Chapter 31
Thirty-One
A udrey paused just outside the breakfast room, her hand resting lightly against the doorframe. Cedric was seated at the table, one large hand cradling a cup of coffee while the other expertly turned a page of The Times . His dark hair, unfashionably long and still slightly damp from his bath, fell in waves about his shoulders, though his expression was as unreadable as ever.
Did he think of it? The kiss?
Audrey had turned the moment over in her mind so many times since it happened that it had taken on a dreamlike quality. She thought of his mouth on hers—warm, tender, and far more deliberate than she would have expected. She had felt it in her very toes, and yet, as far as Cedric was concerned, she might as well have been a stranger since.
He shifted then, glancing up as though sensing her presence. Their eyes met, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw something flicker in his gaze. Recognition, perhaps? A memory? But it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. A faint smile curved his lips.
“Are you planning on lurking in the doorway all morning, or shall I have Astor bring you a chair?” he drawled, raising an eyebrow.
Audrey squared her shoulders, though she felt the heat of a blush creeping up her neck. “I was merely considering how deeply engrossed you were in that paper, Your Grace.”
“I assure you, it pales in comparison to the intrigue of watching you loiter like an uncertain guest in your own house.” He beckoned her forward with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Come, sit before I decide you’re plotting something.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Audrey crossed the room and took her seat at the far end of the table. As she smoothed her napkin over her lap, she stole another glance at him. Nothing in his expression—his faint smile, his composed manner—hinted that anything had changed between them.
It was a kiss, nothing more . A moment of weakness, perhaps, but it was fleeting.
Still, as she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup, her fingers felt clumsy around the porcelain.
“Do you intend to bury yourself in that paper all morning, or shall we pretend this is a conversation?”
He lowered the paper just enough to meet her gaze, an amused glint in his brown eyes. “Would you care to start, then? Shall we discuss the weather? Or perhaps you would like me to comment on how many scones you consume?”
“I assure you,” Audrey replied, spreading cream cheese and raspberry jam over a slice of toast, “my appetite has never been your concern.”
“Only because you seem quite capable of managing it without my interference.”
Audrey rolled her eyes and took a bite, though the corners of her mouth twitched. She chewed thoughtfully, the room sinking back into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the occasional rustle of Cedric’s paper. It was strange, this moment—so normal that it felt disarming. A duchess and a duke, sharing a quiet breakfast like any other married couple. As though they were like any other married couple.
Before the thought could fester, the breakfast room door opened, and Astor entered with his customary air of calm efficiency. “Your Grace, Lord Belleville has arrived.”
Cedric groaned softly, lowering his newspaper once again. “At this hour? Has the man no decency?”
Audrey shot him a reproachful look. “Cedric, be gracious.”
“Graciousness is hardly required when one’s peace is being invaded,” he muttered.
Astor, unperturbed, turned his gaze to Audrey. “Shall I show him in, Your Grace?”
“Of course,” Audrey replied smoothly. “We are always delighted to see Lord Belleville.”
Cedric grumbled into his coffee, “ You may be.”
“That,” she countered with a satisfied smile, “is precisely why you married me. I handle your guests so you don’t have to.”
For a moment, something in Cedric’s face softened, as though the gruff mask he wore so diligently had cracked just slightly. His lips curled into a rare, genuine smile. “And here I thought it was for your charm.”
Audrey opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a voice cut in. “What a sweet moment! Truly, the picture of marital bliss.”
Lord Belleville strode into the room, all smiles and effortless charm, as though he had been summoned to break the mood. Audrey felt her cheeks flush under his teasing scrutiny, though she forced herself to sit straighter.
“Good morning, Lord Belleville,” she greeted, determined to regain control of the room. “Have you eaten?”
Belleville pulled out a chair and dropped into it with an exaggerated groan. “I have not. And knowing Cedric, I had best fortify myself before delivering some important news.”
Cedric’s glare was sharp enough to pierce through steel. “If you’ve come to torment me this early in the morning, I’ll have you tossed out.”
“Ah, but you won’t,” Belleville said cheerfully, reaching for the nearest platter of muffins. “Because, as much as you dislike me, you need me.”
“I need you like I need a hole in my boot,” Cedric retorted. “Now speak, or I’ll have Astor escort you out of the premises, breakfast or not.”
Belleville ignored the threat entirely, turning instead to Audrey. “Your Grace, will you be attending Lady Heathersfield’s ball tomorrow evening? I’ve heard it’s promising to be quite the event.”
“Of course,” Audrey replied with a gracious nod. “Lilianna will be attending, and I’ve promised to introduce her to a few… suitable gentlemen.”
