would make trouble for me, but you instead do me a great service.”
“By bankrupting your spouse?”
“By removing William from polite society. William is reckless and spoiled, and outgrowing those faults will take time. Perhaps you have given him that time.”
“And perhaps nothing will inspire him to grow up.”
Clarice used a nearby pier glass to inspect her appearance, which was flawless. “I will dutifully retire to the country with my husband. His loyal best friend will visit us frequently. For me, this is a solution to many problems.”
That Clarice would explain this to Della was a curious relief. “I wish you all the best,” Della said, “though I suspect William will be a difficult husband.”
Clarice smiled. “No, he will not. He wants a firm hand, craves it, I suspect, and I can be very firm. I will reward his good behavior and punish him when he disappoints me. He has done nothing but disappoint me so far.”
Della shuddered at the images those words brought to mind. “Might we return to the library? I really do want to see the final hand played.”
“Of course. That bit with the flask was brilliant, my lady. Mr. Dorning could easily have exposed William as a cheat, but instead only William’s foolishness will be exposed. I do not expect such gallantry from the English.”
“From Mr. Dorning,” Della said, hand on the door latch, “you can always expect gallantry. I certainly do.”
Clarice resumed her place on the mezzanine beside Portly, accepting a glass of punch from him. She smiled and leaned in as if to listen more closely amid the chatter of a dozen conversations. Portly bent nearer to her as well, and though he was smiling, Della detected the pain of resignation in his eyes.
Portly’s firstborn would call another man father—albeit a man with a minor title. Another man would avail himself intimately of the woman Portly loved. Portly would not wake up morning after morning cuddling his darling close. He would not confide in her his worst fears with any hope that she would be at his side to best those fears.
“How can you possibly look so sad,” Sycamore muttered, “when you are about to see your nemesis foiled?”
“Clarice, William, and Portly are entangled in a sad situation, and William probably suspects as much on some instinctive level—or he will soon—and there’s nothing he can do about it.”
“You pity him?”
“I do, and I cannot convey to you adequately what a pleasure it is, what a relief, to pity that man. In another quarter hour, I will pity him yet more. I want everybody to be happy, but some of us wouldn’t know happiness if it bit us on the arse.”
Sycamore passed Della her reticule. “Put in a good word for me with the marchioness, if you’re determined to see everybody happy. Her esteem would make me very happy indeed.”
“Earn her esteem, Sycamore, and she will be happy too.”
Sycamore regarded the marchioness, who was taking her seat at a card table topped with fresh linen on the main library floor below. “If I knew how to do that, I would be partnering her ladyship at yonder table, and a few other places as well.”
“She typically bides in Town over the winter,” Della said, “and now you will hush so that I might watch my husband mete out justice to a knave long overdue for punishment.”
A thought popped into Della’s head—where is my shawl?—but she knew where her shawl was, folded neatly between Ash’s waistcoats and Della’s spare night-robe in a trunk in her dressing closet. Besides, she did not need to be dragging a shawl with her everywhere when she had Ash’s smiles to keep her warm.
Ash had saved the hands of vingt-et-un for the final night’s play, because Chastain, being fundamentally reckless, would predictably ask for another card when any fool knew to stand on a count of seventeen or better.
And Ash, having a bevy of brothers and a surfeit of experience with tired, arrogant, half-drunk gamblers, trusted himself to turn Chastain’s recklessness into ruin.
“Ladies,” Ash said, taking up a fresh deck, “same bets?”
Lady Tavistock glanced at Mrs. Tremont, who nodded tersely.
“Don’t fret,” Chastain said. “I intend to be generous in victory—generous to you both.”
Ash dealt the cards, noting that Lady Tavistock had an ace showing. She chose to stand rather than take more cards, an encouraging sign. Mrs. Tremont had a nine showing and also chose to stand.
“And you, Chastain?” Ash said, holding the deck as if poised to toss him a card. “Are