She always said yes.
Until the night she didn’t.
One evening, Emma failed to appear for dinner. Her maid delivered a message to the table. Ash sipped a brandy as he unfolded and read the note written in his wife’s hand.
She was indisposed, it read, and she suspected a few days’ time would pass before she felt fully restored. With apologies, she could not welcome his visits at present.
Well, then. It didn’t require much effort to sift through the delicate phrasing. Her monthly courses had arrived. She wasn’t pregnant, not yet.
He ought to have been disappointed.
Instead, all he felt was relief.
She wasn’t with child. That meant he had another month.
Another month of whisking her into dark spaces, turning her face to the wall, and feeling her teeth scrape the heel of his hand when she came.
Another month of “yes.”
Another month of not being alone.
Another month of Emma.
Something in his chest went buoyant with joy.
Ash drained his brandy. Then he propped an elbow on the table and lowered his forehead until it rested against his thumb and forefinger. He massaged the knotted scar on his right cheekbone.
You are a dolt. Ignorant as dirt. This was more than infatuation. He’d allowed a foolish, irrational attachment to develop. Now something must be done about it.
He called for another brandy. And then another. When he’d drained the decanter, he located his cloak and his hat. Then he ventured out into the darkened streets. He’d find some ruffians to menace, or some foxed dandies to scare out of their champagne-polished boots.
This, he told himself with every cringe and wince he inspired, was what sort of welcome the world gave a monster. This was how “accepted” he was by his fellow man.
Perhaps he had another month of “yes,” but he must never forget this: The long, bitter life stretching beyond it would always be “no.”
“Bloody hell. I knew it.”
Ash froze in place, one hand immobile on the gate latch. His other hand tightened on his walking stick. He turned around to view the source of the outburst.
A boy was waiting on him in the alley behind the mews.
Not merely a boy. That boy. The one from before.
“I knew it,” the boy said. “I knew it had to be you.”
God’s lords and his ladies.
Ash collared the youth and dragged him into the shadows. He looked about the alley to make certain no grooms or coachmen lingered close enough to overhear.
“The Duke of Ashbury is the Monster of Mayfair.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Ash said sternly. As if there might be some other scarred man wandering the alleys of Mayfair by night, wearing a cape and carrying a gold-knobbed walking stick.
“I knew from that night—said to my mates, I did—that you had to be Quality,” the boy rattled on. “The rest, I pieced together from the gossip sheets. The Duke of Ashbury came to Town just a few weeks before the first sighting appeared in the papers. Rumored to have suffered an injury at Waterloo. I decided to wait out here just to see if my guess was on the mark. And damn me, here you are.” He smacked his hands together. “Wait until the lads hear this.”
“The lads will hear nothing.” Ash gave the boy a shake. “Do you understand me?”
“You can’t frighten me. I know you won’t hurt me. Roughing up innocents isn’t your game, is it?”
No, it wasn’t. Unfortunately.
Ash released the boy’s collar. “Fine. You’ll have a crown from me, but nothing more.”
“A crown for what?”
“In exchange for keeping your mouth shut. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Starting the blackmail a bit early, I must say.”
“My mum always said I was advanced for my age.” The boy grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “But it’s not money I’m after. My family’s flush with it. My father made a fortune in coal. Name’s Trevor, by the way.”
“If you try to spread this tale, Trevor, no one will credit it. You live in Mayfair; you should already know how the snobbish ton thinks. They won’t take the word of some new-money brat over that of a duke.”
Ash brushed past the boy and started down the alleyway at a brisk pace.
Of course the boy followed.
“You’ve got me all wrong,” Trevor said in a loud whisper, trotting at Ash’s side. “I don’t want to expose you. I want to be your associate.”
That brought Ash to a standstill. “My associate?”
“An assistant. An apprentice. A protégé. You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.”
“I’m going to join your wanderings at night. Help you mete out justice. Pound footpads and such.”
Ash looked the boy up and down. “You couldn’t pound a lump of bread dough.”
“Don’t be so certain about that. I’ve a weapon. A secret one.” The boy looked both ways before withdrawing something from his pocket and holding it up for Ash to see.
“A sling. This is your secret weapon.”
“Well, you already have the walking stick. And a pistol or blade seemed out of character for us.”
“There is no ‘us.’”
“Too violent, you know. We’re peacekeepers.”
“There is no ‘we,’ either.”
“A sling would set me apart, I reckoned.” The lad plucked a pebble from the ground and fitted it in the leather pocket. “See that crate at the corner?” He flicked his wrist a few times, building momentum, then released the sling.
The pebble smacked into a stable door on the opposite side of the alleyway.
A horse whinnied. From the loft above, a sleepy groom called out in anger, “Oi! Who’s there?”
Trevor looked at Ash. Ash looked at Trevor. They each mouthed the same word at the same time.
Run.
Once safely down the lane and around the corner, Trevor put his hands on his knees and panted. “I’m”—huff—“still working on my aim.”
Ash walked on, hoping to lose the boy while he was winded.
“Next I’ll need a disguise, of course. I’m thinking a mask. Black, or perhaps red. And a name, naturally.”
Ash growled. “There will be no disguise. There will be no name. Do you hear me? Go home before I take you there myself and have a word with your father.”
“What do you think of this? The Beast of Berkeley Square.”
“More like the Pest of Piccadilly.”
“Or we could go with something simpler. Like Doom. Or the Raven.”
“I suggest Gnat. Or the Measle.”
“Maybe the Doom-Raven?”
Ash shook his head. “Jove that thunders, you are a menace.”
“Wait. That’s brilliant. I’ll be known as”—he swiped one hand before his face, as if tracing a broadsheet’s headline—“the Menace.”
Oh, indeed you will be.
Ash stopped, turned, and stared down at the boy. “Listen, lad. I am returning to my house. You are returning to yours. And that is the end of it.”
“But it’s not even midnight. We haven’t thrashed any scoundrels yet.”
Ash grabbed Trevor by his jacket and lifted him onto his toes. He bent forward and lowered his voice to a threat. “Consider yourself fortunate I haven’t thrashed you.”
As he strode away, this time he heard no scampering steps in pursuit.
Thank heaven.
“You’re right,” Trevor called after him cheerily. “Tomorrow night’s better. I need time to sort out my disguise anyway.”
Ash tugged down the brim of his hat and groaned.
If this boy was indicative of the next generation, God save England.
Emma tripped down to the servants’ hall, intending to request eggs be added to the evening’s dinner menu. To every evening’s dinner menu. Eggs were rumored to increase the chances of conception, weren’t they? Perhaps nothing but superstition, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.
She stopped just outside the door. The servants seemed to be having some sort of a meeting. Khan stood in front of a large slate—the one usually employed for the day’s menus—with the remainder of the house staff huddled around the servants’ long dining table.