Chapter 2
What the blazes happened? A pained hiss escaped his lips as he scrubbed the soot from his fingers with a cloth. He could smell the dirt and the manure and the chimney smoke. The sharpness in the air stuck to his skin, forcing his mind to whirl back to minutes ago when he had run from whom he assumed to be two policemen.
I need to leave London now.
Henry dropped the cloth into the washing bowl.
His throat was constricted. With trembling fingers, he put on a crisp, clean shirt and a soft grey waistcoat, then wrapped a black silk cravat around his stiff collar. He could still smell the filthy city on his skin.
The scent won’t wash out, nor will your memories of this night.
“Christ,” he said, gripping the sides of the washstand.
He took a moment to breathe in deeply. There was a relentless, aching thump behind his eyes. Good God, did he ever need a whisky. Or perhaps a puff of his pipe. Or maybe a few drops of laudanum … just a taste to take the edge off.
No.
Anything but that. He had sworn off the drug over a year ago and he was not about to let this night ruin his sober streak.
With a grumble, he focused instead on his wet hair. The rain had plastered it into dark, wavy strands across his forehead. He ran a hand across his scalp in an attempt to style it, but the hair would not bend to his will. He dropped his arms to his side with a huff.
Fine, I’ll look like a drowned rat, then.
A squeaking rat.
What the hell did that message mean? Surely, his father did not suspect him of any wrongdoing? He contemplated his reflection in the mirror. Two half-crazed bright-blue eyes stared back. The horror of the night echoed within them.
The oak-coloured briefcase on the bed caught his attention. It mocked his courage, whispering to reveal its secrets as if he were Pandora opening the infamous box of life’s miseries. He was disturbed, and not only by the threatening message found at 32 Berkshire Road. His past had finally caught up with him. He had lived in fear for five years, dreading this very moment.
Part of him wanted to ignore the contents of that case.
Like you should have done with the blasted letter.
All he wanted was to live a decent existence away from crime; to take care of his lands, to take care of his sister, to sit in his leather-padded chair before the fire, smoke his pipe and read a book where he could vanish into the hero’s story. Hell, maybe he could even find a woman who wanted to marry him and not because he was the heir to a stolen fortune, but because she truly loved him, Henry Asheford, the broken coward with a traumatic past. She would have to be a tower of strength, a rare creature indeed. But he knew well enough that his dreams for a better future were out of reach, especially now, when his controlling father had decided to make his presence known again, no doubt to fetch his estranged son and force him into his world of crime.
He supposed it all came down to decisions. To obtain the freedom he wanted, he could hope for a change to happen or he could fight for it, and part of him wondered whether this briefcase would help his cause. Did a squealing rat and a potential investigation mean that his father was being pursued by the police? Were the men he fought offthe police? If so, that prospect greatly appealed to him. He may even be able to use it to his advantage.
He went to the briefcase and unlatched it.
Taking a breath, he opened the case and saw papers, lots of papers. Beneath those were notebooks, stacks of them.
Running his thumb along the edge of the stack, he observed diagrams, sketches, mathematical formulas and theories on … time.
A chill took him.
Theories on time? That was the sort of thing his grandfather had once explained to him long ago as a boy of thirteen. Was this his research? He took hold of a few notebooks and scanned their contents. Yes, he recognized his grandfather’s handwriting. The imperfect brown script described a picture of a time-travelling device that could send a person backward or forward in time. It was the device that tore his family apart years ago. It was also the device that his father continued to search for like a hawk hunting a field mouse.
Henry trembled with newfound anger. Where had Cooper obtained this? And what had he planned to do with it? Searching for more information, Henry shoved his fingers into the top pocket of the case and pulled out a letter. He unfolded it and read:
Dear Clarkson,
Forgive me, but I must put an end to our alliance. Our meeting in one week’s time will be the last. I hope you understand why I cannot continue to provide you with information. I fear I have flown too close to the sun and now it burns me.
They will retaliate. They will kill all who threaten the reputation of Asheford Sons.
If you provide the funds as agreed upon, I will hand over the evidence and we can go our separate ways. Meet me at our usual place upon the midnight hour.
B. Cooper
Henry sucked in a rush of air. His blood boiled. He threw the letter back into the case and slammed it shut. Evidence? Grandfather’s research? Or did Cooper have the physical device in hand? Endless questions swirled in his mind.
Should he ignore the discovery and return home as if nothing were amiss?
Or should he further investigate?
Nothing. You will do nothing.
