Ash sat up, his boots hitting the floor with a thump. “Thus she turns to you?”
“I served as her banker at the Wentwhistle house party, Ash. She knows I can be discreet and honorable.”
She did not yet know Sycamore could be passionate, inventive, and great good fun in bed. When a woman was recounting the horror her marriage had been, for Sycamore to inform her that he desired her madly would have been selfish.
With her ladyship, Sycamore wanted to be very selfish, also very generous, and—this gave him pause—utterly selfless. A muddle to end all muddles.
“You can be discreet and honorable,” Ash said, rising, “but I’ve long suspected you show us your gallant side mostly to confuse us as to your true nature. Can Tavistock be any use to you at all, or are you saddling us with a bumbling puppy?”
“A little of both.”
“Then let him follow you around for a few nights, and if he survives that ordeal, I’ll show him the books and inventories some afternoon next week.”
Sycamore rose, his joints protesting. He’d not slept well, and dawn had seen him taking his horse out for a morning gallop in the park nonetheless. Thus did the Season’s exhaustion begin, until pleasure and duty blended into a fog of busyness, and grouse season loomed like salvation.
“Do you have any time to spar with me at Angelo’s this week?” Sycamore asked.
“Thursday suits. Ten of the clock, and then we can have lunch at the club. Della likes an afternoon outing in the park if the weather is fine.”
Della was doubtless scheduling those outings to get Ash into the sunshine and fresh air, part of her prescription for keeping the blue devils at bay—and for showing off her handsome husband.
“Married life is going well?” Sycamore asked as he and Ash descended to the gambling floor. The question was both perfunctory and pressing, for if Ash’s mood gave way to melancholia, Della would be coping with a very difficult situation indeed.
“Do you recall when we started here, Cam? We made money from the first day, and both of us were so surprised to succeed that we tiptoed through the weekly ledger balancing. ‘Too good to be true,’ we thought. ‘Any moment, the club will fail, and it will be our fault.’”
“Marriage is too good to be true?”
“Marriage to Della is so lovely, even the rough patches are magic.”
Those were the words of a man awash in connubial bliss, and not all of his joy was based in erotic satisfaction. Sycamore knew Della and knew that her regard for Ash was unwavering and reciprocated.
“Tell Della that, Ash. Tell her that even the rough patches with her are magic. And if the weather is fine, ask her if she’d like to drive out with you. Don’t assume that’s what she wants.”
Ash paused by the side door to settle his hat on his head and take up his walking stick. “You are giving marital advice now?”
Glass shattered somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, followed by fluent French obscenities. Another workday at the Coventry had begun.
“When we ask the ladies what they want, we are obliged to listen to their replies, and who does not appreciate a respectful listener?”
“We will talk further about the situation here,” Ash said, “and please give my regards to the marchioness. She struck me as lonely, and loneliness is not a curse I would wish on anybody.” He dragged Sycamore into a quick, tight hug, thumped him once on the back, and slipped out the door.
The cursing from the kitchen subsided into the usual yelling, and Sycamore remained by the door, watching Ash stride off to rejoin his bride.
The marchioness might be lonely—Sycamore would ask her about that—but he for damned sure was. Also, worried for her, and randy, and not sure how to resolve any of those dilemmas. That he was more concerned with his club and her ladyship than with Ash’s moods and unavailability was cause for some puzzlement—and also a bit of relief.
The rare steak on Trevor’s plate threatened to make the two cups of tea he’d managed earlier in the day reappear.
“You aren’t looking quite the thing, old man,” Jerome said, pouring them each a glass of claret. “Try a little hair of the dog and see if your afternoon doesn’t improve.”
Trevor’s morning had consisted of rising well past dawn and avoiding Step-mama, solid food, and bright sunshine. He had taken the town coach for the few streets between Tavistock House and Jerome’s club and wished he’d sent his regrets to this luncheon instead.
“Tea will do,” Trevor said.
Jerome lifted his glass in a silent toast. “Your head is the very devil, I take it?”
“The devil and all his infernal imps singing my doom to the accompaniment of kettle drums.” Trevor signaled to a waiter and made a pouring-out gesture.
Monday evening had begun with the clear intention to drop by The Coventry Club and have a word with Mr. Sycamore Dorning about payment of certain debts in a certain little while. Jerome had loyally agreed to accompany Trevor on that awkward mission. A stop at Jerome’s club for fortification had become several rounds of fortification and then a few hands of cards.
The direction the cards had taken required more fortification, and at some point, Trevor had been talked into attempting to prove he was equal to a few glasses of Scottish whisky—not a gentleman’s drink—and matters thereafter had become very merry.
Also very stupid. Again.
“Town life takes some getting used to,” Jerome said. “You’ll find your stride in another few weeks. Takes stamina to truly enjoy London. Did her ladyship sermonize at you over your breakfast tea?”
Thoughts of Step-mama were anything but cheering, though a sermon from her might assuage the guilt of being half-seas over yet again.
“I missed her at breakfast, but she doesn’t have to sermonize. She looks me up and down, and I feel about eight years old, and as if I’ve been caught stealing shortbread from the pantry.”
Jerome cut
