Chapter Thirty-Two

Ashcroft called for his carriage and paid the bonesetter to wait. A quarter of an hour later, in the glowing sunshine of the busy street, the marquess handed Patience inside the conveyance. A footman emerged from the house with a large, slim leather portfolio tied shut with ribbon. Ashcroft indicated where the item should be placed.

With a quick “The duke’s club, please, good man,” to the coachman, Ashcroft followed her and took the opposite bench. The door shut behind him. He tucked his ruined arm protectively close, wincing a little.

So far, he’d said nothing. The servants and Mr. Kelly had left them no opportunity to speak privately.

“Please tell me what we are doing.” Hearing him say “the duke” set her on edge.

Patience sat upon the thickly stuffed cushions of the carriage and arranged her skirts. The first time she’d been in the Ashcroft carriage, she had deliberated about whether or not to agree to his proposal. In retrospect, it seemed shocking she’d hesitated. But she didn’t know him then like she did now.

Grim determination set in Ashcroft’s features. He gave the signal to the driver, and they set out. “When I left the church the other day, I was only thinking about myself. About making myself whole for you…in a…in a…” He cleared his throat. “In a bodily fashion.”

“That’s not—”

He held up his right hand, expression stern. “There are certain compromises I cannot and will not make.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He inhaled a lungful of air, then seemed to change his mind about whatever it was he’d been about to say, shook his head, and let the breath out again. “Let’s leave that be for now. Mr. Kelly will wait for us while we attend to a more pressing matter.”

She shook her head. “Which is?”

Ashcroft glowered, but the look was not for her. Whatever churned inside him was spilling out. “Silverlund.”

Patience’s mouth went dry. She’d faced down the duke not once, but twice. The first time at the Reyne ball. The second time, mere hours ago.

Weariness was clawing its way back into her bones. She hadn’t slept since the man had come to tell them about the fire, and the false stamina that had supported her through the crisis was beginning to fade. If she was going to see Silverlund again, a good sleep beforehand seemed in order. “Now?”

“It can’t wait.”

“It’s kept this long.”

“Precisely. And shan’t keep a moment longer. It’s been festering for too long.” The ferocity of his expression diminished. “Don’t worry, I haven’t the least intention of coercing you into playing the pawn like I did that night he intruded upon us at Glenrose. I deeply regret what I said and how I behaved toward you. You were right. And I never had the chance to apologize, so pray allow me to do so now. I am sorry.”

His earnestness settled into her heart. Yes, this man deserved her love.

She glanced out the window lest he read her thoughts.

Deflecting, she teased him. “You’re a bit of an ox sometimes, you know.” She sneaked a look back at him.

His mouth quirked. “Yes, I suppose so. But if anyone but you were to call me an ox, I’d have their spleen.”

“I’ll warn people.”

“Seems in the public interest that you do so.”

“The public? Are you going to spread yourself so wide?”

His grin turned cold. “For what I’m about to do, I do hope so.”

She went stern. “Please tell me what it is that you’re about to do.”

“I can imagine only one reason you’d appear at my residence at such an hour of the morning when you hadn’t received my request for your presence, and only one reason you’d be smelling of smoke. The duke tried to hurt you. And that I won’t tolerate.”

“What do you think you can do about it? A wealthy man of prominence isn’t easily hindered.”

“I don’t plan on presenting a mere hindrance. He cares about power. He cares about being a duke. He cares about control. What he doesn’t care about is people, except how they reflect upon him—or how he perceives that they reflect upon him.”

They came to St. James Street and stopped in front White’s. He descended to the street and took the portfolio awkwardly under one arm. “These are the drawings Holbrook saved. Though nothing about them will make the subject recognizable to others as you, the fact remains, they are of you. Therefore, you have complete control over them, and whatever you say shall be done with them is what I will do. If you don’t want me to take them—”

His words were painting a fair picture of how he was going to go about confronting the duke.

She reached out a hand to cover his. “Take them. You have my blessing.”

“Truly?”

“You’re going to confront him with who you are. Well, this is who you are. And I—well, I hope at least, that I have been a small part of your life. I’m not ashamed of you, me, or anything we’ve done together. Whatever you must do, you have my wholehearted support.”

“Have been and will continue to be a part of my life. If you’ll agree.” His voice fell by a few degrees, and his face shone with something utterly new. Something she’d never witnessed on the marquess’s face. “You’re the reason I’m fighting. You’re the reason I’m going to overcome him.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the building whose white stone was grubby with soot. When he looked back at her, his eyes gleamed in the same sort of way they had the night he’d first issued his proposition. “You could come with me.”

“In there?” She pulled back. He couldn’t be serious. Then again, this man wasn’t known for jesting…

“Yes.”

“White’s? You want me to come with you inside White’s? The White’s?” The audacity of such a notion was nothing short of stunning. It was outrageous. Scandalous. An idea only the marquess could ever advance. “I couldn’t possibly. It’s unthinkable.”

“It’s just a building.”

“It’s just nothing. It’s White’s.” She paused to take a breath and shook her head. “Maybe this is one place where your birth and breeding have blinded you.”

“Nonsense. I’m blind to nothing.”

“Because you’re the Marquess of Ashcroft, I suppose?”

“No sooner was I born than my father put my name on the list for membership. I know what it is and all it represents. I also know the rule prohibiting women is a rule of men, not God. Stuffy, pompous old men who see women as lesser and go out of their way to invent ridiculous methods of suppressing them.”

“Easy enough for you to say. You’re a man.”

“Fair point. But there will be no thunderbolt from on high striking you down should you go up those steps and cross the so-called sacred threshold.”

A nervous laugh escaped her. White’s. He thought she should waltz into White’s. She loved the man, but he was mad. “Next you’ll be saying women ought to vote.”

Ashcroft smiled like a cunning cat after devouring a particularly clever mouse. “Yes, now that you mention it, I think they should. Why men should force women to abide by laws women have been forbidden from speaking out upon? It’s barbaric. You’re not chattel. You’re as clever as men. Sometimes far more clever, I daresay.”

“But there are plenty of men who can’t vote.”

“Which is rubbish, isn’t it? We’re all governed. We all ought to have a say. Including women.”

She turned the concept over in her mind. Why shouldn’t women vote? It seemed reasonable. Embroider beautiful items in the drawing room by morning, brew dissent and reform in coffeehouses by day, dance holes in her slippers at London ballrooms by night.

Putting radical politics aside for the time being, Patience slipped from the carriage. The earth didn’t rumble under her feet, and portentous black clouds didn’t begin to swirl in the sky.

“You’re coming, then?” He gave her a tentative smile.

This was part and parcel of the freedom she wanted, wasn’t it? To shrug off the encumbrances of what others might think? She hadn’t imagined the aftermath of her resolution would play out in quite this manner, but the opportunity to be so bold would never come again.

“Yes. Why not?” She tried to sound breezily offhanded. As if she weren’t quaking with fear inside. If her parents found out—well, they would. And they’d have to live with it, because she had to stand by Ashcroft. If anyone could upstage the Duke of Silverlund, it would be the man’s own son.

She held out her hands. “I’ll carry that.”

Fortunately, the man did not stand on a point of pride. He handed the portfolio over without comment.

Together, they walked toward the door.