Eva was grateful for his intervention but hadn’t taken a full breath since meeting him this morning. “Now we’ve solved the mystery of my missing undergarments, what shall we tackle next?”
“Next, we visit your publisher.”
“Mr Hemming?” A boulder of a lump formed in her throat. The man had a wicked streak. He manipulated events to suit his purpose. “Must we involve him?”
“Arrange an appointment and send word to me in Hart Street. I shall have my carriage collect you in ample time.”
There was to be no discussion on the matter.
“I can see myself out, Miss Dunn. Spend the next few days preparing yourself for our next meeting.”
“Preparing myself?” Eva snorted. “For what exactly?”
Mr Ashwood arched a brow. “For divulging those elements of the tale you’ve neglected to mention.” He brought his wrist to his nostrils, his lips curling into a sinful grin as he inhaled. “I’ll have the complete story, or Mr D’Angelo will take your case. The decision is yours. Good day, Miss Dunn.”
Eva watched him stride from the room, though his powerful presence lingered in every conceivable space long after he’d descended the stairs.
Perhaps it would be better if she changed agents.
And yet she had grown surprisingly attached to Mr Ashwood. Indeed, his intense green eyes and intelligent mind held her spellbound. His sensual smile sent pulses of pleasure to all the wrong places. One thing was certain. When she lounged in her tub tonight, when she dabbed rosewater onto her bare skin and slipped into her luxurious bed, she would think of nothing but the enigmatic man who wrote erotic poetry.
Chapter 5
“Howard Dunn’s situation is worse than you thought.” Cole crossed the drawing room and dropped onto the sofa. His grave expression confirmed Noah’s worst fears.
Noah returned his coffee cup to the silver tray on the low table. They were the first men to arrive at Hart Street this morning, and so he probed his friend further.
“You mean the devil’s debts far outweigh his ability to pay?”
Cole reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. “Howard Dunn’s debts amount to twelve thousand pounds. For affluent men, that’s an average month’s losses at the tables. But I’m told Mr Dunn’s creditors are tired of hearing his excuses.”
“So he owes Flannery twelve thousand pounds?” Much more than the paltry sum Miss Dunn mentioned.
“Five thousand,” Cole corrected. “Flannery extended Dunn credit as he’d had no issue settling his account before.”
“Presumably he owes another gaming hell the remaining seven.”
Cole’s tight lips and deep frown roused a wave of trepidation. “You won’t like the answer.” He paused. “Dunn owes the Turners four thousand.”
“The Turners!” Hellfire! Noah almost shot out of his seat. “Has the man lost his mind? Howard Dunn is a bloody imbecile.”
The Turner brothers—no one knew their given names—were violent men who worked out of The Compass Inn in Rosemary Lane. Fixing boxing bouts was their speciality. No doubt Howard Dunn had been fool enough to gamble on a prizefighter with bow legs and a weak left hook.
“Then there’s every chance Howard Dunn is dead,” Noah said, dreading the thought of explaining the seriousness of the problem to Miss Dunn. “It’s said their bull terrier can sink its teeth into a man’s jugular and rip his throat clean out.”
Cole snorted, yet the sound held no amusement. “Ordinarily, I would taunt you for lending weight to gossip, but that dog is reputed to be as vicious as its owners.”
Noah cursed.
The news complicated matters. Logic said Howard Dunn hadn’t fled to France for the summer, looking to charm a wealthy widow into covering his debts. The fact his clothes still hung in the armoire did not bode well. An unpaid debt to the Turners was like a signature on a death warrant.
“And what of the other three thousand?” Noah asked, foolishly thinking that nothing could be worse than owing a debt to the Turners.
Cole drained his cup as if it contained something far more potent than coffee. The temporary distraction failed to conceal his look of dread. “The idiot borrowed money from a lender in Gower Street.”
“Gower Street?” Noah’s blood ran cold. “Tell me you’re not referring to Mr Manning.”
Or Mortuary Manning as he was known on the streets. Anyone who crossed the moneylender ended up stiff on a mortuary slab. He was the sort to bludgeon a cobbler to death for information.
Cole nodded. “Most men would rather do a stint in the Marshalsea than borrow from Manning.”
“Bloody fool,” Noah muttered.
“And what relation is this fool to Miss Dunn?”
“Her brother.”
“Then you should prepare her for the worst.” Cole’s dark eyes conveyed the gravity of the situation. “I don’t need to remind you that Manning harasses the family of those who cannot pay their debts.”
“No, you don’t need to remind me. With luck, we’ll find the blighter before it comes to that.”
Noah scrubbed his face to ease the tension. Manning didn’t care who he hurt as long as he got his money. Though if Miss Dunn’s attacker had been working for the brute, she would have a broken leg, not a bruised thigh.
A vision of the woman’s marred thigh filled his mind. Vengeance simmered. The thug would pay for attacking a helpless woman in the street. A frisson of desire rippled through him, too. What was it about Miss Dunn he found so alluring?
“I have no appointments today,” Cole said, disturbing Noah’s reverie. “Perhaps I might assist you in your investigation.”
Only a fool would attempt to deal with Mortuary Manning and the Turners without support. “I’m to accompany Miss Dunn to an appointment in Tavistock Street at eleven. I’ll explain more when I return.” He couldn’t mention the publisher, couldn’t break Miss Dunn’s confidence without gaining her permission. “Howard Dunn lost his apartment at the Albany to Lord Greymere in a game of hazard. I need to know if there’s truth to the story. And see if you can compile a list of Dunn’s friends
