Siobhan stood at the edge of the market square, watching a flower seller arrange wilted stems in her cart. The woman who'd given her a place to sleep last night had been clear: Horacio Ashmont had money, no family, and a house that backed onto the old merchant district. He also had a habit of turning women away at the door. Siobhan adjusted the strap of her bag and started walking. She'd come to London with forged papers and a plan that required a particular kind of husband—one wealthy enough to fund a lying-in hospital, isolated enough to need what she could offer. Ashmont might refuse her. Most men with that much money and that much loneliness did. But she'd delivered three breech births in the past year without losing a mother. She knew how to make herself necessary. The townhouse stood behind a high brick wall, its dark stone facade severe against the grey sky. Thick curtains blocked every window. At the front gate, iron spikes rose between red brick pillars, the metal streaked with rust. Wilted flowers and torn fabric strips hung from the bars—tributes or warnings, she couldn't tell. Someone had tried to reach him recently. Someone had failed. Siobhan studied the gate. The lock was new, the hinges oiled. A man who kept his house this closed wasn't careless. She'd need to find another way in—or make him want to open the door himself. She turned and walked along the wall, looking for a servants' entrance, a tradesman's gate, anything that suggested the house still needed the outside world. If Ashmont had money and no heir, he had to spend it somewhere. That meant deliveries. That meant staff. That meant a crack in the wall she could widen into a door.

Siobhan turned the corner past the market square and stopped. A bulletin board stood against the brick wall of a narrow building, its frame weathered but sturdy. A crowd had gathered in front of it—enough people that she had to step closer to see what held their attention. The notices were debt postings. She scanned the list, recognizing a few names from her lodging house. Then she saw it: Ashmont, Horacio. Amount owed to E. Scrooge & Co.: £8,400. Property to be seized: townhouse and adjoining warehouse. Date of auction: 14 days hence. Her plan had just collapsed. A man being stripped of everything wasn't looking for a wife. He was looking for a way out. She pushed through the crowd and walked toward the bankruptcy court building across the square. Its marble steps gleamed even in the grey light, foreclosure signs bolted to the walls like medals. If Ashmont's debt was this public, someone here would know more. She needed to understand what Scrooge wanted—and whether there was anything left worth saving. A man with nothing couldn't fund a hospital. But a man who still had fourteen days might be desperate enough to take help from someone who knew how to bargain. Inside, a clerk sat behind a scarred wooden desk. Siobhan set her bag down and met his eyes. "I need the full record on Ashmont's debt," she said. "Every entry, every date it came due." The clerk looked her over, then pulled a ledger from the shelf. She would know what Scrooge held over Ashmont before the day ended. And then she would decide if there was a way to turn a foreclosure into an opportunity—or if she needed to find another mark entirely.