“Agreed.”

“Oh, and if you’re still interested in the Master Lock, this is what you need.” Vishous gave him a silver tool that looked like a miniature screwdriver. “Use this like a key. It should work.”

“My thanks.”

Vishous clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re proving worth the skin you walk in, true.”

“I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or not.”

“Smart of you.”

Poof! the Brother was gone, leaving nothing but a cold breeze behind. And in the wake of his departure, Assail turned back to his house, and called out, “Gentlemales? I am leaving.”

Ehric stepped into the open doorway. “Where to?”

“Naasha’s. She has had a change in station, as it were. Her hellren has passed—or been murdered, as may well be the case.”

“Interesting. Let us know if you require us?”

“I shall.”

Closing his eyes, Assail dematerialized and traveled in a scatter across the river to Naasha’s hellren’s estate. As he re-formed at the front entrance, he walked directly to the portal and opened it right up, eschewing any knocking or ringing.

Throe was standing in the foyer, and as he caught sight of the door opening, he frowned and then recoiled. “What . . . what are you doing here?”

Assail shut the heavy weight behind himself, and then teased his pocket square back into optimal position. “I have been invited here.”

“Then you should enter properly—by engaging the bell. You don’t live here.”

“And you do.”

“Yes.”

Assail crossed the distance to stop before the other male; whereupon he reached out and ran his fingertips down the lapel of Throe’s admittedly sharp black suit. The fucker was handsome . . . one had to give him that. Of course, he was also morally corrupt and about as trustworthy as a viper underfoot.

And wasn’t it true how that mix went together so very often.

“My dear boy,” Assail murmured, “if you do not know why I have been summoned, you are either blind or naive.”

Throe slapped Assail’s hand away. “I’m not your ‘boy.’”

Assail leaned in. “But you’d like to be, wouldn’t you.”

“Fuck you.”

“All you have to do is ask nicely and I’ll consider it. In the meantime, you might remind yourself that your mistress is going to be looking for her next victim—I mean hellren. And as numerous as your charms are, I believe you are missing one important criterion. Last I heard you were poor. Or at least what passes for poor by her standards. However, I do not have that problem, do I. Mayhap that is why she called me to her?”

As Throe bared his fangs and seemed prepared to offer a rebuke, the sound of hurried footfalls came down the winding staircase.

“Assail!”

Opening his arms wide, he accepted the fragrant, carefully tended-to tackle that hit him, and as he held Naasha close to his body, he met Throe’s eyes. Throwing the gentlemale a wink, Assail deliberately moved his hand down to the female’s ass and squeezed.

Naasha inched back. “The solicitor is coming. Will you stay whilst I meet with him?”

“But of course. In this, your time of need, I am e’er at your service.”

“They have taken my mate’s remains away.” Outing her silk handkerchief from her bodice, she blotted cheeks that were dry and tended to eyes that were neither red rimmed nor smudged. “He is to be cremated this eve. And then we shall have the Fade ceremony. He always said he wished to be fade on the property.”

“Then that is what you need to do for him in his final repose.”

“I have sent my houseguests away. It seemed improper to have them under this roof whilst such arrangements are being made.” More of the dabbing. “I am so very alone. I shall need you now more than ever.”

Assail bowed as he felt Throe seethe. “My pleasure.”

“Perhaps you shall sit in with me and the solicitor—”

Throe spoke up. “No, I will be there to support you. This needs to be private.”

“He does have a point,” Assail murmured as he stroked her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “And I am happy to tarry herein for however long it takes. Provide me with a parlor and I shall amuse myself with something from your library, perhaps?”

There was a chiming from the front door, and the butler materialized out of a back room. As the doggen hurried forth to answer the summoning, Throe cocked a brow—as if to point out that this was indeed how proper guests were to be received.

And then Saxton, the King’s own solicitor, strode into the mansion.

Saxton was more suited to the Regency ton than to modern life in many ways, his thick blond hair curled back off his face, his suit handmade for him by an expert, his cashmere coat and Louis Vuitton briefcase suspending him between the polar opposites of fashion dandy and industrious lawyer.

“Mistress,” he said with a bow. “My condolences for your loss.”

Cue another round of dry-eyed theatrics and hankie waving—and as the drama hit, Assail stepped out of the conversation, although he did catch Saxton’s eye. As they nodded to each other discreetly, Assail had the distinct impression that the attorney knew exactly why he was in the household.

Ah, Wrath. Fingers in everyone’s pie—and that was a good thing, Assail was coming to believe.