Twelve
Della didn’t know how to behave after Cecily’s revelation. She had no further word from Lord Ashton, and her bedroom window stood unassailed and lonely. Or at least, she presumed it did. She was always at Bishop’s in the evenings.
How would she face him on Tuesday? She couldn’t look at him the same way now.
Perhaps Cecily was wrong, or at least exaggerating the tale. Perhaps there was something she didn’t know. But after a few well-placed inquiries among her friends, Della couldn’t deny the truth. Lord Ashton was known for precisely two things: his series of guidebooks and losing his country house in a wager to the Earl of Carlisle at White’s nine years ago.
How could the upright, disapproving man she knew have taken such a risk? It seemed entirely out of character. Was it a youthful folly that had taught him a painful lesson? It would explain why he hated gambling so much.
His poor wife, though. She had to live with the consequences of his actions forever. No wonder they’d parted ways.
Maybe I should have listened to Annabelle and stayed well enough away from him. What a depressing thought.
But whatever her feelings for Lord Ashton, Della wasn’t going to abandon her book. She scribbled down passages whenever things were slow at the club and managed to cobble together most of her chapter on shops, even if it took far longer than the day she’d originally planned.
When the fateful Tuesday finally arrived, she was so nervous there was no danger of forgetting to wind the clock and missing the appointed time. She paced the drawing room in wait, too preoccupied to set herself to any other task.
When Lord Ashton finally joined Della and Annabelle, she saw everything about him in another light. If she looked closely, she noticed how the cuffs of his jacket had grown threadbare. Where she’d thought his tendency to repeat certain clothes was an eccentricity, she now understood it was more likely a necessity. He’d gambled away everything, Cecily had said. No wonder that he couldn’t maintain a style of living befitting his station. Was that why he’d given her a card without his address on it? If he’d lost his estate, it was unlikely he could still afford rent in Mayfair. He must live in a low neighborhood. And here she’d thought he was being snobbish.
“Good morning, Miss Danby,” Ashton removed his hat and greeted them with a bow. “Miss Annabelle.”
“Good morning.”
He looked at her hesitantly as he took his seat. Lord Ashton seemed as standoffish as she felt. Hopefully he would attribute any distance in her manners to their recent rupture, and not to the revelation of his secret. As much as she longed to know more, she didn’t dare to broach the subject.
“How is your writing coming along?” he asked.
I should probably have written half the text by now, but all I’ve finished is one chapter, half an introduction you intend to replace with something of your own, and some notes on a lovely day we shared taking in the views before you decided you didn’t like me anymore.
“I finished the chapter on shops recently.” Della put some sunshine into her voice to banish the shadows in her thoughts. “I could share it with you if you like, but it’s mostly about things that will appeal to ladies—modistes and milliners and such.”
“I don’t mind,” Lord Ashton replied. “I’d be looking it over to see how the language flows, not to critique your assessment of a subject on which I have no knowledge. But I wouldn’t want to take up all our time today reading if you have any questions for me. Why don’t you give me your pages? I’ll make some notes at home and bring them back next week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to take more of your time than we agreed to,” Della said quickly. “I’m sure you need to focus on getting your next book out soon.”
He blinked at her. Had that been a strange thing to say? She was normally so preoccupied with her own projects, she hadn’t given much thought to the impact she had on Lord Ashton’s life. Maybe she’d been selfish. She hadn’t meant to be, but she’d thought his writing was an interesting hobby he might take a break from whenever he pleased. Now Della understood it must be his livelihood.
“Never mind,” she amended, flipping through the pile of papers she’d brought downstairs to set the chapter on shops in some semblance of order. It gave her somewhere else to look. “It’s very kind of you to read them over, if you can afford to spare the time. I mean, of course you can afford to spare the time. You’re a viscount. I’m sure you can do whatever you like.” Della ended her rambling speech in a sudden cough. Goodness, why couldn’t she keep herself from acting this way?
Lord Ashton watched her for a long moment before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was measured and precise—almost regretful. “Someone told you.”
“Told me what?” The response was instinctive. Della wasn’t trying to deceive him. But she hated to admit to what she’d heard, on the slim chance they weren’t thinking of the same thing.
