“No doubt. You will let me know when your father returns?”
“Of course. So is there an organization to all this or not?”
“Bill had his own system. The more you work with it, the better you will understand it.”
“May I have a hint?”
Although he still felt the ice from hearing Yeatman’s name again after all these years, he smiled at her. “Start with the ledgers. Each one has a date and a business name on the cover or first page. Most of the other paperwork is peripheral, except for the current bills and invoices.”
“So it would probably be a wise idea to start with a smaller business and familiarize myself with his system.”
Robert checked on Shank again. He was gone.
“Yes. That’s a good choice. I have to go.” He crossed to a nail embedded near the door to Bill’s private chamber, tossing the Highland bonnet on one of the wingbacks as he passed it. He removed a black topcoat from the nail, slipped out of his green coat and waistcoat, and draped them over the nail. He shrugged into the topcoat. “I will be back as soon as I can. Stay as long as you like.”
He pulled open the door and slipped into the dark room beyond.
*
Eloise watched thedoor close behind Robert, feeling his sudden absence as if someone had caused the floor to shift beneath her feet. Robert Ashton was a large man—his height and weight made for a striking physical impression—but his charisma and authority filled the air around him. Whether he played the foppish dandy or the ebullient Robbie Green—who carried a vein of violence and determination beneath the cheerful banter—Robert’s presence could be overwhelming. Without it, the office felt abruptly empty and quiet.
The noise of the gaming floor below prevented it from being silent, but even that subtle roar seemed distant. Eloise crossed her arms and looked around, studying the office closely, noticing that it had been rearranged since she had seen it last. The huge cherry desk now faced the door instead of the plate glass window, and the two wingbacks in front of it had been re-oriented in the same way—now whoever sat there would have their backs to the door. A small stove in one corner, vented out the wall behind the desk, would provide heat in the winter, and oil lamps on the stove, the desk, and a table between the chairs provided light, as well as what filtered in through the window.
Three bookshelves had been added to the office and were lined up behind the desk, on the same wall as the door through which Robert had disappeared. Boxes and stacks of more ledgers and papers filled the shelves, although the organization of these had been meticulous with every item neatly labeled and dated. They appeared to date back at least twenty years. To be explored later, if she had time.
Finally, Eloise’s curiosity pushed her toward that door, and she picked up the lamp from the desk. She opened the door, holding the lamp high as the flame cast dancing shadows around the room. Moving with caution, Eloise stepped in, feeling as if she were invading some type of inner sanctum. Finding a candle on a table near the door, she lit it, then looked around.
The room belonged with no doubt to a man and was meant for efficiency as well as comfort. The spartan furnishings were made from a plain wood with no ornamentations and simple black iron pulls on the drawers of a low chest and the doors of a narrow armoire. A table beside the bed held another lamp and two books. The bed itself—wide and sturdy—held a thick mattress covered by a bright patchwork quilt. A door on the other side of the room indicated the private entrance that Bill Campion must have used to access the office without crossing the gaming floor.
Eloise tried the latch. Locked, with no key. Robert had locked her in, and Eloise felt a shudder of confinement, even as she realized he had probably done it for her protection. The entrance might be private, but that did not mean it was a secret.
She turned to leave but paused at the foot of the bed and ran her hand long the edge, her fingers trailing over the soft cotton quilt top. She wondered idly who had made it—Bill’s wife, perhaps his mother? Its beauty, like the rest of the room, held a practicality that reminded her in an odd way of the man who was now in charge of this enterprise. He had learned business from Bill Campion in order to find his place in a world in which he had none. The second son of a duke would not inherit much of anything unless some tragedy fell upon the family. He had pursued Lydia Rowbotham because he now needed to provide the family with an heir. Robert Ashton played the role of dandy or entrepreneur or floor manager—whatever was needed at the moment. And he was, indeed, quite good at them all.
But why? When had he started doing that, playing a role for whomever he was with? He had been Robbie Green for at least five years, had been around the emporium almost a decade, probably while he was still at university.
Eloise blinked, remembering the stunned look on Robert’s face when she had mentioned her father’s trip to Eton. He had immediately mentioned Yeatman by name, his face a thundercloud of anger.
How had Lord Robert Ashton gone from being a student at Eton to being under the care of the owner of one of Covent Garden’s most notorious hells? And why did he know so much about Morgan and the men he referred to as purveyors. His knowledge seemed more detailed than one should know just by working in proximity with them.
Her chest tightened, and Eloise shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be.”
But it made sense of his drive to find Timothy, his insistence that he knew what had happened to the boy. Because of the way she and Robert had come together, Eloise believed he was trying to help her out of his affection for her. But given his already scandalous situation, it did not make sense for him to continue to put everything in his life at risk for a woman he barely knew, no matter the passion they felt for each other.
“Why did I not see it before?” Her whisper echoed off the walls.
Robert most likely did want to help Eloise. But more than that, he wanted to help Timothy. Because he had been where Timothy was.
Her fist clenched in the fabric of the quilt as she took several long breaths. “Well, if he is going to help Timothy at such a cost, then I have to help him. Come what may.”
Eloise blew out the candle, closed the door, and returned to the desk. She started separating ledgers and papers into stacks that made sense to her, then chose one dealing with a tailor’s shop—a business she already knew something about—rolled up her sleeves, and went to work.
Chapter Nineteen
Tuesday, 19 July 1825
The Strand
Eleven in the evening