Belleville’s smile turned sly. “I’ll be there, then.”
Cedric, who had been idly stirring his coffee, set the spoon down with a sharp clink . “If you’ve quite finished angling for an invitation, perhaps you’d like to get on with it.”
Belleville sighed dramatically, as though burdened by his task. “Patience, Cedric. This news requires sustenance, and I’m nearly done.” He popped the last bite of his muffin into his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. Only then did he lean back in his chair, stretching his limbs as though he had a full night’s rest. “Lord Rashford has been located.”
The room stilled.
Cedric’s chair scraped across the floor as he shot to his feet in one fluid motion, his tall frame towering over them both. “Where?”
Belleville didn’t flinch, though he shot Audrey a knowing look before answering. “He’s staying at a small inn on the edge of Mayfair. Far enough from the center of London to avoid being seen but close enough to maintain his hold on Society’s strings.”
Cedric’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’ll leave immediately.”
Audrey rose as well, her pulse quickening. “Cedric.” Her voice was calm, but it carried an edge of urgency. She stepped forward, placing herself between her husband and the door. “You cannot simply storm into his lodgings.”
Cedric’s eyes bored into hers, dark and unwavering. “And what would you have me do, Audrey? Sit idly by while that man?—”
“I would have you act wisely,” she interrupted, lifting her chin. “You are the Duke of Haremore, not some hot-headed brawler in a back alley.”
Belleville, who was still lounging at the table, added with a lazy wave of his hand, “She’s right, you know. Besides, if you throttle him before asking questions, it’ll do no one any good. Least of all Lilianna.”
Cedric’s nostrils flared, but Audrey saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “I will not sit here and do nothing.”
“No one is asking you to,” she said, her voice softening. She reached out and gently laid a hand on his arm. “But promise me you’ll keep your temper. Please.”
For a moment, Cedric didn’t move. He merely stared down at her, the anger in his eyes warring with something else—something she couldn’t quite name.
Finally, with a sharp exhale, he nodded. “Fine. I’ll behave myself.”
Belleville rose then, brushing muffin crumbs from his waistcoat. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he assured Audrey with a lopsided grin. “Cedric may be the brute, but I’m the brains of this operation.”
Cedric shot him a withering look. “If you’re the brains, God help us all.”
Belleville only laughed, following Cedric as he strode toward the door.
Audrey watched them go, her stomach twisting with a strange combination of dread and hope.
“Please be careful,” she called after them, though she doubted either of them heard her.
The door closed behind them with a finality that made the room seem far too empty. She sank back into her chair, her fingers curling tightly around the edges of the tablecloth.
What will this yield?
And most importantly, would Cedric return unscathed, both in body and in spirit?
Cedric swung down from his horse in Bloomsbury with a dull, deliberate thud. The street was quieter than he’d expected, and he loosened his grip on the reins, passing them to the boy waiting nearby.
Belleville, dismounting beside him, let out a low whistle as he glanced up at the shabby facade of the building. “And here I thought the elusive Lord Rashford would stay in more respectable accommodations. How disappointing.”
Cedric shot him a sharp look, his patience already thin. “Perhaps if you kept your observations to yourself, we might actually accomplish something this morning.”
Belleville raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin was maddeningly irreverent. “You are positively delightful when you’re frustrated, Haremore. Truly, it’s an honor to accompany you.”
Cedric didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he strode up the uneven steps to the front door and knocked, hard and to the point. The sound echoed through the interior like a judge’s gavel, demanding attention.
Moments later, the door creaked open to reveal an elderly man with the unmistakable air of a butler—or at least a man attempting to present himself as one. He was gaunt, his face lined with age and a life of service, though his faded coat and scuffed shoes betrayed a more modest establishment.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” he asked, his voice thin and wary as his gaze flicked between the two men.
Cedric stepped forward, his frame filling the doorway. “We are here to see Lord Rashford. Is he inside?”
The butler blinked, clearly startled, before shaking his head. “I’m afraid Lord Rashford no longer resides here, Sir.”
“No longer?” Cedric furrowed his brow, his jaw tightening. “You are saying he has moved out?”
“Yes, Sir,” the man replied, his gaze darting nervously toward Cedric’s dark coat and harsh expression. “Lord Rashford left this morning. He took his things and settled his account.”
The news made Cedric vibrate with frustration. He squared his shoulders, his hands flexing briefly at his sides as though eager to strike something.
Damn it.
He forced himself to draw a deep, steadying breath.
“Do you know where he has gone?” he pressed, his voice clipped and measured.
The butler’s expression turned blank. “I am afraid I do not, Sir. Lord Rashford gave no forwarding address.”
