Page 49
Ashton threw his cards on the table. “I’m out, gentlemen,” he told his friends. He drew himself to his feet and followed Perry to a sideboard laden with glasses and decanters of spirits.
“What’s this about?” he asked Charles, filling his glass.
“Ten years ago in Paris there was a scandal—”
“I say,” protested Ashton, stiffening. “Ancient history. You can’t bring Paris up against a fellow now, besides—” He fell silent, looking aggrieved.
Charles began again. Ashton had slipped. He made no denial. “Besides what?”
“Who are you? How do you know about Paris? It was all concealed.”
“Never mind who we are.”
Ashton’s eyes narrowed, almost disappearing in his puffy face. “Hah! You’re government, aren’t you? Sent to plague a man. Listen, I’m an old married man now. What’s past is past.”
“You think that if it comforts you, Ashton,” Charles said. “Besides what?”
“The girl was willing, you know. Her damned Cossack father was the problem. Sent her into a decline, or she became ill. I don’t know. I told you, ancient history.”
“And the father came after you?” Charles would have gone after him, after any man who carelessly ruined a girl.
Ashton shook his head. “Not the father, the sister. She was a madwoman. She tried to shoot me at the Hotel Breteuil on the Rue de Rivoli.” He spoke like a man offended by a breach of good manners.
“The sister?”
“Sophia, the mad one.” He shuddered. “Irina died.”
Charles might not know the full story, but he had heard enough to understand Sophia Dashkova’s resentment against Ashton and perhaps against England. “Are you armed, Ashton?”
“Armed?”
“Yes. You’ll be interested to know that Sophia is here tonight.”
Ashton’s pasty face blanched. “Here?” His gaze darted for the door. He looked around for somewhere to put his glass.
“Does she know about me? Does she know I’m here?”
“It would not surprise me in the least, Major,” Charles said, and he knew it was true. Whatever her mission was, Sophia Dashkova was ready to make her move.
“Gentlemen, you must excuse me,” Ashton announced.
“Very wise, Ashton. I’d leave at once, if I were you.”
As Ashton hurried off, Charles and Perry turned back toward the ballroom. Charles’s mind ranged over the danger. The marchioness, or Dashkova as he must now think of her, had bided her time, appearing harmless, making arrangements, and now he had no doubt she would act.
“Perry, I’ve got to find Octavia. Can you find that footman of mine, Wilde?”
“The fellow whose ears stick out?”
“Yes. He should be near the cloakroom. I need him to take an urgent message.”
“Will you unmask the marchioness here?” Perry asked.
“I have to find Octavia first,” Charles replied grimly. And Harriet. He had no doubt that Harriet would protect his sister from anyone who offered Octavia harm.
They parted at the stairs, Perry hurrying downward, Charles turning back to the ballroom.
* * * *