At least, not yet. To consider his options, he wanted to be home at Asheford Hall, where he could sink into the mystery at his own pace and decide whether it was worth pursuing. As for the debt, if his father intended to send him a message, Henry supposed there was no actual debt to be collected.
Bastard.
What message did you want to send, Father?
He could not dwell further on that now, because before he could leave London, he had to fetch his driver.
He groaned.
With a sharp intake of breath, Henry kicked Cooper’s briefcase beneath the bed. He took a glance at his shattered watch. It was half past ten at night. He supposed it was as suitable a time as any to visit a high-class bordello.
***
Henry scrutinized the bordello’s central room, wondering how he would find William.
In the dark haze, a pink silk curtain framed a bright stage on which stood a naked courtesan, swaying her hips to a lute’s gentle tune. The crowd sat at small, round tables on crimson chairs, arranged in a semi-circle around the base of the stage. The people were mere silhouettes against the brightly lit entertainment and wisps of pipe smoke.
“You seem a little tense,” a woman said.
Henry pulled his stare away from the crowd to look at her.
She was an older lady, with frazzled chestnut hair, twinkling brown eyes and a cordial smile. Based on the expensive-looking jewels around her neck, Henry assumed she was the madam of the establishment.
Her smile widened. “Are you interested in stage entertainment or are you seeking something more to ease your stress? I can assure you all my ladies have thoroughly washed for the evening’s business. Marie-Anne? Oh, Marie-Anne. Come see to this gentleman’s needs.” The madam waved over a courtesan. “She is a French girl, straight from Paris. You seem to be a gent who would admire more exotic beauties.”
“Madam, that won’t be necessary,” Henry blurted.
In the dim shroud of swirling smoke, Marie-Anne appeared. “Oui, madame,” she said with a shy smile. “How can I be of service, monsieur?”
Marie-Anne was dressed appropriately for an establishment called La Perle Rose, with a loose updo of blonde curls, an upturned nose and lipstick so red, it forced all attention to her plush lips. She seemed young … too young, around his sister’s age of sixteen. The madam looked on, eager to complete the sale of goods.
A flush spread across Henry’s cheekbones. “You mistake my intentions, madam. I do not need your services. I’ve come to find my friend.”
“Ton ami?” Marie-Anne flashed her large brown eyes.
“What is her name?” the madam asked.
He snorted. “She? Oh, heavens, no.”
The madam raised her manicured brow. “You search for a gentleman, then? It isn’t often that a man the likes of you walks into La Perle Rose and remains loyal to his wife.”
“I am unmarried—” Henry began but paused when the madam urged Marie-Anne forward with a quick tap to her behind. He continued, “I have come to fetch my driver.”
The madam gave Henry a hard look and whispered something in Marie-Anne’s ear before excusing herself to tend to another customer. Henry was left alone with the young courtesan. The girl looked up and their gazes met.
“Allow me to comfort you tonight, monsieur,” Marie-Anne said.
“No,” he said firmly.
Marie-Anne’s cherry-red smile faded.
Henry’s jaw tensed. “With all due respect, all I intend to do is fetch my driver and leave. Whether you wish to help my cause, that is your decision. Otherwise, you can tend to another customer.”
Marie-Anne’s eyes fell to the hallway behind Henry, and she pressed herself against the wall as a pair of men passed. One of them made an unsavoury comment about her luscious red lips.
“Monsieur, I will be happy to help you,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said and removed his coin purse. “Of course, I’ll pay you for your services. I am searching for a young man, aged nineteen with curly blond hair, green eyes, a boyish smile, and who is missing … a finger.”
Her thin brows furrowed. “A finger, monsieur?”
“Yes,” he stated grimly. “On his right hand. Caught it in a door as a boy—never mind that. His name is Mr. Clare. Or call him William. Please tell him someone waits for him at the entrance with an urgent matter.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
He placed a coin in her palm, and she hurried off.
Henry exhaled.
It felt like he’d been holding his breath ever since he left the hotel. He cast a nervous glance around the entertainment room again. He was in one of London’s most famous bordellos, surrounded by people who came to enjoy its pleasures. There was something about the sweet scent of tobacco, the nearly naked women and the distant moaning that stirred long-suppressed emotions in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed hard. It had been a while since he had been with a woman, and to his annoyance, his loneliness was a topic that continued to plague his insomniac mind at night.
“Monsieur, monsieur, je l’ai trouvé,” Marie-Anne said, breaking him out of his thoughts. “I found him at a table by the stage, near the back corner.”
