Tresham minds the club in our absence, and Sycamore will soon return to Town, while my wife and I continue to the family seat in Dorset.”
“I notice you aren’t participating in the tournament.”
Portly was one of those perpetually invite-able bachelors who had a competence from some auntie, but not enough blunt to raise a family. He was not bad-looking, and his air was usually friendly and good-humored. Ash had seen him at the Coventry only in Chastain’s company, though, which was no sort of recommendation.
“I spend most of my nights in Town among gamblers,” Ash said. “I have more interesting activities available to me now.” Forgive me, Della.
“Your lovely wife,” Portly said, his gaze going past Ash’s shoulder up the path toward the house. “Felicitations, by the way. I don’t know the lady well, but she’s certainly pretty.”
Stay away from my wife. The anger behind that sentiment was entirely irrational, also welcome.
“Lady Della is in every way worthy of esteem,” Ash said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to retrieve something from the saddle room.” He had to dodge around Portly, who was apparently intent on detaining him in the stable yard.
Ash half expected to find a lady adjusting her décolletage in the saddle room, or maybe Chastain hiking a lady’s skirts, but the only people on hand were the Marquess of Tavistock and Mrs. Tremont’s brother, one Barrymore Golding. The saddle room door was open, and Tavistock had a saddle over his arm.
“Dorning, good day.” Tavistock beamed great good cheer at Ash as he set the saddle on a rack in the aisle. “Golding and I are for a hard gallop. Shall you join us?”
Such youthful high spirits were hard to look upon, almost as if Tavistock was relieved to see even a near stranger, provided that stranger was a man-about-town. Tavistock could still shave every other day, and nobody would notice the days he missed except his step-mama and his valet.
“No, thank you,” Ash said. “Take the gray in the corner stall if you want a challenge. He’s very light to the aids and still needs to work out the fidgets, even after a hack to the village and back. You won’t need spurs.”
Golding came out of the saddle room, Ash’s riding crop in his hand. He was blond, tallish, a natty dresser, and bore an air of perpetual amusement. Ash suspected Golding lived off his sister and his wits, but he was not a patron of the Coventry, so his means were of no particular interest.
“Dorning. How’s married life?”
Considering that Ash barely knew Golding, the question sat awkwardly. “Married life is delightful, and that is my riding crop you have.”
Golding passed it over. “Married life already calls for the use of a riding crop? Delightful indeed.”
Tavistock winced. “I say, Golding. You don’t insult a man’s new wife with such casual vulgarities.”
Golding smirked. “My apologies, and Tavistock, perhaps we’ll ride out another time.” He used one finger to nudge at the little yellow flower in Tavistock’s lapel, then sauntered off down the barn aisle.
Tavistock watched him go, then pulled the flower from his jacket and tossed it into the nearest empty stall.
“Thank you,” Ash said. “I was about to pummel him, and that would have caused talk.”
Tavistock leaned his back flat against the barn wall, the picture of daunted youth. “He sat next to me at breakfast, full of gossip and naughty jokes. His hand brushed my thigh more than once, but in that casual way hands sometimes do. I daresay I’ve caught his eye, but I didn’t realize the problem until we were in the saddle room, and he accidently put his hand on my bum—twice.”
I hate house parties. “That is awkward.”
“It’s bloody awful. Portly said Golding is a capital fellow, but then, Portly thinks Chastain is a capital fellow, and you will think me a complete simpleton if I don’t stop babbling. It’s just that Chastain can’t play cards worth shite, and my entire allowance is already bobbing about in the River Tick, and it was Portly who told me Chastain knows what he’s about at cards. Step-mama is ready to wash her hands of me, and that is not a good feeling, Mr. Dorning. Not a good feeling at all.”
Ash detected a pattern lurking in this lament. Something to do with Portly, Chastain, cards, and betrayed trust. He also saw a boy who lacked that most valuable of blessings—and curses—abundant, meddling, well-intended family.
Ash hung his riding crop on a nail and peeled out of his