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She does not need to name “him.” Mr. Ashmole knows all too well who she means.

“I have every right to be,” he replies, curt.

“Do you?”

He clenches his jaw. “My business is none of yours.”

Dora tries to command patience. “Mr. Ashmole, I understand you do not like me, but you must understand that I mean no harm.”

He scoffs on a turn.

“Truly, I don’t.”

Mr. Ashmole glances over his shoulder. Dora tries to follow his gaze. Uneasily she notes that neither Edward nor Sir William are anywhere to be seen.

“What has Edward told you?” he asks, sharp.

Her face snaps back to his. So, they are to be frank with each other. It is, Dora thinks, a relief, and she looks at him with the most direct stare she can muster.

“He told me that you grew up together. That he was the groom’s son, you the heir of an estate.”

“What else?”

“That when his father died your own father sent him to London to learn a trade.”

“And that’s it?”

“Is there more?”

She knows there is—is instinctively positive there is—but it interests her to see what Mr. Ashmole will follow with. The tempo of the music picks up then, and for a few minutes Dora is too consumed with imitating the steps of her dancing partner to continue the conversation. When the music slows and they join together once more, Mr. Ashmole replies.

“My father paid for everything—the apprenticeship, Edward’s board, all of it. And for years we did not see each other. I’m older than him, did he tell you that?” Dora shakes her head. “I was sent to Oxford, went on the Grand Tour afterwards, as many boys of my station are wont.”

“And then?”

“And then I came home. Sought him out.”

“The bindery—”

“What of it?”

“Well, that’s unusual, isn’t it? A man of inherited fortune owning an establishment? It is not typical for idle men such as yourself to involve themselves in trade.”

“I bought it,” Mr. Ashmole says darkly, “with good reason.”

“What reason?”

Mr. Ashmole raises his dark eyebrows, ignores her. “Do you think all men of fortune are idle, Miss Blake?” he asks, taking her hand to lift her arm in time to a high note.

Dora thinks of the clients Blake’s Emporium used to entertain. Of their present company. With a tilt of her head she gestures to the room.

“How many men of fortune here can say they keep a shop?”

The dance seems to be coming to an end; the tempo begins to ease along violin strings, and on a knee-bend Mr. Ashmole sneers.

“I do not ‘keep’ a shop, Miss Blake. That’s what Fingle is for.”

Dora narrows her eyes. “Do not patronize me, sir. You know what I meant.”