“Why does he not come?” Henry asked.
She frowned. “Mr. Clare is with another gentleman.”
Henry narrowed his eyes. “Did you catch the gentleman’s name?”
“Non, monsieur.”
“Well, did Mr. Clare say anything else?”
“He only said he could not come.”
His jaw hardened. That did not sound like William. “The other gentleman, what does he look like?”
“Like a bad man, monsieur,” Marie-Anne whispered. “He has scars across his nose and one eye is milky like the moon.”
Startled by her description, an uneasy tension prickled down his spine. As if this night could not get any worse.
“Thank you for your help, Marie-Anne,” Henry said, controlling the heat in his tone. “If you could kindly point the table out to me.”
“By the fountain, monsieur,” she said, pointing.
Henry approached the table like a steam train running hot.
At the table, two men sat. The man on the right was William, Henry’s stableman and loyal driver. His blond hair appeared golden in the pinkish glow of the chandelier above and a grim expression marked his freckled face. The man on the left looked like a brute, his slim figure buried in layers of crude grey clothing. Although his nose was deep in a glass of amber whisky, Henry recognized him to be Josiah Smith, his father’s most devoted henchman.
“William, I ask that you return to the hotel,” Henry said.
William’s green eyes widened. “S-sir, you came.”
“Finally,” Josiah said with an impatient huff.
Henry stared coolly at Josiah. “Why are you speaking with my driver?”
“I thought I’d give the lad some company,” Josiah said.
“William, please leave now,” Henry insisted forcefully.
“And leave you, sir?”
“I shall join you shortly.”
With a warning glance at Henry, William left the table.
Henry gave Josiah a hard look. With his one blind eye, slicked-back hair and deep scars along the bridge of his crooked nose, he looked rough, threatening … and perfectly punchable.
Henry knew this was not a coincidental meet. Josiah Smith was the man they called The Silencer. It was a stupid pet name that lacked originality, a common factor with idiots involved in crime, apparently, but this pet name made sense given that Josiah silenced company threats that tried to expose the truth behind Asheford Sons. That the reputable trading company was actually a smuggling ring that sold illegal goods, large quantities of opium and, even more damning, stolen treasures from desecrated foreign crypts and tombs. To put it bluntly, Asheford Sons specialized in black-market goods that appeased the sickening blood lust of high society.
“Will you not sit?” Josiah gestured to the chair next to him.
“I’d rather not. You wish to discuss the debt I was sent to collect?” Henry stated plainly.
“I wish to discuss many things.”
“Go on.”
“It’s been a few years since we last saw one another,” Josiah said, licking his bottom lip.
A few years too soon.
Four years ago, shortly after the falling out with his father, Josiah had entered Henry’s life as a stalking shadow. It was not entirely clear why, but he suspected that his father distrusted his intentions of living a solitary life away from the company. Then again, paranoia was his father’s closest ally. Sometimes, he acted illogically and that was what frightened Henry the most.
“Has something disturbed you? You are quite green around the gills,” Josiah said.
“Disturbed?” Henry said. “Surely finding the corpse of the man you had a meeting with would disturb anyone with a good moral standing.”
“You don’t say. The old coot was dead?”
“Don’t play daft with me. We both know how quick you are to get hold of company gossip.”
“You’re not wrong on that point,” Josiah said, leaning back in his chair. “How did you find him? Decapitated? Disembowelled? Took his own life with a dagger to his throat?”
Henry narrowed his eyes. Josiah always took pleasure in swatting the mouse around before he pounced. It was highly irritating.
“I’ll have you know the ‘old coot’ was found in rather suspicious circumstances.”
“That tone of yours seems to be accusing the company of wrongdoing,” Josiah said.
There was no use in pretending. Josiah was as ruthless as a bloodhound. If Cooper’s death came as no surprise, then he must already know about the note. Hell, he may even have placed it there. Perhaps, he had even killed the man himself, though Henry had not seen any visible markings to indicate that. Whatever had happened, he could use this moment as a chance to poke around a bit more. All he had to do was avoid the topic of Cooper’s briefcase.
“Well,” Henry drawled. “There was that note in his hands. A poignant message, if I may say so. Did my father instruct you to leave that for me?”
Josiah gave an ornery snort. With a quick lick of his lower lip, he clasped his hands across the table. The strumming of the lute heightened the tension between them.
“What if I told you that our dear old Cooper was a nasty turncoat giving away company secrets to the police?” Josiah said.
Here we go.
“An informant?” Henry feigned surprise.
