leave, and—
And the damned cat streaked between his boots, disappearing into the alley behind the mews.
The little bastard.
Ash jogged in pursuit. He couldn’t let the cursed beast get away. Someone, or something, had to be there for Emma if everything else went to hell.
“Breeches!” he called, dashing down to the corner and then hooking left. “Come, Breeches. Come.” He whistled, chirped, snapped his fingers, peered into every crack and crevice. “Breeches!”
Ash tried, very hard, not to think about how this scene must appear. A scarred madman sprinting up and down the dark lanes of Mayfair, calling the words “come” and “breeches” repeatedly while making kissing noises. Sporting wild hair and a misbuttoned waistcoat. Excellent.
When the trio of men cornered him in a blind alley, tackling him to the ground and throwing a sack over his head, he couldn’t claim to be terribly surprised. Ash was certain they meant to take him to Bedlam.
He was, unfortunately, mistaken.
Gravely so.
Ash paced the jail cell, muttering to himself. All the words he’d held back for years, every curse his father had forbidden him to utter . . . he’d been saving them for this occasion. Now was the time.
“Shite. Bugger. Bloody hell. Christ.”
His drunken cellmate watched him from the corner, following him back and forth with glassy eyes. “Oi. Mind yer language, will ye?”
“Mind your own affairs.” He kicked at the wall of the cell. “Fuck.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This was a disaster.
He went to the door of the cell and shouted for the guards. “You, there. Release me at once. I’m the Duke of Ashbury.”
The guards laughed among themselves.
“Hear that, boys?” one said. “We’ve a duke among us! The very Monster of Mayfair, what’s been terrorizing women and children for months—a duke. Fancy that.”
“I’m not a monster,” Ash protested. “I . . . I’m merely misunderstood. Look at the most recent broadsheets. I gave a fortune to war widows, lavished candy on orphans.”
“Don’t credit any of it, m’self,” another guard said.
The first agreed. “False news, if you ask me. Never can trust newspapers.”
Ash groaned. If you don’t trust the newspapers, why am I here?
“Puppies!” he called in a burst of recollection. “I saved puppies from a burning building.”
“To be sure, ye did. And then drank their blood, most likely.”
After another few circuits of the cell, Ash decided to try a different approach. “This is kidnapping. Kidnapping a peer is a capital offense. If you don’t release me, you’ll hang for it.”
The guards scoffed at him. “There’s a reward. We’ll be twenty pounds the richer, is what we’ll be.”
With a soft whimper, Ash let his forehead rest on the bars. And then banged his head against them, repeatedly. “It’s useless. They’ll never believe me.”
His soused cellmate belched, then slurred, “I believe ye, Yer Grace.”
“A lot of good that does.” He rested his back against the wall. “You heard the wild stories they’re telling. Apparently my legend has overcome the truth.”
“Mayhap that’s summat you should have considered earlier.”
“Thank you for the sage advice.”
Emma was right. He’d let this monster business go on far too long, and now he was paying for it. He ought to have come forward weeks ago. It was absurd to think he could remain in the shadows forever.
Emma deserved better. Every minute that passed was another minute he wasn’t there for her when she needed him. One more minute closer to losing her completely. He wanted to punch a hole through the walls.
Money spoke louder than violence. The guards had already relieved him of any small items of value. Coins, stickpin, pocket watch.
He went to the bars and rattled them. “You there!” he shouted. “Release me, and you may have the clothes from my back. My boots are from Hoby. Eight pounds, I paid for them.”
He wrestled out of his topcoat and dangled it through the bars. “My coat! Finest tailoring. It’s worth—” He paused. What was it worth? He couldn’t have guessed. It was priceless to him. Emma had chosen it.
Nevertheless, he would sell it, and gladly. She was more precious by far.
“The waistcoat’s silk. Take my shirt, as well.” He jerked his cravat free and began to unbutton the front. “These are nacre buttons, worth a shilling each.”
He would strip down to his skin if that’s what it took, then run naked through the streets of London and make certain the Worthings’ Christmas ball was one the ton would never forget. Pride was worthless to him now.
He rattled the bars again.
His cellmate gave a phlegmy cough. “How much fer the socks?”
Ash became aware of shuffling and conversation down at the guards’ post. He went to the bars and listened. He couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized the sound of discussion in low voices.
One of the voices was feminine.
His heart leapt. Who could it be?
Emma?
Was it too much to hope that she’d come for him, having forgiven his stupidity and worthlessness?
“It’s not yer lady,” his gin-scented companion said.
The toothless drunkard was right. It was too much to hope.
Footsteps made their way down the corridor. A great many of them.
Lady Penelope Campion rushed to the cell and grabbed hold of the bars. “First and foremost, let me set your mind at ease. The cat is fine. He’s at my house, enjoying a nice mackerel.”
“My goodness, Penny.” Alexandra Mountbatten caught up to her friend. “He’s not concerned for the cat.”
In actuality, Ash had been just a little bit worried about the cat. But the imprisonment and Emma’s imminent humiliation weighed more heavily on his mind.
Nicola joined them outside the cell. “We had a plan to engineer
