“We don’t need his lordling-ship flirting with the dealers and swilling our champagne, Cam. He’s a nice enough lad, but you might have discussed this with me before you agreed to it.”
“I might have, but you barely show the colors here anymore, Ash, and besides, I have not yet put the notion to the marquess. If you object, I will simply hold his lordship’s vowels until they are paid off. I am asking for your comment, rather than presenting you with a fait accompli.”
And yet, even asking for comment was the behavior of a senior partner.
Big Brother was also apparently disinclined to take the seat behind the desk. “Why do this? Why involve yourself in somebody else’s troubles when all and sundry know you to be driven entirely by self-interest?”
Lady Tavistock did not believe Sycamore driven entirely by self-interest. “I cannot help that all and sundry Dornings insist on seeing me as if I’m eight years old and forced to cause a riot simply to get the jam passed my way. I am drawn to young Tavistock’s situation because I had myriad examples of how not to behave as I came of age, while he is on his own.”
Ash propped a hip against the desk. In his morning finery, he looked of a piece with the appointments. The beads of the mahogany abacus were marble, the wax jack silver and fashioned to match the pen tray and ink bottle. The room looked like what it was—the administrative epicenter of a thriving enterprise—and also like a gentleman’s retreat.
The sofa was long enough to sleep on, the reading chairs both had leather hassocks, and the prints on the walls were among the less bawdy political cartoons.
Ash belonged here, but Sycamore had already lost his brother in some material sense. Lost this brother too. Where howling grief should have been, Sycamore felt mostly bewilderment and a little impatience.
“I have been preoccupied,” Ash said, a rare smile revealing him for the handsome devil he was. Dark-haired, lean, murderously skilled in a fight, he was also, and more importantly, the apple of Lady Della’s eye.
“You have been married and on your honeymoon, but Town is filling up, Ash, and if you don’t care to keep your hand in here, we need to find you an understudy.” Argue with me, tell me you’re ready to roll up your sleeves and rescue the place from my neglect.
“Tavistock isn’t even of age, Sycamore. You are taking him under your wing solely to curry favor with Lady Tavistock.”
Not true, and that Ash would make the accusation was frustrating. “Perhaps I want a younger-brother figure on the premises to regularly insult.”
Ash’s boot began to swing. “I know I haven’t been underfoot much, but what I do—the books, the wages, the inventory, looking after the coal man, and making sure the carpets are beaten—doesn’t require that I be here of a night.”
For the past four months, Sycamore had managed that list and much else besides. “Precisely. You’ve left me on my own to sort out the kitchen squabbles, keep an eye on the inebriates trying to fondle the dealers’ knees beneath the table, monitor play to see who’s losing too much, and remind the waiters that the buffet does not replenish itself. I cannot be everywhere at once, and Tavistock can aid me in that regard.”
Ash rose from the desk and settled into a reading chair. “What is afoot with the marchioness, Cam? You were smitten with her at the Wentwhistles’ house party, and your passions are as all-consuming as they are fleeting. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I do recall you telling me how much you enjoy a good, hard fuck.”
“And you don’t? Who knew my enthusiasm for reproductive activity was just another of my endless eccentricities?”
“I have missed you,” Ash said, propping his boots on a hassock, “though I’m not exactly sure why.”
“Because I am honest to a fault, conscientious, and to those I care about, as loyal as an old dog. The marchioness asked for my help, and I doubt she has other options in terms of practical assistance.”
Sycamore took the other chair and was reminded—painfully—of the many nights he and Ash had spent trading ideas, grumbling, and insulting each other before this same hearth.
Now, Sycamore was running the damned club on his own, and Ash was still treating him as if he needed help tying his cravats. Was this same frustration what drove the young marquess to foolishness?
“Lady Tavistock is a well-heeled widow,” Ash said. “She can hire bodyguards, put her footmen on alert, and take the knocker off the door.”
Sycamore slouched into the cushions, finding the spot that cradled his bum with loving familiarity. “They are the marquess’s footmen, and the knocker is on his door. I thought you liked her.”
“I do like her, and I respect her, but I like you more—may heaven forgive me such folly—and I don’t want to see you either cast aside for attempting misplaced gallantries or entangled in somebody else’s stupidity.”
“Now you know how I felt when you decided to rescue Lady Della from scandal. ‘There he goes,’ I thought, ‘the finest of men on the most foolish of quests.’”
Ash regarded him in some puzzlement. “My quest was gentlemanly. The tabbies were circling, and Della needed a gallant.”
“Am I incapable of gentlemanly sentiments?”
Ash considered that question as if the answer merited some study. “You tend to get consumed by gentlemanly sentiments, one after another. Her ladyship has a brother, if I recall.”
“Colonel Sir Orion Goddard, touched by some military scandal nobody seems to know much about. He keeps his distance from her ladyship for no discernible reason. Lady Tavistock’s late husband was a petty dictator, her step-son is a self-absorbed bantling, and her father was responsible for marrying her off to the dictator. If she ever had a trusting nature, her menfolk disappointed
