Albert’s demise had left Vincent without family, though to be honest, he’d never really felt a part of his own family, so his lack of one now hardly made a difference to him. His parents had died just after Vincent reached his majority, within a year of each other, leaving only the two brothers. With no other relatives, even distant ones, the brothers should have been close. Not so. Albert might have felt a closeness, or more to the point, a dependency, but then Albert expected the world and everything in it to revolve around him, a silly notion that their parents had fostered by making him their joy, their amusement, their favorite. Vincent had merely been the reserved, boring heir they never took notice of.

It was amazing that Vincent had never hated his brother, but then you had to experience emotion to hate. By the same token, there had been no love, either, for his weakling of a brother, merely a tolerance because he was “family.” That he had picked up the gauntlet, as it were, on Albert’s behalf was more a long-standing habit, as well as a matter of pride. It was a blight on his own name, that George Ascot had successfully crushed an Everett without consequences. He would soon know differently. It was the last thing that Vincent could do for Albert, to at least pay back Ascot in kind.

The snow he had been expecting arrived, just as the door opened across the street to Dudley’s knock. Vincent’s view was hampered by the white flakes, but he could still make out a flowing skirt, so a female had answered the knock. Ascot himself wouldn’t be there. Reports were that he had set sail on one of his ships in the first week of September, and more than three months later, had yet to return to England. His absence was making this retaliation simple. When Ascot did return, he would find his credit canceled with many of his merchant suppliers, and his home lost to him due to lack of payment on demand.

Vincent hadn’t decided yet whether to continue his campaign after tonight or to wait for Ascot’s return. Tonight’s eviction would be a decisive blow, the culmination of several weeks’ work, but hardly satisfactory when Ascot wouldn’t be there to know of it yet.

Actually, this whole matter of revenge was rather distasteful. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, had ever done before, or likely ever would again, but was something he felt he had to do this one time. So he would as soon get it over and done with. But Ascot wasn’t obliging in that, being out of the country for longer than expected.