“But that would be obvious,” Sycamore said, “and you are a subtle sort of fellow.”
Too subtle, apparently. “Melancholia is a disease that trades in dishonesty, Cam. When the beast has me in its grip, it whispers lies to me. It says nobody needs a dreary fellow like me, and I am tempted to agree. The beast tells me that my family would be better off without me, and again, the words sound so true.”
“They are not true,” Sycamore said, rounding on him. “The truth is…” He blinked, stared at the denuded limes, blinked again.
“I know the beast lies, Cam, because I can say to it, ‘Cam needs me. Cam would be sad to lose me. Cam would miss me and be properly angry that I yielded to such mendacity.’ Those are truths no beast can wrest from my grasp. The rest of our siblings have spouses and children and lives, but you see an Ash Dorning beyond this rotten disease, and you would grieve the loss of him. ‘If that is true of Cam,’ I say to the mendacious beast, ‘it’s doubtless true of my whole family,’ and thus, the wretched affliction loses another round.”
Della also saw and valued her husband—another uncorruptible truth—and from that foundation, a brother and a wife, Ash could thwart the beast’s false words and false world. He knew that now and let the truth of it fortify him against all devils, whether blue or wearing gentleman’s finery.
“I hate your melancholia,” Sycamore said. “I want to call it out and shoot it dead, then slice off its balls and feed them to rabid dogs.”
I love you too. Ash whacked Sycamore on the back, hard enough to convey affection, not hard enough to send him stumbling against the railing.
“Let’s geld Chastain figuratively instead, shall we? Della and I will manage the melancholia, assisted by you and anybody else who cares to join the affray, but Chastain remains to be dealt with.”
“And Della’s panics?” Sycamore said. “Is family allowed to join in that melee as well?”
“Could I stop you?”
“No, and why would you want to, when I make such a staunch and clever ally?”
“Idiot.”Ash turned to pass through the French doors and take his place at the tables, but Sycamore caught him by the arm and dragged him into a ferocious embrace. Ash’s first impulse was to simply endure the moment, another fleeting display of Sycamore’s drama, but Della’s words, about courage and love, stayed that reaction.
Ash wrapped his brother in a good, tight hug and did not step back until Cam let him go.
“You will sink Chastain’s prospects past any hope of redemption, Ash, one hand of cards at a time,” Sycamore said, “and I will discreetly buy up his markers from the other guests. By the time you are through with William Chastain, not a hostess in England will permit him into her drawing room for at least five years.”
“Let’s go for ten,” Ash said, straightening Sycamore’s cravat. “And toss in Paris for good measure.”
Chapter Seventeen
Della did not want to watch the tournament, but she also refused to leave Ash alone on the battlefield. She compromised by choosing a place in the gallery where she could see Ash, while Chastain, sitting across from Ash, could not see her.
Sycamore had appointed himself her bodyguard, and Della was glad for his company.
“You are for once not chattering,” she said as the cards session moved into the second hour. “Your silence is nearly unnerving.” She and Sycamore were playing a wager-less game of cribbage, though her mind was not at all on her cards.
“I’m keeping an eye on matters across the room,” Sycamore said, “and Ash told me all about your hysterical nerves. Does your mouth go dry? I always carry a flask in part because the damned panics leave me parched.”
If Sycamore had dealt Della the perfect hand she could not have been more astonished.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ash is being cautious,” Sycamore said, shuffling deftly. “He’s losing modestly for most hands, but winning enough to make a small net gain even in the face of Chastain’s ineptitude.” Sycamore dealt them each six cards. “And yes, Ash told me that you and I have more in common than a protective attitude toward my brother. My mouth goes dry when I am taken captive by worry. I get the shakes, I wheeze. I fret that I will wet myself, but so far, that hasn’t happened.”
Sycamore met her gaze across the table, his expression perfectly bland, though his gaze was watchful.