Lord Ashton saved her the trouble. He dropped his gaze to his teacup as he replied, “That I gambled away my country house.”
“Oh!” Annabelle gasped so loudly she might have been a stage actress discovering a murder in the final act.
Won’t she ever stop making a nuisance of herself?
“Annabelle, could you please give us a moment of privacy?”
“Leave you unchaperoned?” Her sister placed a hand to her breast in a poor imitation of horror. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m sure Mama and Papa would never forgive me.”
“ Privacy ,” she repeated. “Or Mama and Papa will learn who really took that bottle of wine they thought Thomson had stolen, which you never paid me for replacing.”
With a glare to ignite the house, Annabelle rose to her feet and exited the room.
Finally.
Della turned back to Lord Ashton, feeling suddenly shy. Trying to resume the path of their conversation was like stepping into a pair of ill-fitting shoes. She wasn’t quite sure how to move forward without tripping. “Yes, I heard the rumor.” She paused here, in case he wished to dispute it, but he held his tongue. The weight of the silence grew oppressive, between the soft clicking of the grandfather clock. “I know it’s…none of my business,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you pried; the story would have reached you sooner or later. It always does.” He offered her a joyless smile, his eyes shadowed. “My deepest shame is never far behind me.”
He looked so hopeless under the weight of this confession that it moved Della to pity. She wanted to take him in her arms and reassure him, despite what he’d done.
“I don’t think any less of you for it,” she assured him.
“Miss Danby.” His tone sharpened, grazing across her name like a whetstone. “You must think less of me for it. I think less of myself for it, and I would be disappointed in you if you did otherwise.”
Della didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She had no idea how she should behave in such circumstances.
A moment later, Lord Ashton sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you harshly. You were trying to be kind, but I’m afraid I can’t tolerate much kindness in this matter.”
Della hardly knew what to do with herself. What happened? she wanted to ask. What made you lose your reason so completely? But any answer he could give would only add to his humiliation. If he were insensibly drunk when he’d done it, or if he were goaded on by his friends, would that make it any better?
“That’s why you dislike gambling,” she finally ventured.
He confirmed this with a sharp nod. “I haven’t set foot in a gaming house since that day. Nor shall I, for as long as I live.”
Della’s face grew hot with the memory of how she’d behaved at their meetings. That note she’d sent him last week inviting him to meet her at Bishop’s. Was that why he changed his mind about me?
“I’m so sorry. I must have seemed like I was provoking you. I never would have tried to persuade you that you should visit my club, or argued with you about your views on gambling, if I’d had any idea—”
“Don’t think of it,” Ashton said quickly, as if her remorse, too, were difficult for him. “If I were to be angry with you, I should be angry with half of Britain. Card play is only rivaled in its popularity by horse racing and dice.”
What must it be like to be hounded by reminders of your folly wherever you went? Della couldn’t imagine. Thus far, she’d been remarkably successful at keeping the consequences of her own follies at bay.
“You will perhaps want to call an end to our meetings, now that you know what I’m capable of.” Was that regret in his tone? “I would understand if you did.”
“Nonsense.” Della didn’t even need to consider her reply. “You told me at the outset I was risking my reputation, and it never stopped me. Why should I turn back now? I’ve rather grown to like you.”
Lord Ashton watched her for a long moment, his green eyes suddenly gentle. That was regret, and she hadn’t imagined it. “I’ve grown to like you too,” he said softly.
It was such a modest declaration, said in that measured way of his. Yet it was enough to make her heart do a little somersault.
“But your opinion of me shouldn’t be your only guide.” He still wore a grim expression. “There’s something else I should tell you. I had a visit from my wife’s brother last week. She wants a divorce.”
Oh my. If Della had been without a map for the first half of this conversation, now she was utterly lost. He could be free. Not for her, of course. But for someone . Himself, perhaps. Would it be rude to express hopeful sentiments?
“Are you… Do you want a divorce?”
“It promises to ruin my life.”
Yes, it would definitely be rude.
Della bit her lip and waited.
