closed the door. Della had every intention of slipping up to her room before another sibling could pounce on her, except that raised voices resounded as she passed by the closed library door.
George, who never shouted, was shouting, and Nicholas, the soul of patient consideration, was shouting back. The words duel and family honor reached Della’s ears, along with profanities aimed at William Chastain’s cognitive abilities.
Della reversed course, opened the library door, and strode in. Nicholas and George were glowering at each other from within fisticuff-range on the far side of the reading table.
“No duels, Nicholas,” Della said. “This is all my fault, and I will pay the price for my folly. Please plan to escort me to the Merryfield ball on Wednesday. When the talk dies down, I will repair to Kent, and you may wall me up in the chapel. First, I will show my face before all of Mayfair and weather the scorn I am due. Then, I will gladly accept banishment. Are we agreed?”
Nick took a step toward her. “But, Della, dearest, you cannot—”
“Agreed,” George said.
“Good.” She managed to maintain her composure until she was in her room behind a locked door. Only then did she allow the tears to fall.
Chapter Two
“If Chastain walks into this club,” Sycamore said, “you will politely walk him right back out again.”
Ash smiled for the benefit of the Coventry’s patrons, as if Sycamore had made one of his typical witty remarks. “Should Chastain walk through the door, we will both walk him right back out again, politely or not.”
The early evening gossip at the Coventry was running in many directions.
Lady Della had been a fool to get into a carriage with Chastain.
Lady Della had been desperate to get into a carriage with Chastain.
Chastain had been quite daring to attempt to make off with an earl’s sister.
Chastain could be forgiven for trying to trade an émigré’s daughter for an English aristocrat.
In any case, Lady Della, at her age, really should have known better.
“The betting book at White’s already has several wagers,” Sycamore said, keeping his voice down in a rare display of tact. “Her ladyship will have a baby by April. Chastain’s fiancée will have a baby by April. They will both have babies by April.”
Ash was so accustomed to living at a distance from his emotions that he needed a moment to identify the upwelling of violent impulses that Sycamore’s recitation produced.
I am angry. In a proper, seething rage. A condition as novel as it was inconvenient. Ash was angry at Chastain, at the malicious talk aimed at an otherwise exemplary young lady, at Della’s family for allowing this entire farce to occur, and of course—always—at himself.
“Who?” Ash asked. “Who wrote those wagers in a location that assured all of polite society hears of them?”
“Easier to ask who hasn’t put down a few pounds one way or the other. And no, I did not. Babies arrive according to probabilities known only to the Almighty. Besides, you would kill me.”
“As scrawny as you are, when the Haddonfield brothers finished with you, there would be nothing left worth killing.”
Sycamore—who had left scrawny behind a good five years, eight inches, and four stone ago—offered a bland smile. “I abhor violence, Ash.”
No, he did not. Sycamore was a fiend in the boxing ring, very likely a result of having six older brothers and a smart mouth. If he were more scientific about his strategy and a bit faster, he would have a prayer of besting Ash in a fair fight. What Sycamore could do with knives was uncanny.
“I abhor gossip,” Ash said. “What the hell could Della have been thinking?”
“You are attempting to divine the mental processes of a female,” Sycamore replied, snagging a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. “Doomed undertaking for a mere mortal male, much less one with your limited gifts. Whatever Lady Della was thinking, she’s supposed to attend the Merryfield ball tomorrow night, and that means one of us must be there as well.”
Ash had spent two Seasons studiously avoiding any social gathering where Della was likely to appear. If their paths did cross, they greeted each other cordially and just as cordially ignored each other for the rest of the evening.
Ash timed visits to the family seat in Dorset for when Della was in Town. Della’s removes to Kent often coincided with Ash’s stays in London.
“You go,” Ash said. “I’ll handle things here.”
“No.” Sycamore took a casual sip of his champagne. “I’ll stay here. You go.