“Put your hand on my bum. I’ll show you how to put a stop to it once and for all.” Ash turned his back to Tavistock and, after a moment’s pause, felt a tentative pat to his arse. In one motion, Ash turned, grabbed the offending wrist, and brought his knee up just shy of Tavistock’s tallywags.
“You’re fast,” Tavistock said as Ash turned loose of his wrist. “Damned fast.”
“And if you touched me by accident, I’d simply say my reflexes got the better of me—blame it on schoolyard fisticuffs—and I meant nothing by it. But if you did not touch me by accident, you’d be writhing on the floor, praying for the lives of your unborn children.”
“Can you show me how to do that?” Tavistock said.
Ash spent about five minutes teaching Tavistock how to put Golding on the floor, how to follow up with a combination of blows Golding was unlikely to anticipate, and how to keep his guard up.
“You have reach over most men by virtue of your height,” Ash said, shrugging back into his jacket and retrieving his crop. “Use that. The speed will come with practice, and strength can be built over time.” Ash felt marginally better for having broken a sweat, though he was still unsettled over his conversation with Della.
“Thank you, sir,” Tavistock said, donning his own jacket. “I was thinking of asking Mr. Sycamore Dorning to show me a few pointers regarding the cards. Chastain is truly an abominable player. It’s like he’s trying to impress people with how casually he loses.”
Or take some sort of revenge on the father who was likely covering all those losses? “I have noticed Chastain’s lack of skill. If you can change partners, you should.”
“But a gentleman wouldn’t, would he?” Tavistock asked, coloring about the cheeks as he and Ash ambled down the barn aisle.
Tavistock had not blushed to admit Golding had fondled his arse—he’d been rightly angry about that—but the idea of disappointing Chastain mortified him.
“You have doubtless heard that Chastain attempted to elope with Lady Della,” Ash said.
Tavistock nodded, gaze on the nearest horse. “One doesn’t bandy a lady’s name about, but Portly gave me the general idea.”
“Portly doesn’t have the whole tale, but I can tell you, my lord, not to trust Chastain with your coin or your good name. He’s not honorable.”
Tavistock sighed such as only the aggrieved adolescent male can sigh. “Step-mama said as much, and I was determined to ignore her advice. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be a perishing marquess, everybody toadying, nobody telling you what’s what. Portly and Chastain weren’t toadies, so it never occurred to me they might be worse than toadies.” Tavistock stopped outside the gray’s stall. “Chastain doesn’t like your club. That should have told me something right there. Step-mama would never sit down at your tables if you weren’t running an honest hell.”
“We run a very honest hell.”
The horse stuck his head over the half door and whuffled. To Ash, the gelding had an anxious eye, for all he had good conformation and smooth gaits.
“No confidence,” Ash said, stroking the horse’s ears. “I suspect he’s not had the best training.”
“He and I should get on famously,” Tavistock said, fishing a lump of carrot from his pocket and feeding it to the horse. “You’re a handsome lad, though, aren’t you?” He pet the horse for a moment, giving him a good scratch under the chin. “What am I to do, Mr. Dorning? I will be pockets to let until my majority at the rate Chastain is bankrupting me.”
Ash could tell Tavistock what every English gentleman was advised to do in the face of every adversity: carry on and bear the consequences without complaining. Nobody ever told the gentleman why he was to be so stoic or why he wasn’t to complain about blatant injustices.
“Your step-mother doesn’t want to see you used and exploited by the likes of Chastain,” Ash said, “but she needs to know you’ve learned something from your mistakes. I suggest you apologize to her, explain your situation, and ask for her advice. This time, listen to her.”
“She will ring such a peal over my head.” Tavistock smiled slightly. “Step-mama can do more damage with her tongue than any headmaster ever did with the birch rod. I admire her tremendously, and the solicitors are terrified of her.”
While Sycamore was half in love with the woman. “Let her have her say, and if she tells