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“Why should it matter that I own the bindery?” he returns with a lift of his chin. “How is my owning a shop any different to men of new money who have made their pockets fat from trade? To plantation owners, even?”

“So you liken yourself to a slaver?”

A flash of anger crosses Mr. Ashmole’s face then, and when Dora begins to pull away he pinches her fingers meanly.

“Damn you, no. The very idea of slavery on any level is abhorrent to me.”

Mr. Ashmole places his other hand on Dora’s back, guides her stiffly into a final turn, and at her dancing partner’s derogatory tone Dora’s patience finally snaps.

“Why do you find it necessary to challenge me at every quarter? What is it you suspect me of?”

The music stops. The dancers begin to clap. Neither Dora nor Mr. Ashmole join in, and her companion releases an unamused breath.

“Very well. Edward believes you have no part in whatever your uncle is involved in. He might be right. But I do not—have not, for a very long time—go on blind faith. Until proven otherwise, Miss Blake, I shall continue to treat you as I have done. It’s nothing personal,” he adds, and Dora utters a short, disbelieving laugh.

“But it is. You’ve made that more than clear and I heartily resent the implication. Whatever my uncle is embroiled in, I want no part of it.”

“Do you not sell forgeries openly on the shop floor?”

Dora bites her lip. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

The dancers begin to disperse. Without ceremony Mr. Ashmole walks her out of the ballroom, deposits her in a shadowed vestibule near a gold-embossed pot, the edge of a punch glass poking out from the fronds of a fern. He stares at Dora a moment before speaking again, dark eyes calculating.

“Do you honestly expect me to believe that you had no idea your uncle was involved in illegal trading? I’ve read Edward’s notes. It simply isn’t possible that your uncle was capable of hiding it from you for all these years, while you lived under the same roof.”

Dora’s stomach twists at the words. She hears the truth in them, understands his suspicions. When he puts it that way it does indeed look very bad. And yet...

“It is the truth,” she whispers.

Her companion scoffs. “You will forgive me if I struggle to believe you.”

“Mr. Ashmole,” she says tightly, her shame ripe. “Edward has been extremely kind to me. I...”

Dora trails off. Frowns.

“What notes?”

There is a split second of agonized silence. Then, as if someone has flipped a lever inside him, something shifts in Mr. Ashmole’s face. The hand that has kept such a stern hold of her arm since he guided her into the vestibule drops so suddenly it is as if she has burnt him. Mr. Ashmole curses, begins to turn away, but Dora stands firm in his path, a fire setting flame in the pit of her chest.

Chapter Thirty-One

Sir William suggests they speak on the balcony where the crowds are thinner and where, the diplomat quips, he might actually hear himself think. Following him out, Edward thinks again of what Dora revealed.

He saved my life.

The wind is not as strong here. The back of the villa faces a bank of water, shielding them from the worst of it, and Edward is thankful for the cool air as it is over-hot in that ballroom and his claustrophobia (though he has tried his best to hide it from Dora) was beginning to rear itself. He feels completely out of place and utterly ridiculous. His slippers pinch his toes. There is far too much pomp. Lady Latimer’s decorations—though undeniably impressive—are altogether too grandiose for his tastes. Edward prefers simplicity. Peace and quiet. It amazes him how much money rich people seem happy to waste on entertainment for one mere evening.

They skirt past two couples who have also taken the air and a group of older gentlemen dressed in togas. For one brief moment Edward sees a familiar face among them—long white beard, a pair of piercing blue eyes—and he stumbles, tries to get a better look.

“Mr. Lawrence?”

Hamilton has stopped, is looking at him with an expression bordering on impatience.

“I...” Edward strains to see, but the man has gone. “Forgive me, I thought...” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Come then,” his companion says, and Edward lets Sir William lead him to a more secluded area on the far right of the pavilion.