17
Ashton Lennox sat in a chair at Berkley’s club, an abandoned glass of brandy hanging precariously from his hand. His thoughts were miles away. He’d done his best to seek out the man he knew as Kilkenny, who Ashton was convinced was one of Hugo’s spies, but the man hadn’t shown.
Ashton had stalked the man like a master hunter would a prize buck for the last month, biding his time and convincing him to at least talk. But it had all led to nothing. Then word arrived of a carriage accident just a block away from the ball that night, and he had quickly deduced what had happened. He’d been played again, chasing phantoms in the dark, just as Hugo no doubt wished him to.
“There is something I’m not seeing. Some piece of a puzzle, a move upon the chessboard that I missed.”
He had agents of h
