A week passed in careful, measured steps. Days slipping by without so much as a glimpse of Levon Ashford.
Ambrose had expected to feel relief at the man's absence, had told himself that it was better this way. He was only here to wait and watch, after all.
Yet the longer the bastard stayed out of sight, the more it gnawed beneath Ambrose's skin. Every time one of the servants came bearing a request. Fresh cigars, pressed suits, horses made ready at odd hours. Levon's presence loomed larger in his absence.
By the time noon light stretched long across the marble hallways, Ambrose's nerves were wound into something brittle beneath his calm surface.
So when the summons came, delivered by one of the younger maids, breathless and wide-eyed. He felt the jolt, sharp and unwelcome, down to his gut.
"Madame Ashford wants to see you."
Minerva Ashford.
Ambrose followed the girl through corridors lined with gold-trimmed wallpaper, past oil portraits of unsmiling ancestors. His gloved hands stayed clasped behind his back. His stride measured. Calm. Untouchable.
But under the linen and leather, his palms had gone damp.
The drawing room smelled of roses and powder. Thick, cloying sweetness. Sunlight filtered through heavy lace curtains, casting soft patterns over velvet upholstery and glass cabinets filled with porcelain figurines.
Minerva Ashford sat at the heart of it all, draped in layers of silk the color of blush wine. Her pink fan fluttered lazily, tracing idle patterns in the air. A single emerald glinted at her throat, smaller than the one Ambrose carried in his pocket, but the color still caught in his chest like a warning bell.
Carmine's blue eyes flicked up from where he sat on a low chaise nearby, notebook in hand. He offered the faintest curve of a smile. Warm, utterly harmless. Blissfully unaware of the storm gathering just beneath the surface.
"Ah, Mr. Lysander."
Minerva's voice was soft. Honeyed, but with a sharpened edge beneath the sweetness.
Ambrose bowed low.
"Madame Ashford."
"Come closer."
He obeyed, steps measured across the carpet. Her fan flicked once, closing with a soft snap.
"I heard," she began lightly, "that you have been assisting my son with his studies."
Ambrose's gaze stayed carefully lowered, just a servant offering polite deference. Nothing more.
"Yes, Ma'am. Only in small matters."
"And yet... Carmine tells me you're quite knowledgeable."
"Your son is gracious in his praise."
Deflect. Understate. Never lie outright unless absolutely necessary.
Minerva's painted lips curved just faintly. Whether in amusement or something sharper, Ambrose couldn't tell.
"Tell me... where was it that you received your education?"
The pressure curled tighter around his ribs.
He had prepared for this, rehearsed every half-truth and misdirection. But under Minerva's steady gaze, the air in the room felt thinner.
"A small school in the east, Ma'am. Well-regarded among merchant families."
Not a lie, not quite.
Her fan drifted lazily, hiding half her mouth as she considered him.
"How fortunate... for a servant to have such a privilege."
Ambrose's heart gave a hard, traitorous beat.
Does she know?
Does she see it? The faint polish beneath his borrowed accent, the trace of manners no amount of hardship could fully scrape away?
He forced his mouth into a polite curve.
"My father believed education was... a worthy investment, Ma'am."
"A wise man, then."
The fan dipped lower. Revealing dark, heavy-lidded eyes that weighed him like a merchant sizing fine silk.
"And what became of him?"
Ambrose's gloved hands curled tighter behind his back. The emerald in his pocket burned cold against his ribs.
"He passed, Ma'am."
A beat.
"My condolences."
The word carried no sympathy. Only the flick of her fan, a slow, practiced rhythm that matched the racing of Ambrose's pulse.
Carmine shifted in his seat, brows furrowed slightly at his mother's sudden interest.
"Mother, Mr. Lysander's been a great help—"
"Hush, darling."
Minerva's voice remained soft. Always soft, but the cut beneath was precise, silencing her son without breaking the surface. Her gaze stayed fixed on Ambrose, dark eyes half-lidded beneath the delicate sweep of painted lashes.
"How curious," she murmured, more to herself than anyone.
The fan tapped once against her chin. A rhythmic little motion that set Ambrose's pulse ticking in time.
"A servant who knows Latin... and classical literature... and carries himself like he's been raised among finer things."
Ambrose's throat tightened.
Too much.
Too close.
"I listen well, Ma'am."
"You observe well."
The fan stilled.
"That's a rare quality... in a servant."
For one breathless moment, Ambrose thought she would let him go.
Then the fan flicked open again. A delicate, slow flourish, and the warmth in her gaze shifted. Not softer exactly... but warmer, in the way a hearth fire could still scald if you stepped too near.
"And tell me, Mr. Lysander... do you dance?"
Ambrose's fingers twitched behind his back.
He kept his expression carefully neutral. Another trap, more velvet around the blade.
"I am familiar with the steps, Ma'am."
Her painted lips curved.
"A familiar servant."
Carmine glanced between them, blue eyes flickering with confusion, but never suspicion. He still saw only kindness in his mother's interest.
"Mother, why would that matter—"
"Hush, darling."
The fan flicked toward him, fond and patient.
"Every gentleman must know how to hold a lady's hand... how to lead without crushing her toes."
Her gaze slid back to Ambrose, pinning him neatly in place.
"My son has no present figures to guide him in such things."
Ambrose's heart gave a strong, traitorous beat.
Ah. So that was her angle. She wasn't digging to expose him. She was testing his usefulness.
It should have made him feel safer. But somehow... the thought of being drawn closer into her circle set his nerves alight more than the suspicion ever had.
Behind his lowered gaze, Ambrose's mind shifted like clockwork gears catching into place
"I'm sure Mr. Fleming would be a better tutor, Ma'am."
Minerva's smile didn't waver.
"Mr. Fleming is sixty-three and has joint trouble."
A flick of her fan.
"Carmine needs someone... younger."
Ambrose stood perfectly still. The weight of the emerald in his pocket like a stone pressed to his ribs.
He could feel Carmine's eyes on him now, too, open and hopeful. Utterly unaware that the kind offer has opened chance that Ambrose was looking for.
"Would you be willing, Mr. Lysander?"
A command beneath the pleasantries.
Ambrose's lips curved faintly. A small, obedient nod passing as a smile "I would be honored to assist the young master, Ma'am."
Minerva's gaze lingered a beat longer. But whatever she found in him seemed to satisfy her.
The fan flicked shut with a soft little snap.
"Good."
Carmine's smile bloomed at once, bright and unguarded.
"Thank you, Mr. Lysander."
Ambrose's throat tightened.
He dipped into a bow, low and steady. Not for Minerva Ashford but for the boy who didn't know better than to trust him. The boy whose ruin would open every door he needed.
"My pleasure, Young Master."
The moment passed, smoothed over with pleasantries and the gentle rustle of silk as Minerva returned to waving her fan.
But as Ambrose backed out of the drawing room, he could feel her gaze still pressing against the curve of his spine.
Warmer, perhaps, but no less dangerous.
By the time he reached the hall, the breath had gone tight in his chest again.
Minerva Ashford had drawn him one step closer.
And Carmine Ashford, with all his boyish trust and bright blue eyes, would be the key.
He almost pitied the boy.
Almost.
If Ambrose was careful...
The boy might never even feel the lock turning.
.
.
.