The bathroom at the Palmer House was cavernous enough to pass for a small chapel. White steam condensed on the tiled walls, sliding down in slow, heavy droplets.
William stood with his back to Evelyn, unbuttoning his shirt in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror.
"The water is ready, Sir." Evelyn kept her head bowed, holding a warm, dry bath towel in her hands, her gaze disciplined to stay below his waist.
"Come here." William's voice sounded muffled in the humid air.
Evelyn set down the towel and stepped forward. William casually discarded his shirt onto the floor, exposing his naked upper body to the harsh glare of the electric lights.
Evelyn's breath hitched for a fraction of a second.
Rumors said that William Ashford was a favored son of heaven, born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But the body displayed before her now looked like a sheet of parchment recording a brutal war.
The muscles of his back were fluid and tight, coiled with explosive power. But across that broad expanse of skin lay three or four hideous, ancient scars. The longest one ran from his left shoulder blade all the way down to his lower back. Though it had healed years ago into a pale pink ridge of flesh, one could still see that the blade which made it had intended to cleave him in two.
This was not the back of a pampered banker. This was the back of a gladiator who had fought for his life in the mines, on the railroad gangs, and in the darkest pits of the slums.
Evelyn suddenly recalled the other rumor—that William was not born legitimate. Before being reclaimed by the Ashford family, he had spent fifteen years clawing his way through the mud of the underclass.
"Scared?"
William didn't turn around, but he caught the momentary stiffness in her reflection.
"No, Sir." Evelyn composed herself, her voice steady. "Scars are a man's medals."
"Hah. Medals." William stepped into the tub. As the hot water submerged his chest, he let out a long, exhausted sigh. "That is the price of stupidity. Only weaklings who fail to kill their enemies instantly leave room for such things."
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, the furrow between his brows deep enough to be carved by a knife. "My head. Press it."
Evelyn rolled up her sleeves and knelt on the cushion beside the tub. Her fingers, dipped in the warm water, gently touched William's temples.
Her touch was light, the pads of her fingers soft, moving with a strange, soothing rhythm. This was a skill she had honed in her past life to appease Aurora's impossible temper; she hadn't expected to use it now on this tyrant.
The bathroom was silent, save for the gentle lapping of water and the sound of their breathing.
Evelyn looked down at the man resting with his eyes closed. In this moment, he was naked, defenseless. Her fingers glided past his temples and rested over his vulnerable carotid artery. With just a little pressure...
Of course, she wouldn't.
She was the medicine, not the poison. At least, not yet.
"Harder," William commanded slurringly.
Evelyn increased the pressure, pushing back along the arch of his brow. The tension in William's neck and shoulders slowly unraveled. The aura of violence that usually seemed ready to devour anyone nearby temporarily dissolved in the warm water and her touch.
After an unknown amount of time, his breathing became long and even.
He had actually fallen asleep.
This lone wolf, eternally vigilant, had exposed his softest underbelly to her—a "class enemy."
Evelyn stopped her movements, gazing quietly at his sleeping face, which was handsome to the point of wickedness. A cold smile touched her lips.
Sleep, William. When you wake up, you will find that you can no longer live without these hands.
However, this moment of peace did not last long.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Urgent knocking exploded like thunder.
"Sir! Trouble! Sir!"
William's eyes snapped open. The haze of sleep vanished in half a second, replaced by a tyrannical cold light. The fury of being disturbed made him look like a lion whose tail had been stomped on.
Splash—
He stood up abruptly from the water, sending a spray that soaked Evelyn's apron. He didn't care in the slightest that he was naked before a maid. He stepped out of the tub, grabbed his robe, and strode toward the door.
"If you cannot give me a reasonable explanation, I will throw you out the window," William roared as he yanked the door open, looming over the trembling secretary outside.
"I... I'm sorry, Sir!" The secretary's face was deathly pale, clutching a freshly received telegram. "It's McGuire. The Irish union leader. He... he just announced a total strike starting at six tomorrow morning. Our cargo will be choked off in Chicago; nothing will move out!"
William's face instantly turned as dark as iron.
"McGuire..." He ground the name out through his teeth. "I sent men to give him twenty thousand dollars in 'good faith money.' He took the cash and dares to renege?"
"They say... they say Harriman offered double," the secretary stammered. "And McGuire claims this is for the workers' dignity..."
"Dignity? Fuck his dignity!" William slammed his fist against the doorframe. "That greedy Irish drunk just wants more! Prepare the car. I'm going to personally knock his teeth out one by one and ask him how much his dignity is worth!"
"Sir, it's too dangerous!" The secretary tried to stop him in terror. "It's full of angry workers down there. You'll be torn to pieces!"
William was in the throes of rage, and his migraine, triggered by the anger, returned with a vengeance, making his expression hideous.
Just then, a hand holding a glass of iced whiskey was silently extended to his side.
William paused, turning to see Evelyn standing behind him. He hadn't noticed when she approached. She kept her head bowed, quiet as a shadow.
William snatched the glass and downed it in one gulp, the freezing liquid suppressing the fire in his throat.
"Get out," he roared at Evelyn. "And you, call the security team!"
Evelyn did not leave.
She stood her ground, and under the horrified gaze of the secretary, she spoke softly in that standard, yet rhythmic Irish cadence of the Lower East Side:
"It's not for the money, Sir."
The hand William was using to tie his robe froze. He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes at this audacious maid. "What did you say?"
"McGuire." Evelyn raised her head. In those emerald eyes flickered a light William had never seen before—the insight of one predator recognizing another. "The Irish are indeed greedy, and we love money. But if he has already taken twenty thousand, he wouldn't usually betray an oath for another twenty. Unless..."
"Unless what?" William loomed over her, his oppressive presence crashing down like a tidal wave.
"Unless he has a need more urgent than money." Evelyn didn't retreat. "I grew up in the Lower East Side. I know that look. McGuire has a six-year-old daughter suffering from a strange illness, something like polio. Harriman likely offered more than just cash. Perhaps a German specialist, or a miracle drug only the rich can procure."
William was stunned.
He was used to measuring everything in gold and solving everything with violence. It had never occurred to him to investigate the family life of an ant.
"For an Irish father," Evelyn's voice was soft but absolute, "to save his daughter, he would bite the throat out of God Himself."
Dead silence filled the room.
After a long moment, William turned to the secretary. "Investigate. Right now. Find out which hospital McGuire's daughter is in, and who the doctor is."
"Yes, Sir!" The secretary, looking as if he'd been granted amnesty, fled the room.
William turned back. This time, the way he scrutinized Evelyn had changed. He was no longer looking at a piece of cargo, nor just a dose of medicine.
He looked as if he were examining a dagger that had just been unsheathed—one far sharper than he had anticipated.
"How do you know this?" he asked in a low voice, the violence in his tone replaced by a probing curiosity.
"Because the despair of the poor is all alike, Sir." Evelyn lowered her eyelids, masking the emotions beneath. "And I happen to be an Irish person who would also bite God to death for my family."
William stared at her for a long while, then suddenly reached out and roughly rubbed her still-damp temple.
"Good."
The corner of his mouth curled into a cruel, exhilarated smile—the expression of a hunter who has discovered a new kind of bait.
"If the intelligence is true, Kyle, you won't be sleeping next door tonight."
He pointed to the long table in the study, which was piled high with maps.
"Stay here. I want to see how much more of this 'poor man's wisdom' is stored in that brain of yours."