His Wicked Seduction novel Chapter 58

Ashton sat in his study on Half Moon Street. Letters of a financial nature were strewn over the surface of his oak wood desk. The numbers on the letters blurred as pain lanced up his left arm, which still hung limp and useless in a sling about his neck.

What a bloody nuisance being shot was. He had lost so much of his strength that his footman had to do many routine things for him and his valet, once a minor irritation, had become indispensible. He couldn't put a shirt on, let alone tie his neck cloth or button his trousers without assistance.

It was most humiliating. Everyone treated him like a child in leading strings and he was tired of it. And he'd only been injured a few days. The doctor had given him instructions to rest for the next five weeks. The idea was intolerable. He, of all people, could not afford to rest. There was so much to be done aside from his business; namely tracking down Waverly and ending this battle before it could progress to a full-fledged war.

With a heavy sigh, Ashton reached for the nearest letter, the movement sending a stab of pain through his bad shoulder. He pinned the letter down on his desk with his hand in the sling, ignoring the ache it caused and used his other hand to break the seal. He cursed under his breath until the seal gave way.

The letter was from his banker at Drummond's Bank, Mr. Jared Simms. Simms had given Ashton a detailed report of his funds currently tied up in the consols. It was a sound investment. Consolidated annuities were government bonds that paid three percent dividends twice a year.

Ashton had put fifty thousand pounds into them and the return had been a mighty fortune that he spent wisely and cautiously. Unlike his friends, he had not been born into money. His entire life he'd amassed a grand fortune so where his political clout could not win the day, his bank accounts could. Though he did not flaunt his wealth, he did not hesitate to use it when it could gain a clear advantage.

He was currently caught up in a bidding war over a company called Southern Star Shipping. Ashton owned his own shipping company, Lennox Lines, but acquiring Southern Star would put his ships deep into the Caribbean trade markets and the routes closer to Africa, an area he had yet to penetrate.

This was not his only interest in the line however.

For months he'd heard rumors that Waverly was involved in questionable shipments, bringing lord knows what into England. Ashton suspected slaves might be involved but it could be a number of things. If he could gain control of the line, he could clean up the ships, put new captains and crews on them that he trusted, and begin to eliminate Waverly's illicit sources of income, piece by piece. It was the one thing he knew he could do better than Waverly and if it was his best weapon, he needed to use it. A man couldn't hire killers to take out the League if he didn't possess any money.

He would have possessed Southern Star by now, but a rival shipping company had been matching him bid for bid. The end result was his solicitor, Mr. Danforth, contacting the owner of Melbourne, Shelley and Company to meet with Ashton in less than an hour to discuss the matter and come to an arrangement.

A knock on his study door made Ashton look up. His butler, Wimbley, a balding man of middle years, stepped inside.

"What is it?" he asked, looking back down at the investment report.

"There's a visitor to see you my lord. A lady," Wimbley clarified.

"If it is Her Grace, tell her I shall be with her shortly." He had no idea what Emily was doing here, except to berate him again for putting himself in danger.

"It is not Her Grace, my lord. She says her name is Lady Melbourne and that you are expecting her."

"Lady Melbourne?" Melbourne's wife had come? He'd asked to see her husband. "Show her into the Rose Parlor and have tea brought in. Tell her I will be with her directly." Still, he supposed he could work this to his advantage.

"Yes, my lord." Wimbley disappeared.

Ashton hastily organized his desk before checking his appearance in a nearby looking glass. His cravat was snug and his trousers unwrinkled. His silk navy blue vest was crisp and his shirt pressed. He looked decent enough for company.

Perhaps his hair was a tad long for the conventional styles favored among society but he'd been too busy of late to have it cut. His eyes, which had been glassy with fatigue and pain of late, were bright again with his irritation at having to deal with this proxie.

Ashton looked every inch the dapper rogue, save for the white cloth sling holding his left arm. Showing weakness in any way was not what he wished in a business setting, but his arm could not be helped.