The stables of Willowmere Hall loomed in the moonless dark, their timbered arches creaking like old bones. Eliza slipped through the side door, her hood drawn low, the scent of hay and horses sharp in her nostrils. A lantern flickered in the far stall, casting long shadows over Mr. Ashford's profile as he bent over a ledger.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"I had to evade Clara. She's taken to sleepwalking with a quill in hand, convinced she's Ann Radcliffe."
A faint smirk. "A family trait, it seems."
Eliza joined him, her shoulder brushing his as she peered at the ledger. Columns of numbers swam—debts, interest, dates. "How much?"
"Enough to buy a kingdom. Or ruin one." He snapped the book shut. "Corbyn's employer owns half of London's underworld. My father's IOUs are their favorite currency."
"And Margaret's letters?"
His jaw tightened. "Written to a Count Rivoli. A man who collects secrets like others collect art."
Eliza leaned against a stall, a chestnut mare nosing her sleeve. "We need leverage. Something Corbyn fears more than profit."
"We?"
"Unless you'd prefer to marry the merchant's heiress?"
He stilled. "This isn't a game, Eliza."
"No. It's a war. And wars are won with cunning, not coin." She stepped closer, the lantern gilding her determined face. "What do we know of Corbyn?"
"He's a hired blade. Loyal only to his purse."
"Then we find what lines it. Gambling? Women? Power?"
Mr. Ashford's gaze lingered on hers, a reluctant admiration kindling. "You'd make a formidable general."
"I've had practice managing Mother's campaigns."
A silence fell, thick with unspoken things. The mare whickered softly.
"There's a man in London," he said at last. "Harper. A solicitor who handled my father's affairs. If anyone knows where Corbyn's weak, it's him."
"Then we go to London."
He laughed bitterly. "*We*? Your reputation—"
"—is already forfeit, skulking in stables at midnight. Besides, Clara will forge excuses. She's penned three elopements this week alone."
His eyes narrowed. "Why risk this?"
*Because you're not the villain they think you are. Because I need to know who you are.*
She shrugged. "Boredom. And I've a fondness for lost causes."
Something flickered in his face—vulnerability, swiftly buried. "We leave at dawn. Meet me at the crossroads."
* * *
The journey to London was a blur of rain-soaked roads and stifled confessions. Eliza, wedged beside Mr. Ashford in the hired chaise, noted the way his gloves gripped the reins—too tight, as though steering ghosts.
"Margaret doesn't know you're here," he said abruptly.
"Would she approve?"
"She'd quote Cicero and hide a dagger in her shawl."
Eliza smiled. "I like her."
"She'd like you. Terrifyingly so."
The chaise jolted, throwing her against him. His arm steadied her, warmth bleeding through wool. They froze, breaths mingling, the air electric.
He pulled away first.
* * *
Harper's office stank of ink and decay. The solicitor, a mole-like creature with yellowed nails, squinted at them. "Ashford? Thought you'd be in debtor's prison by now."
"Charming as ever, Harper," Mr. Ashford drawled. "We need information on Corbyn."
Harper's grin revealed missing teeth. "Cost you."
Eliza slid a pearl brooch across the desk—her mother's, "borrowed" for the occasion. Harper pocketed it. "Corbyn's got a taste for high-stakes faro. Lost a fortune at the Golden Gryphon. Owes the owner, a Madame Voss, more than he's worth."
Mr. Ashford's eyes lit. "And if Madame Voss were to call in his debts?"
Harper cackled. "He'd piss himself. But she's a ghost. No one sees her unless she wills it."
"Where?" Eliza demanded.
"The Gryphon. Back rooms. But you'll need an invitation."
Mr. Ashford stood. "We'll make one."
* * *
Nightfall found them in a Covent Garden alley, the Golden Gryphon's sign swinging in the fog. Eliza adjusted her borrowed domino mask, her gown a sapphire silk Mr. Ashford had procured from God-knows-where.
"Ready?" he murmured, offering his arm.
She took it. "Will I need to swoon?"
"Only if I fail."
The doorman, a mountain with a cudgel, barred their path. "Invitation."
Mr. Ashford leaned in, voice low. "Tell Madame Voss Ashford of Willowmere is here. With a proposition."
The man vanished. Minutes later, they were ushered into a velvet-draped hell, the air thick with opium and greed. At a rear table sat Madame Voss—a raven-haired sphinx in emerald satin.
"The prodigal son," she purred. "Seeking salvation or sin?"
"A trade." He placed Harper's note on the table. "Corbyn's debts for mine."
Madame Voss studied Eliza. "And the lady?"
"She's my conscience."
"A costly accessory." Her scarlet nail tapped the paper. "Corbyn's a worm. But worms have uses. Why should I crush him?"
Eliza stepped forward. "Because worms turn. And the next time he gambles, it won't be *your* gold he steals."
Madame Voss's laugh was a blade on silk. "Clever girl. But debts require… interest." Her gaze raked Mr. Ashford. "A night with your ghost."
Eliza stiffened. "What?"
"Not *that* kind of night," Madame Voss smirked. "He hunts with my men. There's a shipment at the docks—a competitor's. Remove it, and we'll deal."
Mr. Ashford's face hardened. "Done."
* * *
Back in the chaise, Eliza whirled on him. "You agreed to *crime*?"
"To arson, specifically. A minor distinction."
"And if you're caught?"
"Then Corbyn wins." He stared into the dark. "Return home, Eliza. This isn't your battle."
"No," she said quietly. "But it's yours. And I'm here."
He looked at her then—really looked—as though memorizing her face. "Why?"
The chaise hit a rut. She gripped his arm. "Because someone needs to remind you that you're not alone."
His hand covered hers, brief and burning. "Foolish."
"So I'm told."
* * *
Dawn broke over London's slums as they reached the docks. Mr. Ashford handed Eliza a pistol. "Stay close."
"I'm not the fainting sort."
"I've noticed."
The warehouse loomed, its doors padlocked. As Madame Voss's men doused the walls in oil, Eliza spotted a shadow within—a boy, no older than ten, huddled in the rafters.
"Wait!" She lunged forward. "There's someone inside!"
Flames erupted.