Asher glared at him, incredulous. This wasn’t the first time he’d been embroiled in one of his father’s outrageous cockups. Not even close.
Splaying his hands on the table, he stood and leaned in, growling beneath his breath, “I cannot come to your aid this time. There’s nothing left of mine, or my late mother’s, to sell—you’ve made sure of that.”
“There’s still Ashbrook Cottage.”
Asher’s only home. His father had been trying to manipulate the trustees to release the deed of the property, which had been part of his mother’s dowry, for as long as Asher could remember. Clearly, he wouldn’t be satisfied until every last remnant of her was gone.
“Isn’t it enough that you’ve already looted the cottage, stripped every room bare of her cherished heirlooms and furnishings? Or do you feel compelled to put her final resting place in the hands of strangers over a game of cards? At least I can be grateful that my grandfather saw fit to put the estate in trust before you married. He knew what you were. I only wish she had seen the truth as well.”
The marquess sneered. “Then you wouldn’t be here at all, my boy.”
Asher took that as an invitation. He walked away, glad he’d be leaving this nightmare in the morning.
Thankfully, his father wasn’t desperate enough to chase after him. Likely he was already moving on to someone else to charm a pound or two out of.
It felt good to step out of White’s and onto the pavement. He took a deep breath of London’s fetid night air, the rain-slicked streets clamoring with rabble-rousers and partygoers. Already his steps felt lighter as he headed in the direction of the Hollander townhouse.
Until recently, Asher had kept his own flat of rooms on Brook Street, but he’d given it up to save funds for his journey abroad. And he was looking forward to a change of scenery. To a new life.
Great opportunities came once in a man’s lifetime. He wasn’t about to squander his.
A carriage rolled up beside him and a dainty hand flitted out the window, hailing him with a wave of a lace kerchief.
Speaking of opportunity . . .
He paused his stride as they rolled to a stop, thinking that he wouldn’t mind spending a few hours of oblivion between the thighs of a comely woman. A proper send-off.
“My good sir, would you consider yourself more of a gentleman or a scoundrel?” a feminine voice asked from within the shadowed interior.
Interest piqued, he grinned and strolled closer. “Under the proper circumstances, any man can admit to being a bit of both.”
A soft laugh answered, and a different voice spoke. “I think only a scoundrel would make such a claim. And there is something in those devilishly dark eyes of his. Don’t you think so, Jane?”
Two women in the carriage, then? His night was looking better and better.
“Hush now. There’s no need for names when we only require him for our study.”
A pair of bluestockings, apparently. This could be interesting. “The last scholar who’d required me for study took me to her flat above a bookstore in order to research a private collection of erotic etchings. A fine week spent, as I recall.”
Gasps answered from within and he playfully arched his brow, taking another step closer to stand in front of the door. All he required was an invitation inside the carriage.
Then a low chuckle—decidedly not feminine—gave him pause. Proper send-off or not, even he drew the line somewhere.
“Cousin, I wish you wouldn’t laugh. This is serious. As I explained before, we need him for our book.”
Squinting to peer inside, he saw the silhouettes of two slender forms on one side and the hulking figure of a man on the other. “What’s all this about, then?”
A plain, fresh-faced young debutante peered out the lowered window. “You see, we are writing a primer—”
“On the marriage habits of the native aristocrat,” the dark-haired young woman interrupted, leaning forward.
“—and we need a scoundrel’s point of view.”
Asher jerked a nod toward the man on the bench across from them. “Why not ask him?”
“My cousin is neither gentleman nor scoundrel and, as far as I’m aware, has no intention of marrying.”
At the mention of marriage and seeing the naivety in their countenances, Asher wanted nothing more to do with them. He would find his amusements elsewhere this evening.
“Alas, I have another engagement at present. My best wishes on the future success of your book, ladies.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat.
“Drat! He’s truly leaving us. Jane, do something.”
“Cousin, I know you are expected by your employer, but will you not come to our aid and persuade this gentleman to linger a moment longer?”
There was no answer from within. And no warning either.
The carriage door opened before Asher could move out of the way and he was knocked aside, as if a ham-sized fist had connected with his jaw.
Then everything went dark.
Chapter 3
The instant Winnifred’s hackney arrived at the mysterious Southwark address, she felt an ominous shiver. In the chary glimmer of a single streetlamp, the narrow house seemed to lurch toward the street. Windows listed to the side in slanted frames, the wooden exterior buckling in the places where it hadn’t yet rotted, and the whole of it was the unsettling color of creosote.
Surely this couldn’t be correct.
But then a familiar face emerged through the opened door. Holding on to the hood of her cloak, Ellie looked left and then right before waving her hand impatiently. “Come quick, Winnie.”
Both alarmed and curious by all the subterfuge, she did just that. Hopping down to the pavement without the step, she bade the driver to wait.
Entering the dim interior of the house behind Ellie, she saw Jane in the small musty foyer, holding a lit taper in a tarnished brass chamberstick. “I wasn’t certain you’d come. It was, after all, your parents’ dinner party.”
“Of course I came. You wrote that it was a matter of great urgency. I stole away after whispering to Father that I had a headache. And I’m certain Mother was glad that I excused myself before the syllabub was served. But tell me why the two of you never arrived, and why we’re all standing inside this ruin, of all places?”
Winnifred took in her surroundings. The meager light flickered over the rubble of fallen horsehair plaster on the floor, great fissures in the wall exposing the lath, and tilted doorways that seemed an instant away from collapsing like a fan snapping shut in dismissal. The vision did nothing to ease her disquiet.
“We were on our way, if that makes a difference,” Ellie said with a nervous glance back toward a darkened doorway.
Jane cleared her throat. “Before I explain, allow me to preface it by telling you that I never intended for this to happen.”
“You said that the time you attempted to make your own gunpowder,” Winnifred added, feeling the continuous wave of dread that had been rolling through her since she’d first received the missive. As they started to walk toward the next room, she carefully studied the flame wavering over Jane’s countenance. “Well, I’m grateful that your eyebrows are still intact this time.”