“I thought there wasn’t much left to ruin, but they’ve filed proceedings before Consistory Court, and they’re planning to go before Parliament for a private bill as soon as they have their judgment in hand. They’ll have to prove adultery and intolerable cruelty to succeed. Do you understand what’s in store? Every witness they can drum up to testify will have their words printed in the papers, and I’ll be lucky if I’m not the most hated man in London by the time the year is out.” He held her gaze for a long time. “That friend of yours, Miss Chatterjee, saw us together the other day. Not to mention anyone who might have been in the crowd at the Waterloo Bridge. You should end your association with me if you don’t want to be caught up in the talk.”
***
Lyman watched the spark in Miss Danby’s eyes dim as he laid out the future that awaited him. His name would be spoken in hushed whispers at dinner parties, as a warning of the lows to which a man could fall. It wasn’t as though he had much of a place in high society as it stood now, with his means so reduced. But this would put him in another category entirely. People might not want to buy his books anymore. The wealthy families who hired him to tutor their sons might not want him in their homes. How was he to support himself?
“Whatever passed between you and your wife, I’m sure you aren’t capable of that.” She had such trust in her voice that it made Lyman ashamed. He didn’t deserve it.
“Which part, the adultery or the intolerable cruelty?”
“I wouldn’t want to speculate on your romantic entanglements. You may tell me if you wish, and I will take you at your word, for you’ve been very frank with me about your failings thus far. Were you unfaithful to Lady Ashton?”
It was an indecorous question. A few weeks ago, he might have reacted with shock. But they’d moved past formality now, the exchange between them passing into the sort of openness Lyman might have shared with a close friend. So he answered her honestly.
“Not while we still lived in the same house. After we separated, and it became clear I could never atone for what I’d done, I formed a few connections over the years. But I was always careful that no one should be harmed by it.”
“I don’t think anyone could blame you, once your wife had made it clear reconciliation was impossible.” Miss Danby’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing nothing more shocking than the weather. “And as for cruelty, I’m sure you aren’t guilty of that. It would seem you have little to worry about. They won’t be able to make their case.”
“I cost her everything. Her chance to marry a better man and start a family, the house where we lived, even her dowry, which should have been settled on our future children. What else would you call it? You don’t know me well enough to judge my character, Miss Danby.”
“I know you aren’t a violent man, which must be the primary concern in a case of divorce,” she persisted. “I’ve certainly annoyed you enough in our brief acquaintance that I should have seen some sign of it by now, if you were.”
Lyman smiled, in spite of himself. “You haven’t annoyed me. You simply have a penchant for taking risks which make me uneasy. But very well, I’ll own that I’m not a violent man. Does that mean I haven’t been cruel through my own recklessness, even if I regret it?”
But Miss Danby refused to concede any ground. “Not intolerably so.”
A laugh escaped his lips. Bless her stubbornness.
“I’ll call you as a witness, shall I? To prove that there is at least one person in all of London who considers me tolerable.”
“I would be happy to attest as much.” The smile on her lips fell away slowly. “Truly, if there is something I can do, will you tell me? There must be some way you can defend yourself.”
She was on his side. There was no rational reason she should be, now that she knew of his worst mistake, but she was.
Would her loyalty endure once his name was splashed across the front page for days on end, alongside the details of Ellen’s devastation and whatever lurid stories of adultery they would contrive? It almost made Lyman regret what he had to say next.
“No. I won’t fight their claims. After everything I’ve done to that family, the least I can do is to let them try to get their divorce, however they think best.”
“You can’t mean it!” At last, Miss Danby showed some sign she was angry with him, though it was aimed at the wrong part of his actions. “Not defend yourself? You’ll let them say whatever they wish about you, even if it isn’t true?”
“I owe her that much.”
He could never repay his debts to Ellen. Never restore what he’d cost her. The money he sent every month was a pittance, like throwing pennies down a yawning black well to wish for a chance to live his life over again. If she ruined what was left of his good name to find her own freedom, maybe it would finally feel like he’d made amends.
Miss Danby held her tongue, though her expression betrayed furious disagreement.
“You can get away while there’s still time,” he continued. “Sever your connection with me before I become infamous.”
“Lord Ashton,” she admonished, “I am the proprietress of a gambling house. If I were to cut ties with you for your history engaging in the same activity I’m peddling, I should be nothing but a hypocrite.” Her tone cooled as she added, “I detest hypocrites.”
