the matter?” she asked.
“I’m ruined.”
“Ruined?”
“As good as.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped as if he bore a huge weight. “Clayton House has been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Aye,” he said. “A mob ransacked the building and destroyed everything inside.”
“That doesn’t spell ruination, surely?”
“It does when the house is fully mortgaged.” He let out a sigh. “I should have listened to your brother.”
“Dexter? Whatever for?”
“He knew I was heading for bankruptcy,” he said. “When he refused to give me a loan, I should have listened to his concerns that I was too much of a risk.”
“Perhaps the damage isn’t as bad as you fear.”
“Stevenson is not known for exaggeration.”
“There must be something you can do,” she said.
“There’s nothing!” he snapped. She flinched at the force in his voice.
He took her hand. “Forgive me, lass, it’s not your fault. But Stevenson has said that one of my creditors has already called in a loan. News travels fast. The rest will soon be circling me like dogs. The orders I’d hoped would pay for the capital will not now materialize. I pray to God there’s something left in Clayton House I can sell to keep the wolves at bay.”
He smiled as if to reassure her, but despair had dulled his eyes.
She squeezed his hand. “I wish I could do something.”
“You could garrote that bastard for me.”
“Who?”
“Jeremiah Smith,” he spat out the name, hatred thickening his voice.
Dread curled in her stomach. “What does he have to do with it?”
He thrust a piece of paper at her.
A pamphlet. Her stomach heaved as she recognized the words. Someone had taken her final article—the one damning the Molineux family line. The final paragraph had been edited to finish with a call to arms.
“Is this from the City Chronicle?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed, then he shook his head. “It’s a separate pamphlet. Apparently, several were handed out in the taverns around Clayton House last night. It only takes a few drunken dissenters to provide fuel for the fire. Smith’s words were the spark that ignited the flames.”
“How do you know what happened is related to this?”
“The Runners caught the ringleaders,” he said. “They had a copy of the pamphlet on them. Smith has gone too far this time. He cannot hide behind the newspaper.” His voice rose in anger. “I swear, I’ll hunt him down and bloody well kill him!”
Lilah swallowed her fear and held the bedsheet close. What could she do?
“There’s no need to look for him,” she said. “I know where he is.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh lord, Fraser, I’m so, so sorry.”
“You’ve naught to be sorry for, lass. Come, let me help you dress, and I can take you home. Then I’ll hunt down that blackguard.”
“It is my concern,” she said. “I never thought it would go that far. Mr. Stock has a lot to answer for.”
His eyes narrowed, and he withdrew his hand. “How do you know Mr. Stock?”
“I…”
“Do you know Jeremiah Smith as well?”
“I-I don’t actually know him,” she said.
His expression hardened, and she cringed under his scrutiny.
“You said you were sorry, Miss Hart,” he said, his voice quiet and cold. “Is there anything, in particular, you have to be sorry for?”
She lowered her gaze to avoid the accusation in his eyes. “I was merely expressing my sympathy.”
“There’s more to it, though,” he said. “Isn’t there?”
Her chemise lay crumpled on the bed. She reached for it, but he snatched it and held it out of reach.
“Tell me, Miss Hart,” he growled. “Why should you be sorry?”
“I need to dress,” she said, her voice wavering. “It’s getting late, and…”
“Tell me!” he roared.
She backed away and closed her eyes to protect herself from his fury.
“Jeremiah Smith is me,” she whispered. “I wrote the article.”
He muttered a curse.
She opened her eyes. His face had grown pale, his eyes the color of hard emeralds.
“Would you do me the honor of explaining?”
She reached for his arm, and he jerked away.
“Speak the truth,” he said, “but do not touch me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can do better than that woman,” he said. “You can tell me the truth. Or have you lost all sense of truth, of honor?”
“Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“Didn’t you? How long have you been writing such filth?” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “To think, all the times you spoke to me of honor, of dignity, of doing some service to the world to make a difference. Did it all lead to this?”
“I never wrote a word against you!” she cried. “It