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Asquith maintained his distance, standing with his arms crossed and his gaze pointedly turned in the opposite direction.
“With whom is Preston speaking?” she asked Amelia.
Amelia looked out the window and frowned. “Lord Willard.” She inhaled. “Lord Eltenham’s son. By general agreement, he’s considered an excellent connection. My brother hangs on his every word.”
“And yet you sound as if you do not approve.”
“If you had a little brother, you’d understand. Since Willard let Preston into his coterie, my brother’s words and actions have grown coarse. Before Preston started spending time with those...those bucks, he never would have tried to scare you into his arms by making that lion roar. I’m afraid that the longer he spends in Willard’s company, the more intolerable he will become.”
“I don’t think Asquith likes Willard much either.”
Amelia considered them. “I think you may be right.” Her brow creased. “At one point there was a rumor...” She pursed her lips. “I’m sorry. I cannot remember the details.”
A rumor? Lenora glanced at Asquith. His hand, his injured hand, was curled into a fist, with the hooked little finger sticking out.
No. Asquith definitely did not like that man.
***
Asquith had skipped Tattersalls’ Monday auction to visit Exeter Exchange. On Thursday, he’d arrived at old Tatt’s corner desperately craving the company of men of the turf. Only once he arrived, the familiar feeling of camaraderie failed to satisfy his yearning.
Not only had Hampton failed to appear, but Asquith had pointedly joined several spirited conversations and yet had not heard as much as a whisper about the sale of Calder, Eclipse’s progeny.
His mood further soured as horse after horse he could not afford changed hands, and utterly curdled as, after the auction, he strode through the crowds toward the awninged entrance, listening to jockey club members cheerfully settle life-changing sums.
The growl building in his veins grew louder.
The rumble had started as a mere hum on Monday afternoon when, over Asquith’s objection, Preston had trotted off to join Willard’s lickspittle band. Then, during the boy’s conversation with Willard, Preston had motioned toward both Asquith and the carriage, presumably explaining the morning’s excursion.
The conversation may have seemed harmless, but Willard’s far too incisive gaze had seared. He didn’t want Willard knowing anything about his life or his wards. Willard was still, beneath his polish, a man who would stop at nothing to bend others to his will. His open extravagance had increased of late, and the cultivation of his band of boys gave him broader influence.
He was a man with old vendettas, armed by new means and newly acquired influence.
New means... Could Willard be the force behind The Plow?
The implications were unsettling. The blackguard's proximity to Lenora already made Asquith want to drag Willard into the middle of Berkeley Square and finish what he'd started, what Neville had prevented all those years ago.
Since returning to London—hell, since that night in the blasted yew maze, everything he’d worked hard to stabilize had undergone fundamental disruption.
All because of Lenora.
In the space of a few hours, Lenora had transformed Amelia, too. He hadn’t thought Amelia, the ice queen, could thaw. Then again, Amelia had never met a changeling like Lenora.
At the Exchange, he’d come bewilderingly close to being lighthearted, but then at Gunter’s, his mood collapsed.
Initially, Amelia and Lenora’s nascent friendship had pleased him. But their repeated glances in his direction, which he’d tried to ignore, implied he’d been the subject of their “coze,” sparking an itch beneath his collar.
He had asked Lenora not to discuss him with her sisters. He would have thought she’d have known better than to confide in a mere acquaintance. They’d appeared awfully furtive, giving rise to displeasure he could not quell.
Gossip was insidious, a venomous adder quick to bite. Although the specifics of his brutal fight with Willard had never become general knowledge, Willard’s extended absence from school, coupled with Asquith’s injury, had spawned speculation.
The relentless, implicit needling from idly curious people eventually subsided, but by that time, Asquith had learned to abhor that kind of malicious talk.
He felt betrayed.
He let himself into Asquith House’s garden and then strode into the stables, increasingly at wit’s end. Even before his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, he perceived her presence.
The deuce.
