“And yet—”
“And yet what?” She swished around the table toward him. “And yet I have unfairly blamed him? And yet I have tormented an innocent man all these months? Oh, come now, Mr. Napier! Even if you could prove it, that cannot be what brings you here. Besides, some would say that rich, titled men like Lazonby are rarely innocent of much.”
“Really, Miss Ashton—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, just get on with it.” She jerked to a halt before him. “Why are you here? Kindly say it—or ask it—and spare me your moralizing.”
“I’m not sure I should waste my breath,” he retorted, uncertain why he was so angry. Or even what he wanted from her. The truth? Tears? He’d likely get neither. “You and Lazonby look two of a kind to me, both of you willing to twist and bend the truth as it suits you.”
“Look here, Napier, your trouble with Lazonby is your own,” she snapped. “My business in London is done. If his holding your father’s reputation hostage is what frustrates you, then go trouble him with your questions.”
Without an instant’s thought, Napier seized both her shoulders. “Do you think me an utter fool, Miss Ashton?” he exploded, burning to shake sense into her. “Do you think for one moment I don’t see what you and Lazonby have conspired to do here? And consider this, since you’re so conniving: Lazonby will have a knife in your back the instant he no longer needs you. He’ll swear on a pile of Bibles that you killed Sir Wilfred—whether you did or you didn’t—just to get even for the hell you’ve put him through.”
She paled at that, but stood her ground. “And I’ll swear it was the Morning Chronicle —and Jack—who harassed him.”
He did shake her then. “Do you imagine I haven’t been down to Fleet Street, Miss Ashton?” he all but shouted. “I’ve put the fear of God into every man working at the Chronicle . I’ve upended Coldwater’s office and his rooms in Shoe Lane, too. So let’s just say it out loud— there is no Jack Coldwater. And there never was, was there?”
Elizabeth Ashton leaned into him very slowly. “Well, if there isn’t, sir, you shall have to prove it,” she said softly. “But the Chronicle ’s staff, I’m guessing, has already told you they worked cheek by jowl with him for better than a year. His landlady has doubtless reported she saw him going in and out regularly. Moreover—”
“Yes, but she also saw—”
“Moreover,” she pressed on, “ask that bullyboy who loiters round Lazonby’s club just who’s been bribing him to watch Lazonby all these months. Jack Coldwater was known to half the thugs in town. And half of them were his paid tipsters, which made him a dashed fine reporter in the bargain. Oh, perhaps Jack wasn’t around the office much, but the Chronicle got what they paid for. And not a one of those men will willingly admit to being taken in by a mere woman. Assuming, of course, that they were .”
“Balderdash,” Napier snarled, “all of it. You’re no better than Lazonby, and I grow weary of being run around the facts with prevarications and half-truths. You set out to ruin Lazonby—to hound and harass and to convict him of murder—and you chose the court of public opinion in which to do it. And that’s all Jack Coldwater ever was. A weapon. A chimera .”
Disdain sketched across her face. “Is there a question buried amidst all this high-handed accusation, Mr. Napier?” she replied. “And if so, do you really want me to answer it the way you seem to hope? Because if I should—well, you fancy yourself a gentleman, do you not? There’d be all that gentlemanly honor to wrestle with. All that duty to the Crown. All that right and might and moral obligation needling you like a pin the laundress left in your collar. Well, I long ago ceased to be troubled by truth and honor, Mr. Napier. It never did a damned thing for me or my family. So leave me to bear the guilt, if guilt there be. And
“And yet what?” She swished around the table toward him. “And yet I have unfairly blamed him? And yet I have tormented an innocent man all these months? Oh, come now, Mr. Napier! Even if you could prove it, that cannot be what brings you here. Besides, some would say that rich, titled men like Lazonby are rarely innocent of much.”
“Really, Miss Ashton—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, just get on with it.” She jerked to a halt before him. “Why are you here? Kindly say it—or ask it—and spare me your moralizing.”
“I’m not sure I should waste my breath,” he retorted, uncertain why he was so angry. Or even what he wanted from her. The truth? Tears? He’d likely get neither. “You and Lazonby look two of a kind to me, both of you willing to twist and bend the truth as it suits you.”
“Look here, Napier, your trouble with Lazonby is your own,” she snapped. “My business in London is done. If his holding your father’s reputation hostage is what frustrates you, then go trouble him with your questions.”
Without an instant’s thought, Napier seized both her shoulders. “Do you think me an utter fool, Miss Ashton?” he exploded, burning to shake sense into her. “Do you think for one moment I don’t see what you and Lazonby have conspired to do here? And consider this, since you’re so conniving: Lazonby will have a knife in your back the instant he no longer needs you. He’ll swear on a pile of Bibles that you killed Sir Wilfred—whether you did or you didn’t—just to get even for the hell you’ve put him through.”
She paled at that, but stood her ground. “And I’ll swear it was the Morning Chronicle —and Jack—who harassed him.”
He did shake her then. “Do you imagine I haven’t been down to Fleet Street, Miss Ashton?” he all but shouted. “I’ve put the fear of God into every man working at the Chronicle . I’ve upended Coldwater’s office and his rooms in Shoe Lane, too. So let’s just say it out loud— there is no Jack Coldwater. And there never was, was there?”
Elizabeth Ashton leaned into him very slowly. “Well, if there isn’t, sir, you shall have to prove it,” she said softly. “But the Chronicle ’s staff, I’m guessing, has already told you they worked cheek by jowl with him for better than a year. His landlady has doubtless reported she saw him going in and out regularly. Moreover—”
“Yes, but she also saw—”
“Moreover,” she pressed on, “ask that bullyboy who loiters round Lazonby’s club just who’s been bribing him to watch Lazonby all these months. Jack Coldwater was known to half the thugs in town. And half of them were his paid tipsters, which made him a dashed fine reporter in the bargain. Oh, perhaps Jack wasn’t around the office much, but the Chronicle got what they paid for. And not a one of those men will willingly admit to being taken in by a mere woman. Assuming, of course, that they were .”
“Balderdash,” Napier snarled, “all of it. You’re no better than Lazonby, and I grow weary of being run around the facts with prevarications and half-truths. You set out to ruin Lazonby—to hound and harass and to convict him of murder—and you chose the court of public opinion in which to do it. And that’s all Jack Coldwater ever was. A weapon. A chimera .”
Disdain sketched across her face. “Is there a question buried amidst all this high-handed accusation, Mr. Napier?” she replied. “And if so, do you really want me to answer it the way you seem to hope? Because if I should—well, you fancy yourself a gentleman, do you not? There’d be all that gentlemanly honor to wrestle with. All that duty to the Crown. All that right and might and moral obligation needling you like a pin the laundress left in your collar. Well, I long ago ceased to be troubled by truth and honor, Mr. Napier. It never did a damned thing for me or my family. So leave me to bear the guilt, if guilt there be. And
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