and—because the deck was fresh—nothing up his sleeve.
“Hit,” Chastain said, tapping the table impatiently with his fingers. “Be bold, eh, Dorning?’
Be stupid was probably closer to Chastain’s situation. Ash dealt him another eight.
Chastain glanced at the card, then sent Ash a puzzled look, then glanced at the card again. “Rubbishing cards.” He flipped over his facedown card, showing a total of twenty-six points. With eighteen in his original hand, taking another card had been a classic beginner’s mistake, and with no effort at all, he’d been goaded into making it.
Ash’s hand totaled eighteen points as well. “I will be bold too,” he said, turning over the queen of hearts, “and I will also apparently suffer for my lack of caution. I’m out.”
“Nineteen,” Mrs. Tremont said, grinning like a cat before a horse trough full of cream.
“Twenty-one,” Lady Tavistock added, to a soft patter of applause. “But fear not, gentlemen. We ladies intend to be generous in victory. We’ll give you both a fortnight to pay up.”
Chastain sat back. “A fortnight? A mere fourteen days? But that’s… that’s…”
“Very generous,” Ash said, collecting the cards while joy and relief course through him. “I can write out bank drafts to each of you ladies tonight for the full amount owed, and it will be my pleasure to do so. Chastain, if that suits, shall we drink a toast to the victors?”
A dozen conversations started up among the spectators, while footmen came around with flutes of champagne. Chastain helped himself to three glasses, drinking one and putting it back on the tray, then taking two more. Lord Wentwhistle passed him paper and pen, and between glasses, Chastain made out his markers.
Ash had brought the proper documents with him to the library and needed only a moment to execute bank drafts for both ladies, sums sufficient to pay both Ash’s losses and Chastain’s. The ladies were only too happy to pass him Chastain’s markers.
Chastain was too busy swilling champagne and trying to look cheerfully indifferent to attend these exchanges, as Ash had expected he would be. The other guests shuffled toward the door, declaring the evening and the house party quite successful and the mezzanine emptied out as well.
Della slipped her hand around Ash’s arm. “Well played, husband.”
“Will you stay while I settle up with Chastain?” Ash asked.
Della looked him up and down. “Of course. You are well?”
“Well, but tired, and I don’t want to lose my temper.” He actually did want to lose his temper and leave Chastain with the bruises to show for it.
Della leaned near, which pressed her breast gently against Ash’s arm. “Lose your temper just a bit. Clarice said to thank you. She lacks a means of removing William from the temptations that call to his worst qualities. Now she’ll have a few years to bring him around.”
Ash bent near, needing to dose himself with the soothing scents of honeysuckle and Della. “I would not lay money that Chastain will put those years to good use. I would, however, accept a bet that drink, a jealous husband, or a Captain Sharp will lay him low before those years are up.”
“Somehow, I think Clarice would bear up well enough under the loss, leaning on Mr. Portly’s sturdy arm all the while.”
Della sounded relaxed and happy, and she was regarding Chastain with an attitude of pity tinged with disgust. Truly, the coin she’d spent at the table had been worth the reward.
“Portly,” Ash said, “would you mind giving us a moment? I’m sure Mr. Golding can escort Mrs. Chastain to her room.”
Sycamore came down the steps from the mezzanine and bowed over the marchioness’s hand. Ash caught his eye, and Sycamore, to his credit, wished her ladyship good night.
The library emptied out, leaving only Ash, Della, Chastain, Portly, and Sycamore.
“Chastain,” Ash said gently, “my wife now holds your markers. All of them, from every round of cards you’ve lost for the past two weeks. You owe her ladyship a fortune, and if you fail to pay her timely—because debts of honor are always to be settled quickly—she will ruin you. What say you?”