“My wife’s theory is that Della chose Chastain because he’s nothing more than a handsome lackwit. Della could manage him without looking up from her embroidery hoop. She’s an earl’s daughter, so Papa Chastain and Mama Chastain would eventually reconcile themselves to the match.” Tresham gathered up the cards and set the deck in the middle of the table. “I shall trounce you at cribbage.”
Ash produced a cribbage board from the shelf beneath the table. “You don’t believe Della is smitten with Chastain?”
“I know she isn’t. She once mentioned Chastain to me when I drove out with her. Her tone was less than respectful.”
Ash cut for the crib and pulled the low card. “Feelings can change.”
“Not those feelings. Della expressed pity for his sire and shared the opinion that Chastain will bankrupt the family within two years of gaining control of the Chastain fortune. She’s right.”
Play moved along, with the cards favoring Ash. His leading peg was halfway around the board when his brother Sycamore sauntered in, looking dashing and windblown in his riding attire.
“That is the good brandy at Tresham’s elbow,” Sycamore said, pausing to remove his spurs. “Since when do we give away the good stuff, brother mine?”
Ash picked up his cards to find another double run, his third of the game so far. “We are generous with Tresham because he needed a tonic for his nerves.” As had Ash. “I’m beating him soundly.”
Sycamore peered over Tresham’s shoulder. “William Chastain needs a sound beating. Who’s with me?”
Tresham put down his cards. “What have you heard?”
Sycamore could be tactful—about once every five years—and then only out of a perverse impulse to surprise his older siblings.
“Chastain was at his club last night, lamenting that his French bride refuses to cry off, despite the failed elopement with a certain Lady Delightful.”
Tresham was on his feet so quickly he knocked his stool over. “I will kill him, slowly, after protracted torture. I will geld him and cut the idiot tongue from his empty head. By Jehovah’s thunder, I ought to ruin his father for siring such a walking pile of offal.”
“If you do ruin him,” Sycamore said, taking a sip of Tresham’s brandy, “please do it here, so the club gets a bit of the notoriety and ten percent of the kitty.”
“Tresham, you cannot,” Ash said, getting to his feet. “You cannot so much as intimate that Chastain’s wild maunderings have any connection to reality or to Della, and you most assuredly cannot strut about all but proclaiming that her ladyship has an illegitimate connection to you.”
“But—”
Ash stepped closer. “No. Not if you care for her, which you loudly claim to do. The Haddonfields have substantial consequence. They have weathered other scandals. You can be a friend of the family, a cordial acquaintance, but you cannot involve yourself in any manner that makes the situation worse than it already is.”
Tresham finished his drink and set the glass on the table with a thunk. “I’m supposed to be the sensible one. The role grows tedious. But then, I’m selling most of this club to you two. How sensible was that?”
“Very sensible,” Sycamore said. “We’re making you pots of money to go with the barrels and trout ponds’ worth you already have.”
“Della will be a spinster now,” Tresham said, and Ash sensed they’d reached the heart of the dilemma. “She’s the only Haddonfield yet unmarried. They’ve all been trying to fire her off—my own dear Theodosia has tried to help—but to no avail. Now Chastain has botched an elopement, and Della will suffer the consequences. Nobody will marry her after this.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be married,” Sycamore said.
“Then why elope with William the Witless?” Tresham snapped. “That was a desperate measure indeed, and now she’s to be an old maid.”
Ash picked up the discarded brandy glass and shook the dregs into his mouth. “She will not be an old maid. Della is lovely, charming, smart, kind, funny, and quite well connected. You are making too much of a bad moment.”
Sycamore sent him a curious look. “This is more than a bad moment. She spent most of the evening in the same bedroom with Chastain at the inn in Alconbury. That news was galloping up and down the bridle paths this morning. I discredited the rumor with laughing disbelief, but it’s as Tresh says: Lady Della has had no offers, and Chastain is no sort of prize. The appearances are dire.”
If Ash could have beaten himself soundly at that moment, he