She was clear and resolute, without a trace of hesitation. Should he have expected anything less? He’d seen it from the very first day they met; she lived as she saw fit and made no apologies for it. It made him wish that he could accept her support.
She was admirable, in her own way. But she’d never been made to pay a price for her actions. With her indulgent parents, and her charm and wit, Miss Danby had thus far managed to walk the fine line between scandal and social acceptability.
He didn’t want to be the one to bring it all crashing down upon her head.
“I fear you’ll regret your choice when you see the worst of it,” he said. “I could ruin you, Miss Danby. I don’t want to have that on my conscience as well.”
“Ruin me…?” She arched an eyebrow and took a sip of her tea, though it must have been cold by now.
Incorrigible. Lyman’s blood heated as he remembered all that had passed between them, which was no doubt her intent. He wanted to repeat their transgression. No, he ached for it. Not only for the meeting of desires, but to find the comfort she offered so freely. He could use some comfort today.
Instead, he said, “You should take this far more seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously; I simply don’t agree with your course of action.” Miss Danby sighed and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Shall we strike a compromise? Your case isn’t being heard today, I trust. How much time do you have? If your chief concern is my reputation, we might keep things as they are until the story makes the papers.”
Keep things as they are. Lyman wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Sparring with Miss Danby in her drawing room while telling himself he wasn’t enjoying her company too much, and sharing the occasional kiss after a night at a casino?
“They’ve set the hearing for February 17.”
“So soon! That’s less than three weeks away.”
“You should try to finish your book as soon as possible,” Lyman said, “so we have time to go over the manuscript first.”
“Don’t worry.” Della smiled, her eyes betraying a trace of mischief. “I work best under a little pressure.”
***
Della felt a good deal better after her talk with Lord Ashton. As uncomfortable as the revelation had been for both of them, it had finally helped her to understand the behavior she’d found so perplexing when they first met. His refusal to drink or gamble, his discomfort whenever the subject of his marriage came up, even the way he’d balked at the prospect of spending the night with her.
I must remind him of the worst period in his life.
If Della felt a measure of relief at finally having everything in the open between them, it was tempered by sadness. She didn’t like to think of what was in store for him if his wife proceeded with her plans for divorce.
Besides which, he’d been right. There wasn’t any hope for an amorous connection between them—not when she owned a gambling house and he had such a dreadful reason to avoid them. She would be more careful in what she said and did in his company now that she understood the whole story, but the damage was likely already done. He must see her as a threat to his efforts to live a better sort of life.
Is he right?
Della tried to focus on her work. She’d managed to start the chapter on parks, adding a few paragraphs on some locations she’d tested with Miss Chatterjee last week. After that, she’d paused to consider what she might tackle next and realized she hadn’t included anything on gambling clubs, even though that had been the impetus for the whole project! She was sitting before a blank page of foolscap now, trying to land on the right words.
She didn’t feel nearly as enthusiastic about the subject after her talk with Lord Ashton.
They would never have allowed such a thing to happen at Bishop’s, of course. There were strict limits on how much the ladies could wager. But all the same, the prospect of such a terrible loss was enough to give her pause.
Were she and Jane wrong to carry on a business like this when it could cause such pain?
“Ahem.”
Della jumped at the sound of another person nearby. Annabelle hovered in the doorway, like a spindly butterfly poised over a flower, all limbs. What nectar did she search for here?
“Are you going to come in?” Della asked, irritated. “It’s very off-putting to lurk.”
Annabelle shuffled into the room and shut the door behind her, but still didn’t explain herself. After a moment, she inched close enough to spy Della’s papers.
“Why have you crossed everything out?” she asked. “Don’t you need to keep some of the words if you intend to write a book?”
“It’s all part of my process.” Della set both hands in the middle of her notes, shielding them from view. “What is it you want? I have heaps of work to do, and I’m meant to be at Bishop’s in two hours.” She shot a precautionary glance to the clock to make sure the hands were still moving.
Annabelle didn’t walk across the room so much as slide, like a heavy, brooding mist. She slumped onto the little divan just past Della’s desk. Her posture would have earned her a scolding from their old governess.