sharp—knives, swords, darts, bayonets, broadaxes, razors. Even the coulter or chisel of a plow assembly could catch his eye. On the wall of his bedroom, he’d arranged a series of daggers in a fan of lethal steel.
Ash forbade him from cluttering up the rest of their apartment with his little hobby.
“Angelo’s it is,” Ash replied. “The books are in order, the inventories up to date, the bills paid. I might as well attend to my fraternal duty and put you in your place.”
Sycamore tossed Ash a cloak. “You are still preparing to leave Town, I take it?”
“We’re walking? In this downpour?”
“I need to move,” Sycamore said, buttoning his greatcoat and turning up the collar. “Bloody rain deprived me of my morning hack.”
Ash shrugged into his cloak and resigned himself to soaking his second-best pair of boots. “We could go to Jackson’s.”
“My unborn children cry out in horror at the notion,” Sycamore replied. “Only a fool steps into the ring with you at this time of year, darling brother. Jackson himself won’t oblige you.”
He had once, and Ash had nearly put out the famed pugilist’s lights. Not the done thing and more than a little disappointing.
“Jackson is getting on in years,” Ash said. “You’re bothering with an umbrella? We’re traveling a mere half-dozen streets.”
Sycamore touched some hidden button or handle, and a blade snicked out from the end of the unopened umbrella.
“I carry a fashionable accessory, the better to protect my doddering elders. Shall we be off?”
The day was dreary, but Ash’s reluctance to face the elements was only the normal variety of gloom on a rainy autumn day. When the beast stalked him in truth, reluctance became dread, and a half-dozen streets might as well have been the length and breadth of England.
“I hear you kissed Lady Della at the Dickson’s do,” Sycamore said as they struck off in a mizzly rain. “Are you trying to ruin what’s left of her reputation?”
“How the hell—? Do you pay Lady Caldicott to bear tales?”
Sycamore set a brisk pace. “I partnered her at whist last night. She misses nothing, and we won two shillings. Her ladyship fears that you disrespected Della and that nobody will hold you accountable.”
Women liked Sycamore. Old women, young women, girls in leading strings. Governesses and duchesses were equally keen to enjoy his company, while Ash… He didn’t leave London to get away from Sycamore, exactly, but Cam’s particular version of fraternal loyalty could be taxing.
Sycamore doubtless felt the same exasperated affection for his older brothers too.
“I merely bussed Lady Della’s cheek,” Ash said, “in a friendly sort of way.”
Sycamore shoved him. “I will merely buss your arse with my boot if you trifle with her ladyship, Ash. She’s on the thinnest of thin ice, and you can’t play spillikins with her good name. One clumsy move, and she won’t be able to show her face in London for the next five years.”
“I suspect Della would find that fate quite agreeable.”
Sycamore yanked him back from the curb as a passing coach hit a puddle and splashed water in all directions.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sycamore demanded. “London is the throbbing epicenter of culture, politics, and all the most interesting vices. The countryside is fine for recovering from a bout of excess or hiding from creditors, but nobody seeks banishment from the capital.”
“You thrive here,” Ash said, stepping into the intersection as the coach went on its way. “Not everybody does.”
“Which brings me to my original question. Are you still heading for Dorset in another fortnight?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” The weather had been unusually mild for so late in the year, which meant the club still saw a fair amount of traffic. The instant the weather caught up with the calendar, business would drop off.
“Has it occurred to you, brother darling, that your low spirits might be made worse by leaving Town?” Sycamore asked. “There’s nothing in Dorset that we can’t arrange for you to have here.”
“I’ve tried spending winters in Town, Cam. It didn’t work.”
“You tried it once, and you tried it all on your lonesome. I won’t neglect you as you allowed Casriel and Willow to do. I can hire quacks to bleed you, pretty young nurses to bathe you, or a cheerful mistress to suck some life into—”
Ash served him a quick backhand to the gut, which slowed Sycamore down not at all. “None of that helps.”
Sycamore strolled along, swinging his closed umbrella like a walking stick. “I really must get back to Dorset more often, if