across the room. “I fancy that notion. Set them up for a hard fall. The Tremont bitch mocked me. Said things to my face no woman should say when a man’s at his pleasures. Not sporting of her.”
Not sporting, to mock a man who used extortion to gain sexual favors? Perhaps Chastain was the truly addled party at the gathering.
“Then I hope justice is on the side of fair play tonight,” Ash said, “but you must not flinch when we pile up initial losses. I mean to be daring, Chastain. I want this house party talked about for months.”
Chastain patted Ash’s shoulder. “Count on me, Dorning. We’ve made a surprisingly good team, despite my little adventure with your wife. You’re welcome to her, by the way. I never did fancy her.”
Sycamore’s words, about feeding body parts to rabid dogs, came to mind. “Fortunately, her ladyship does fancy me. Shall we to the table?”
Ash took the seat that let him keep Della in his peripheral vision, for he needed the reassurance her presence provided. Sycamore looked bored sitting beside her, and that was reassuring too.
The evening went as Ash had planned, as if for once the fate that had dealt him such low cards in some regards had decided to pay off her IOUs. The ladies won steadily throughout the first hour, then lost just as steadily. The whole time, Chastain affected his typical blasé indifference, though he became increasingly fidgety as the sums owed by the ladies climbed.
He grew still as the second hour progressed, and then he began to drink in earnest. He peered at the cards as if he’d no notion of their significance. The hands on the clock advanced, and the library grew silent, save for the shuffling of the deck and the placing of bets. Play had ceased at all the other tables, and Ash was reminded of the sparring ring at Jackson’s. When a good match got under way, it became a spectator event.
“Final hand,” Lord Wentwhistle pronounced. “Gentlemen, you are quite well to go, and the first bet is yours.”
Ash looked up to find Della faintly smiling down at him. She blew him a kiss.
Win or lose, he had her love. Mulligrubs, blue devils, the bumptious baby baronet… They could all be dealt with when Della beamed such calm regard at him.
“Chastain, let’s make it interesting, shall we?” Ash said. “Let’s bet the lot of it.”
Chastain scooted about in his chair, ran a finger around the inside of his cravat, and stared hard at Ash. “Every penny?”
“Takes courage, I know,” Ash said. “If we lose, the ladies will own us, but we haven’t been losing for the last hour, have we? We’ve put our opponents quite handily in their places. Let’s finish this.”
The marchioness was pale and composed, but her eyes flashed green fire. Mrs. Tremont’s expression was carefully blank. They had played well, but Ash had played better, and luck had—up to that point—been with him.
“Right you are, Dorning,” Chastain said, thumping the table with a fist. “Luck is with us, our skill is superior, and the damned females oughtn’t to get above themselves.”
“Chastain,” Lord Wentwhistle chided, “mind your tongue.”
“I’ll mind my tongue. Dorning, deal the cards, and, ladies, may the best men win.”
Nobody smiled at that remark. Mrs. Chastain was looking bilious, and at her side, Portly for once appeared grim.
The ladies conferred for a moment before agreeing to meet Ash’s proposed bet. The amount in play was far beyond what ought to change hands at a typical house party. If Ash could manage to lose, the marchioness would recoup her step-son’s losses many times over, and Mrs. Tremont would be well fixed for some time to come.
Ash shuffled deftly and was passing the cards to the various players when he caught a shift in Della’s expression. He cocked his head, slightly enough for her to perceive the gesture, and she tugged at the cuff of her sleeve.
What was she trying to tell him?
Sycamore did the same thing, casually tugging at his right sleeve with his left hand while staring intently at Chastain.
Between the card passed to Mrs. Tremont and the card passed to Lady Tavistock, Ash’s brain connected the hints from Della and Sycamore with the peculiar angle of the lace at Chastain’s wrist. Chastain had a bloody card up his sleeve. The game was vingt-et-un, and he had doubtless stashed an ace out of sight. He’d hidden his perfidy behind a steady procession of wineglasses, one of which—recently refilled—sat before