If Jack gives each of his princesses a share of all he owns, it’s his right.”
“Princesses,” Ash sneered and shook his head in disbelief. Jack Hadley had thieved, cheated, and murdered his way to the top. Everyone knew it. His daughters were no princesses.
“At least a dozen bluebloods will be in attendance tonight. Grier let it slide that one of them is even a real duke.” She snorted. “Can you imagine that? A duke? Dining with ol’ Jack Hadley. Maybe even becoming his kin?” She laughed.
And taking what is mine? The factory? The mine? The hells? All that Ash had in this world. “No,” he bit out past his teeth. “I can’t imagine.”
And he couldn’t. He didn’t want to believe that the man who had taken him under his wing would discard him for a gaggle of females he’d never even met—daughters or not. After plucking Ash off the streets and giving him his start, how could he not consider Ash in any of this?
“Well, I’m off.” Mary pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Wait a moment,” he murmured from chilled lips. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh.” She arched her eyebrow, the look in her blue eyes decidedly wary. “You’re not going to start any trouble, are you? I’ve no wish to get scolded for talking out of turn.”
“Jack won’t give you a thought,” Ash assured her. “I’m coming,” he said flatly.
He’d hear it from Jack’s own lips that while he viewed Ash as a son, he didn’t consider him good enough to be his heir … good enough to inherit all that he’d built for the two of them. Jack instead preferred for his share of wealth and property to go to a trio of blue-blooded dandies with nothing but birth and rank to their credit. Oh, and marriage to Jack’s bastard princesses.
When Ash arrived at Jack’s Mayfair house, it was to find double the usual servants buzzing about. Like an army of ants, they swept, dusted, and polished everything until it gleamed. Hothouse roses, fragrant and rich in color, covered every surface. Beyond extravagant for this time of year.
Amid the cloying bouquet, the butler led him into Jack’s office, a wood-paneled circular room of deep walnut that was as familiar to him as his own bed. He’d spent countless evenings in this room, a glass of Jack’s finest brandy in his hand, discussing business, life, the politics about Town and how it all might affect their enterprises.
They were alike: both brought up from the gutters, both having tasted abuse at the cruel hands of the unforgiving and merciless London underworld. Both with an insatiable hunger to succeed, to win and prove that they were no longer gutter trash. Ash had always told himself that’s why they worked so well together, why they’d become partners.
Apparently, he’d been wrong. They weren’t alike.
Ash knew what he was, knew what drove him, and he felt not the slightest remorse or wish to change. Some men were built for domesticity and could content themselves with a simple life. A wife, home, children, church on Sundays. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t aspire to be. Nor was he like Jack. Jack craved a place in Society, position, the final stamp of approval—and he would step on Ash to get it. That much was now clear to him.
Ash surveyed the familiar room with fresh eyes. Even though Jack could scarcely read and do little more than pen his name, books lined the walls of his office, stretching to the domed ceiling.
He settled his gaze on Jack, sitting behind his desk, his secretary beside him, assisting him as they read over some documents.
Looking up, he greeted Ash as though nothing were out of the ordinary, as if gentlemen from Society’s highest echelons were not about to descend upon this very house. “Ash. I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Is it true?” he demanded, wasting little time.
Jack didn’t even blink. He never did. Never gave an outward sign of what he was thinking. A trick Ash had learned from him. Never show the world the true
“Princesses,” Ash sneered and shook his head in disbelief. Jack Hadley had thieved, cheated, and murdered his way to the top. Everyone knew it. His daughters were no princesses.
“At least a dozen bluebloods will be in attendance tonight. Grier let it slide that one of them is even a real duke.” She snorted. “Can you imagine that? A duke? Dining with ol’ Jack Hadley. Maybe even becoming his kin?” She laughed.
And taking what is mine? The factory? The mine? The hells? All that Ash had in this world. “No,” he bit out past his teeth. “I can’t imagine.”
And he couldn’t. He didn’t want to believe that the man who had taken him under his wing would discard him for a gaggle of females he’d never even met—daughters or not. After plucking Ash off the streets and giving him his start, how could he not consider Ash in any of this?
“Well, I’m off.” Mary pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Wait a moment,” he murmured from chilled lips. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh.” She arched her eyebrow, the look in her blue eyes decidedly wary. “You’re not going to start any trouble, are you? I’ve no wish to get scolded for talking out of turn.”
“Jack won’t give you a thought,” Ash assured her. “I’m coming,” he said flatly.
He’d hear it from Jack’s own lips that while he viewed Ash as a son, he didn’t consider him good enough to be his heir … good enough to inherit all that he’d built for the two of them. Jack instead preferred for his share of wealth and property to go to a trio of blue-blooded dandies with nothing but birth and rank to their credit. Oh, and marriage to Jack’s bastard princesses.
When Ash arrived at Jack’s Mayfair house, it was to find double the usual servants buzzing about. Like an army of ants, they swept, dusted, and polished everything until it gleamed. Hothouse roses, fragrant and rich in color, covered every surface. Beyond extravagant for this time of year.
Amid the cloying bouquet, the butler led him into Jack’s office, a wood-paneled circular room of deep walnut that was as familiar to him as his own bed. He’d spent countless evenings in this room, a glass of Jack’s finest brandy in his hand, discussing business, life, the politics about Town and how it all might affect their enterprises.
They were alike: both brought up from the gutters, both having tasted abuse at the cruel hands of the unforgiving and merciless London underworld. Both with an insatiable hunger to succeed, to win and prove that they were no longer gutter trash. Ash had always told himself that’s why they worked so well together, why they’d become partners.
Apparently, he’d been wrong. They weren’t alike.
Ash knew what he was, knew what drove him, and he felt not the slightest remorse or wish to change. Some men were built for domesticity and could content themselves with a simple life. A wife, home, children, church on Sundays. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t aspire to be. Nor was he like Jack. Jack craved a place in Society, position, the final stamp of approval—and he would step on Ash to get it. That much was now clear to him.
Ash surveyed the familiar room with fresh eyes. Even though Jack could scarcely read and do little more than pen his name, books lined the walls of his office, stretching to the domed ceiling.
He settled his gaze on Jack, sitting behind his desk, his secretary beside him, assisting him as they read over some documents.
Looking up, he greeted Ash as though nothing were out of the ordinary, as if gentlemen from Society’s highest echelons were not about to descend upon this very house. “Ash. I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Is it true?” he demanded, wasting little time.
Jack didn’t even blink. He never did. Never gave an outward sign of what he was thinking. A trick Ash had learned from him. Never show the world the true
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