Eva’s breath caught in her throat. Mr Ashwood’s intelligent comment enhanced his appeal. “A vagrant may be wiser than a king, but without position and power few take notice.”
“Indeed.” A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Do you pen poems, too, Miss Dunn? The ink stains and the red marks on your fingers suggest you write more than the odd letter. Why else would you have an interest in an acid that can kill a man in seconds?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re remarkably perceptive, Mr Ashwood.” Too perceptive. What else had the gentleman determined during their brief conversation? “Yes, I write, though not poetry. But I shall come to that in a moment.”
“Then I await your explanation with anticipation, Miss Dunn.”
Eva paused while deciding where to restart her tale. “My brother, Mr Howard Dunn, inherited twenty thousand pounds upon our godfather’s death. Though I am sorry to say, he also inherited our father’s outlandish behaviour and has frittered away his good fortune at the gaming tables.”
Mr Ashwood sat forward. Disappointment marred his fine features. “We help those in dire need, Miss Dunn. We save boys from the hangman’s noose. We do not bring wastrel brothers to heel.”
No, that was a task beyond a mere mortal’s capabilities.
“Even if that were my reason for calling, it would prove an impossible feat considering my brother has been missing for a week.” Anticipating Mr Ashwood’s next comment, she added, “And no, Howard is not abed with his mistress, nor is he comatose in an opium den. Not this time, at least.”
“Perhaps he has eloped with an heiress.”
“Howard would never shackle himself to one woman.” A fact he had made abundantly clear.
Mr Ashwood smirked. “Most married men keep a mistress, so your point is mute. Have you considered the possibility that he’s fled the country to escape his creditors?”
She would have drawn that conclusion, too, had it not been for the other strange happenings. “Having broken the lock on his bedside drawer, I discovered Howard owes three thousand pounds to The Silver Serpent. It’s a gaming hell on—”
“Yes, Miss Dunn. I know the proprietor.”
Relief burst through her veins. “Oh, then you might discover if Howard’s debts have something to do with his disappearance. It’s said a man who fails to pay is thrown into the Thames with a sack of bricks strapped to his back.”
Mr Ashwood cast a look of reproach. “An intelligent woman should not lend weight to gossip.”
“Would you have me believe such things never happen?”
“No,” he said with a sigh. “Though you have my assurance Dermot Flannery has not murdered your brother.” Mr Ashwood pushed out of the chair. Clearly, he had heard enough. “Forgive me, Miss Dunn, but we haven’t the time to search for profligates who should know better. However, I will speak to Dermot Flannery about your brother’s debt. If you leave your direction with Mrs—”
“But I’ve yet to explain my reason for calling.”
Mr Ashwood frowned. “You said your brother is missing. I assumed that’s why you’re here.”
“As you say, rogues often go astray.” Eva had already enquired at every high-end brothel, every backstreet whorehouse, every gaming hell. She had even sent her footman to the mortuary looking for a fool with a fatal gunshot wound. “Were it not for a catalogue of other worrying events, I would not waste your time, sir.”
“Forgive me,” he said in the rich drawl that warmed her insides. “I’m used to people so desperate to tell their tale they barely draw breath. Your calm voice belies the distressing nature of your problem.”
When one lived with a devil, unsettling situations were commonplace. And crafting frightening tales gave one the courage to converse about matters some ladies found alarming.
“Perhaps that has something to do with my profession.”
“You write for a living,” he stated, lowering his muscular frame into the chair.
Eva paused. “I presume any discussion remains confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then yes, I write fictional stories of murder and mayhem under the pseudonym of Mr Cain Dunnavan.”
She waited for the deep sigh, the tut, the derisive snort and roll of the eyes. Howard found the idea ludicrous. Women lacked intellect, lacked the worldly experience necessary to construct a convincing tale. Yet the fickle fool sang a different tune when Eva paid his tailor’s bill.
Mr Ashwood shocked her by smiling. “I read The Blood Pendant and admire your courage in casting Sister Magdalene as the villain. That’s when I suspected Cain Dunnavan was a woman.”
Eva didn’t hide her surprise. Gentlemen rarely admitted to reading novels. “Why? Do you find the idea of a nun committing a crime unrealistic?”
“Men tend to cast women as foolish victims, or devious vixens who use seduction to corrupt unsuspecting lovers. Sister Magdalene’s twisted logic shows that men and women are equally cruel. Only a woman would be brave enough to explore that idea, Miss Dunn.”
Eva’s pulse raced. Not since her godfather’s passing had she engaged in such an interesting conversation, and never with a man whose physical appearance stirred her senses. Heavens. It was all too much. Indeed, she considered informing Mr Ashwood that she had picked the wrong agent. She was far more capable of dealing with Mr D’Angelo’s rakish gaze.
“But you didn’t come here to discuss literature,” he continued. “And we seem to deviate from your purpose with shocking ease.”
When one sat opposite a gentleman with such a charismatic character thoughts were bound to stray.
“In summary,” he continued, “your brother has not come home, and you write novels for a living. Neither facts seem particularly distressing.”
“Then I shall explain my reason for coming in a few sentences.”
“I think that’s wise. I have another appointment at three.”
Eva did not need to glance at the mantel clock to appreciate the man’s sarcasm. “Are you sure you do not wish to take notes?”
“You’re stalling, Miss Dunn. Give me the facts and let me worry about my memory.”
Perhaps she was stalling. It all sounded so ludicrous. The gentleman would blame her wild imagination. Novelists were prone to moments of fancy.
After inhaling deeply, she