“Quite a naughty, fat man,” Josiah said.
“So, you handled him, is that it?”
“Perhaps.”
“And you placed the message for me to find. Why?” Henry said.
“Playing the innocent fool once again,” Josiah said. “It really does get old, you know.”
A chill took hold of Henry. “I do not understand your meaning.”
“Given your history in sabotaging your father’s success, he sometimes questions to what lengths you would go to bring ruin to the company—”
“Good God, not this ridiculous nonsense again. He experiences a flair of paranoia and decides to remind his son not to cross him by sending him to collect a dead man’s non-existent debt. Is that it?”
“One could say.”
“One could say?” Henry leaned forward to slam his hands against the tabletop. His temples throbbed with anger. Same old story. “My refusal to become indoctrinated into a bloody criminal empire is not evidence that I wish to bring ruin to the company, nor does it prove my father’s delusional theories! For Christ’s sake, is it not enough that I manage the estate property and landlord inquiries for him? Why must he continue to mistrust my intentions?”
“Lower your damned voice—”
All Henry’s bottled-up rage spewed out. He pointed in Josiah’s face. “You do not tell me what to do, you ugly prick. As always, you continue to waste my time with baseless accusations. I am done speaking with you.”
Josiah rolled his eyes. “As if your time as a dainty landlord is worth anything.”
“It is more honourable than the immoral, degrading filth you choose to roll around in,” Henry said.
“Is it now? Tending to the gardens, hosting lavish balls and playing governess to your sister is pathetic, innit? If that’s what you want for your life, you’re no more a prisoner within your castle walls than I am an ugly prick.”
“At least I do not humiliate myself for the slim chance of obtaining my father’s recognition,” Henry said, leaning closer to Josiah. He could smell the man’s putrid breath. “I thought you’d understand by now that my father is not one to give such a thing.”
Josiah clenched his teeth. “Careful now, old boy.”
“Is that a threat?” Henry dug his fingers into the table’s sides. “Shall we put on a show for the crowd? Lay a fist upon me, you diseased dog. I dare you.”
Josiah’s face hardened.
“I am done here.” Henry straightened and turned to leave.
Josiah raised his voice. “There’s still a message to be delivered.”
As Henry stilled, his lips pressed into a flat line. His muscles were tense, and it took everything within him to glance back at Josiah. “One blasted message was not enough?”
“Your father has requested your presence to discuss something of great importance. I suppose after five years of silence he wishes to rekindle your father-son relationship.”
The words came like a kick to Henry’s chest. “A ridiculous notion,” he said.
“Rejecting a father’s wish is a cruel thing,” Josiah said.
“And I shall continue to reject them until the end of my days.”
“You do not have a choice in the matter.”
Henry saw red. How he detested those words. In one hasty step, he approached the table, swept it clear with his arm and grabbed Josiah’s collar. Glass shattered against the tiled floor. “Neither of you have ownership over me. I refuse to be a pawn in his greedy game!”
Josiah’s smile widened, exposing his sharp, crooked teeth. “Then I suppose Mr. Asheford will have little choice but to call upon your sweet, charming sister.”
The statement sliced through Henry’s racing heart. He released Josiah and stepped away from the table.
Whispers surrounded them now.
Josiah focused on the crowd. “Looks like you put on the show you wanted. Expect a letter addressed to you at Asheford Hall with the details of your meeting. It is your choice whether to comply, but you know that when Edwin Asheford wants something, he shall get it … no matter the cost.”
Mounting frustration dulling his mind, Henry could not speak. His devil of a father would continue to use Lottie as extortion. It was a manipulative tactic to control Henry, and it broke his heart every time.
Still as a stone, Henry watched as Josiah stood.
“How I love seeing your face redden after I emasculate you,” Josiah said. “A shame that I have more important matters to attend that involve silencing greater threats than a miserable boy out for his papa’s success. Do behave now and remember that I am everywhere and see everything.”
The violent beat of Henry’s heart filled his ears. His self-control had been kept in check for so long that it now forcefully broke from the weight of the night. The hatred that took possession was strong enough to bring forth a wave of memories he had never learned to cope with … or heal from.
He stumbled out of the bordello.
At the onset of nausea, he held his breath. He briefly considered running to the chemist to buy a bottle of laudanum because the throbbing in his head and the pain in his heart were too much to bear. All he wanted was to feel normal again. To be free. His grandfather had always said opium was the devil’s drug. Well, if he were to be trapped in the devil’s world, he may as well fall back to his old, sinful habits.