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“Last night, Willard’s lads pushed me into the Thames. Came home smelling like night soil.” Preston snorted. “The odor of ordure, if you may.”

Asquith cracked a smile.

“Father took umbrage.” He pursed his lips. “Said I was lucky not to be knifed by a roving badger.”

“You were lucky. Down by the docks, men would kill for less than the clothes you were wearing last night.” He paused. “Let me guess. Willard and coterie were on the way to The Plow.”

Preston nodded. “We ran into your pompous friend Neville in the street. He provoked Willard. I said something to diffuse the tension—don’t remember what—and Willard took offense. He cut me, and the rest took his cue. Now they’ve kicked me out.”

That would make things harder, but still—“You’re better for it.”

Preston glanced up. “Don’t feel better.”

“Neville isn’t pompous, you know. He’s earned his self-respect.” Asquith crossed the room. “As will you.”

Preston searched Asquith’s gaze as if to confirm he spoke the truth. Then he nodded.

Asquith pivoted to his purpose. “Does Willard own The Plow?”

“Own The Plow?” He glanced askance. “He created The Plow. It’s how he keeps us all in his thrall... and his debt.”

Just as Asquith had suspected. “Would you like a chance to even the score?”

Preston studied him warily.

“As angry as you are at Willard for evicting you from his circle, he is capable of far worse. This, I know personally. I once beat Willard at his own game, quite literally, and he’s never forgiven me. Willard’s interest in Millie last night was not an accident. It was a deliberate provocation.”

Preston’s expression shifted. He was no longer chastened or leery, but focused.

“Is Lenora in danger, too?”

Asquith’s throat momentarily closed. “Possibly.” Willard had stared at her in the park all those months ago. Who was to say he wouldn’t use Lenora for his own ends, too? “I believe we can thwart him, but I need to know everything about Willard’s involvement with The Plow.”

“Let’s see. What do I know?” Preston leaned forward, resting his elbows on his spread knees. “As I said, I know he created the brothel. He hand-selects the women—he’s proud of that part.”

Asquith’s expression darkened.

“I also know Willard controls the brothel, but he doesn’t own the building. The tavern keepers hold the place fee simple. I think a separate corporation was formed.”

Asquith had hoped as much. He fondly remembered the tavern owners from his youth. For years, a husband and wife had quietly operated the establishment.

They’d both been patient, though firm, with disrespectful young men. Once, the landlady even bustled Asquith into a hackney.

"I've never grasped," Asquith said, "why those decent people consented to lease their upper apartments for illicit dealings.”

“That’s easy to answer. Debt.”

“Debt?”

Preston nodded. “After the war, they were having some trouble keeping the doors open. Willard gave them a bond to borrow against, a bond in Eltenham’s name. A paltry amount to Eltenham—three hundred pounds.”

“They couldn’t pay?”

“Worse. After they’d spent the money, Willard accused them of forgery. The bond, in fact, was false, only Willard had been the one to steal his father’s seal.”

“A forged bond is a hanging offense,” Asquith murmured.

Preston nodded. “Willard bragged about it.” Preston paused. “Laughed about threatening to prosecute the poor couple. I joined in the laughter. Everyone else seemed to think it was funny. Makes me sick, now.”