Cedric’s eyes narrowed. He studied the man for a long moment, as though searching for any crack in his resolve—a twitch, a shift of his feet—but the butler remained impassive. It was infuriating.
“No forwarding address?” Belleville cut in, his tone light but edged with suspicion. “How very careless of him.”
“Indeed,” Cedric muttered, turning away sharply. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The butler inclined his head and, after a hesitant glance at Belleville, closed the door with the soft finality of a man eager to rid himself of their presence.
Cedric stalked back toward the horses, his long strides betraying the tension coiled tightly in his frame. Belleville followed at a leisurely pace, his hands clasped behind his back as though they’d merely been out for a morning stroll.
“Well,” Belleville drawled as they mounted their horses, “I suppose congratulations are in order. We have now officially been evaded by Lord Rashford.”
Cedric shot him a withering look as he turned his horse around, his movements brusque. “Do you ever tire of hearing yourself talk?”
“Not really.” Belleville urged his horse into motion alongside Cedric’s, the smirk never leaving his face. “What now? Shall we pay a visit to the Rashford family residence? They are, after all, comfortably ensconced in Berkeley Square.”
Cedric considered it, his gloved hands tightening around the reins as they trotted through the fog-damp streets. His mind worked quickly, weighing options, possibilities, and the bitter pang of failure that gnawed at the back of his thoughts.
“No,” he said finally, his voice low and decisive. “Rashford is hiding. If we call on his family, it will spook him further. He’ll leave London entirely, and we may never find him again.”
Belleville tilted his head, giving him a shrewd look. “Hiding in plain sight, then? You think he’s slithering about town rather than fleeing to the countryside?”
Cedric’s jaw worked as he mulled it over. “It’s what I would do,” he admitted. “The man may be a coward, but he is not a fool. Evading detection requires blending into the very places people assume you won’t go—clubs, balls, social gatherings.”
“An interesting strategy,” Belleville mused, brushing a bit of dust from his coat sleeve. “And, I suspect, a perfect excuse for you to put on your best waistcoat and mingle with the very people you loathe.”
Cedric shot him a glare, though it lacked its usual heat. “If that is what it takes to find him, then so be it.”
Belleville let out a low chuckle. “You, my dear Haremore, are far more determined than most dukes of my acquaintance. Though I daresay your Duchess might be better suited to this particular task. Her Grace could find Rashford twice as quickly—and with far fewer threats of bodily harm.”
At the mention of Audrey, something in Cedric’s chest twisted sharply. He thought of her face that morning, framed by the soft light filtering through the breakfast room window. The way her hand had rested on his arm, so gentle yet so steady, as she’d implored him to keep his temper. She had been right, of course. Audrey always seemed to know precisely what to say to bring him back from the edge, as infuriating as it was.
“I will not allow Audrey to involve herself further,” Cedric said abruptly, his voice harsher than he had intended. “This is my responsibility. I will see it through.”
Belleville raised an eyebrow, but, for once, he held his tongue.
The two men rode in silence for a moment, the steady clip-clop of hooves punctuating the air.
Eventually, Belleville spoke again, his voice softer. “You cannot fix the past, Cedric. No matter how hard you try.”
Cedric’s grip on the reins tightened, his knuckles white against the worn leather. “I am not trying to fix the past.”
Belleville sighed, though there was no mockery in it this time. “Of course you are. You think that by finding Rashford and confronting him, you’ll somehow rewrite what happened to your sister. That you’ll make it right.”
Cedric said nothing, his gaze fixed ahead as they turned onto a broader avenue. The truth in his friend’s words settled heavily in his chest, unwelcome but undeniable.
Cecilia’s face swam before him, a ghost of a memory that had haunted him for years—her smile so bright and full of life, her laughter echoing through the halls of Haremore Castle. And then the silence that had followed. The stillness. The guilt.
He had failed her. He had been too late to see the truth, too blind to protect her. But Audrey’s sister, Lilianna, could still be saved. Rashford’s reckoning would come, and Cedric would ensure it.
“We will begin with the clubs,” he said finally, his voice steely. “White’s. Brooks’s. Anywhere men like Rashford squander their coin.”
Belleville nodded. “A sensible approach. And I’ll refrain from making jokes this time.” His voice was light, but there was understanding beneath it.
Cedric’s lips quirked up faintly. “A wise decision.”
They turned onto a quieter street, the fog beginning to thin as the sun climbed higher. Cedric felt it all pressing down on him—his sister’s memory, Lilianna’s fate, and the expectation that hovered between himself and Audrey.
I will not fail again.