Eloise met Adrienne’s eyes in the glass. “You know what he plans to stir up.”
“A rat’s nest. And I hope you both succeed.” Adrienne squeezed Eloise’s hand. “Just remember that rats bite.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wednesday, 20 July 1825
New Oxford Street, London
One in the afternoon
Robert looked aroundthe private room of the coffee house one more time, then crossed his arms to keep his hands from fidgeting. He had left orders that the food be delivered ten minutes after the Duke of Kennet arrived—sliced lamb in a gelled cranberry and mint sauce, new potatoes, boiled cabbage, and a pitcher of ale—so all that was left to do was wait. Robert hated waiting. The room—small but tidy—held a table set for two, a sideboard for the food, and two armchairs in front of a narrow coal fireplace. But it had no room for pacing, which probably explained the twitching of Robert’s fingers.
He’s your father!
It didn’t matter. Philip Ashton was still one of the premier peers of the realm, a man whose very presence commanded a room—a man who had recently disowned his second son. Philip’s size, the depth of his voice, his personal charisma drew attention—people could not help but watch and admire him. He was a duke, a man with more power than almost anyone other than the king—with the possible exception of the Duke of Makendon.
And Robert was about to step into battle with both of them. His gut clinched at the thought, and every muscle tensed. He made himself breathe.
A sharp rap on the door was followed by the entrance of the duke, who had to duck to enter the room, which suddenly felt infinitely smaller. Robert stood a bit straighter. “Sir.”
Philip glanced around the room, then deposited a leather portfolio onto one of the armchairs. He had been outfitted for the day in a dark brown linen coat and trousers, with a modest taupe waistcoat, white shirt, and precisely tied cravat. He removed his hat and rested it on the end of the sideboard. He looked his son up and down once, then stepped forward and folded Robert into a sudden embrace.
Robert, stunned by both his father’s move and the strength of his grip, barely reacted before Philip released him and cleared his throat. “Robert. You look like hell.”
They were exactly the words Robert needed to hear, the familiar rapport, and his tension leeched away. “Good afternoon to you as well, sir.”
“Makendon has turned out to be quite the son of a bitch, has he not?”
Robert coughed. “I believe we were here to discuss just that.”
Philip motioned to the two chairs. “I knew the man was mercenary, but he is trying to turn your scandal into an unprecedented coup.” He picked up the portfolio and sat down. As Robert did the same, Philip removed a swath of papers and waved them at Robert. “Am I to assume you have not seen these?”
“I have not. I have not provided them with the location of my new rooms, and I doubt he would want to have anything delivered to the emporium. I also thought we would not see these until I had complied with his wishes.”
Philip flipped through the pages. “Well, we will talk about that after luncheon.” He handed the stack to Robert. “I have marked a paragraph for your attention.”
Robert read through the lines, a deep pressure building in his chest. He read the words twice, and his teeth began to grind, his throat tightening. The basic details were as he had suspected, but the extent of them sent a tight rage through his gut. He finally looked up at Philip. “He wants a controlling interest in the shipping company?”
“And space in four of our warehouses at greatly reduced rates as well as a share of the West Indies cotton imports.”
“Is he mad?”
Philip shook his head. “Not at all. He believes he is a man with a powerful advantage.”
“My ruin.”
“Indeed. He is willing to play your social savior—in fact, the savior of all of Kennet—in exchange for financial interest in three of our enterprises.”
“The implied threat being that if we do not comply, he will act in the completely opposite manner. To ensure all our ruin.”
“Yes.”
Robert looked down at the papers again, a deep sense of despair beginning to settle over him. “Father, I am sor—”
“No.”
He looked up. “Wha—”
