a short garden stroll, that she’d attempt to extract promises from him regarding a matter of honor, that she literally didn’t want her husband out of her sight, Ash would have laughed.
Less than a week into his marriage, he wasn’t laughing. He loved her touch, loved how affectionate she was, but did not love that she was so frequently anxious.
“I have already promised you as much, Della. We can leave if being around him bothers you so greatly.”
She was quiet for a time. Beyond the window, the wind whipped moonlit trees, sending leaves cascading into the garden, and a gust of laughter drifted up from some late-night revelers on the terrace.
“When I am around William Chastain,” Della said, “I feel as if I am in the presence of a rabid animal, and though I want to run as far and as fast as my legs can carry me, the last thing I ought to do is turn my back on him.”
The same stark metaphor applied to melancholia. Ash dared not ignore it, dared not turn his back on the lurking possibility of its return.
“Your thinking has merit,” he said. “If we face down Chastain at this gathering, then we’ve put paid to his mischief. If this house party engenders more drama where he’s concerned, we’ll have to start all over again next spring. Would you like a nightcap?”
Ash did not crave a tot of brandy so much as he wanted to get up and move.
“No, thank you, but go find a drink if you want one. I saw decanters in the library and more in the gallery.”
The evening round of cards took place in the gallery, meaning Chastain would be there. “I’ll forage in the library. Get some sleep.”
He kissed her, and she let him go without another word. Perhaps Della was relieved to have the bed to herself, though, not by word, deed, glance, or silence had she expressed anything but delight to be in Ash’s presence.
He dressed hastily, not bothering with a cravat, and slipped into the chilly corridor. The library was all but deserted, only Sycamore lounged by the fire, keeping company with some book of verse.
“You look adorably tumbled,” Sycamore said, setting the book aside. “What could possibly send you prowling in such a state and at such an hour?”
“Traveling put me at sixes and sevens,” Ash said. “I made the mistake of taking a long nap on Wednesday, and now I’m more discombobulated than ever.”
Sycamore let that remark pass, though they both knew a hallmark of Ash’s melancholia was a tendency to reverse his days and nights.
“Care for a nightcap?” Ash asked, crossing to the decanters.
“Why not? Lady Wentwhistle is still putting out decent libation. By this time next week, we will doubtless be offered lesser vintages.”
Ash poured them each two scant fingers. “I thought you’d be observing the tournament play.” And one red-haired player in particular.
“I looked in earlier, but keeping an eye on a lot of gamblers is how I make my living. To do so here would hardly be a diversion. Besides, play is progressing in the usual fashion. Mrs. Tremont and the marchioness are a formidable pair, Chastain loses because he’s reckless, and much groping under the table is happening on all sides.”
“What’s Portly doing?”
“Partnering Mrs. Chastain, who is also an astute, if conservative, player.”
“Who has the thankless task of partnering Chastain?”
“Lady Tavistock’s step-son, and Lord Tavistock, unfortunately, is young enough and green enough to follow Chastain’s lead. They are careless of their losses, but I can see the marchioness’s temper silently flaring.”
Ash took the wing chair nearest the fire. “Do you ever tire of the nonsense that inevitably accompanies wagering?”
Sycamore considered his drink. “Yes, but then I consider that Grey needs us to make a go of our venture, Tresham is counting on us to do right by a thriving business we essentially lucked into, and if I ever aspire to something more than managing a gaming hell, I’d best look after the biddies in my coop now.”
That was the most mature, sensible sentiment Ash could recall hearing Sycamore express. “The Coventry is thriving, Cam, and that’s largely because you know whom to charm and whom to chide. If you want to sell up in a few years, I won’t object.”
“Marriage is working its wiles on you.”
Not marriage, but the knowledge that Della did not enjoy Town life, and neither, to be honest, did Ash.
“We have few friends in Town,” Ash said, “because everybody is a potential customer, and we