Chapter 27
Catherine stood before the tall dressing-mirror in her chamber at Caerleon Manor, Isabella at her side fussing with the folds of her gown.
The pale silk shimmered in the morning light, chosen especially for the dinner she and Aaron had agreed would serve as Jeremy’s chance to redeem himself before Isabella’s father. She smoothed her hands down the fabric, forcing herself into composure.
Too little sleep and too much talk. Of present and future but not the past. Not the one subject I wish to talk about the most.
That silence pressed on her now like a weight. Still, she told herself tonight would be an evening of hope, a chance for Isabella’s happiness and perhaps a step closer to the gentler Aaron she had occasionally glimpsed.
When Aaron allowed himself to be kind, that is.
“Perfect!” Bella pronounced at last, though her eyes were swollen and rimmed with red from tears shed earlier.
“Papa will be very impressed. You look every inch the Duchess. I hope it will help him see Jeremy as you and His Grace do. Surely the approval of a Duke and Duchess will…” Her voice faltered, and Catherine clasped her hand.
“It will go well, Bella. Trust me.”
From outside, the thunder of hooves on gravel broke the air, followed by the thud of boots on the ground and running footsteps.
Catherine started, moving to the window.
Two horses, foam-flecked and blown, stood before the house.
Aaron’s friend Jeremy, Lord Everdon, was there as well as another man that Catherine remembered from the wedding breakfast, Benedict Langdon, Lord Daleshire.
Two close friends of her husband. Urgency painted their faces and drove their hurried strides.
A chill seized Catherine’s heart.
What has happened, and where is Aaron?
She hurried downstairs to greet them, finding them waiting impatiently in the hall, sweat on their faces and dust on their boots. Jeremy’s face was drawn, his eyes glassy and red. His hands shook slightly. Benedict’s expression was thunderous whenever his eyes alighted on Jeremy.
“Where is Aaron?” Jeremy demanded hoarsely, ignoring all but Catherine.
“Not here,” Catherine said, suddenly uneasy. “The last I saw of him, he was riding to your home looking for you. Why? What has happened?”
Jeremy dragged a hand across his face.
“I—I was not at home. He—Aaron found me at Spencer’s, in town…
I said things. Things I should never have spoken.
It was the drink, Your Grace, I swear! Baseless accusations that came from the quagmire of a drunken mind.
But he… he took offense. He stormed out.
I thought perhaps he would return here.”
Catherine’s stomach twisted. “…Accusations?” she pressed. “What kind?”
“Drunken nonsense,” Benedict snapped. “Pay it no mind, Your Grace. Jeremy has regretted every word since. It is best forgotten.”
But Catherine could not forget. The memory of the pickpocket in Hyde Park, the whispered name, the boy’s utter terror as he recognized Aaron. It rose in her like smoke from a wildfire. Her instincts clawed at her. The man who called himself Aaron was an impostor.
“Tell me,” she repeated softly, her gaze unflinching. “What accusations?”
Jeremy shifted, color draining from his face. “It was madness, Your Grace. Truly. I let my suspicions grow wild under the influence. I said… I said that Aaron might not be who he claims. That he was…”
“...an imposter,” she finished for him, her voice a whisper of dread.
Jeremy flinched. Benedict swore under his breath.
“It is patently ridiculous! Truly madness,” Benedict insisted. “I have known him long enough. I would know. Jeremy was lost in the bottle and spoke utter folly!”
But Catherine’s blood had gone cold. She could not speak her fears aloud, not here. For Isabella’s sake, for Aaron’s own, she forced her expression into stillness.
“Then we must find him,” she said, her tone firmer than she felt.
“Leave it to us,” Benedict urged. “You must remain here.”
“No,” Catherine interjected, surprising herself with the steel in her voice. She thought of her aunt and uncle, of the meek submission they had beaten into her. No longer. “He is my husband. I will not sit idle while he wanders into danger. I will go with you.”
The two men exchanged glances, clearly disapproving. But Catherine lifted her chin.
“I am the Duchess of Caerleon,” she said, “do not attempt to command me in my own house.”
Silence fell. Then Benedict bowed stiffly. “As you wish.”
London gripped them like a dark fist. The carriage stood before a tavern with faded paintwork and a glowering aspect.
The air was thick with soot and the raucous cries of hawkers.
Catherine sat stiff-backed, her gloved hands clenched in her lap, every nerve alert.
At last, Jeremy and Benedict returned from a tavern, grave-faced.
“He was here,” Jeremy muttered, his voice grim. “But he left. They say he was heading toward Whitechapel. To… a gaming hell.”
Catherine’s heart lurched. “Then we must follow.”
“No.” Benedict’s tone brooked no argument. “We cannot take you there. Whitechapel is no place for a lady. It is hardly even safe for men the likes of us.”
“Then I will go alone.”
Catherine threw open the carriage door and set her foot on the cobbles before they could stop her. “Tell me in which direction it is.”
“Catherine…” Jeremy started.
“I am a Duchess!” Catherine snapped.
“Your Grace,” Benedict said in a conciliatory manner, “you are dressed for dinner, and that is what you will be in that place.”
“I don’t care. I will not leave him there! Either you accompany me, or you will allow me to go alone.”
They yielded, muttering curses, and followed when she ascended back into the carriage. Soon, the carriage had to be abandoned, its wheels too wide for the twisting lanes. They continued on foot, the air thick with the stench of refuse and cheap gin, shadows watching from every alley.
When it happened, it was swift.
Three men stepped out before them.
Their eyes glinted as sharply as the blades they carried.
Another closed in from behind.
Benedict shoved Jeremy in front of Catherine while he put his back to hers so that she was sandwiched between the two men.
“Purse and rings,” one of the ruffians snarled.
“We’ll have the dress too,” said another.
“Unacceptable,” Benedict spat.
“We’re not asking, guv,” said the first ruffian, his eyes never leaving Catherine’s bosom.
Jeremy raised his fists. Benedict set his feet as though expecting a sudden rush from their attackers.
Neither was armed.
The net closed around them. Catherine sought the words that might extricate them, but knew there were none. These men would not bow and back away if she announced herself a Duchess. They did not care for her rank or that of the two gentlemen with her.
Fear turned her insides to ice. It froze her muscles and her mind...
Then a man broke through from the shadows.
He arrived like a thunderclap. He drove through the ruffians with terrifying force, every strike precise, merciless. One fled, then another. The last remained, dazed, cornered by the violence he had just witnessed.
That man’s eyes widened.
“General…” he whispered hoarsely.
Her eyes honed in on the face of her savior.
Aaron?
The ruffian straightened, resignation etched on his face.
“Kill me, guv. But I can help you, I knows the man who took the Dragon from you. Stabbed you in the back some say! They all think you’re dead. I can help you, guv!”
Aaron’s chest heaved. Catherine saw death cloud those dark eyes, rendering them opaque and terrifying. It was as though he were weighing the man’s life. Then something shifted in his face. A line softened, and she thought she saw a change in his eyes. His voice remained icy.
“Get out of here. Speak of me to anyone, and you’ll regret it.”
The ruffian stumbled away into the artificial darkness of the alleys, overhung with brooding buildings, welcoming shadows.
Silence pressed in, for Catherine was broken only by the thundering of her heartbeat.
She felt as though he stood on a precipice.
A push or even a gust of wind might carry him over the edge.
Aaron turned, and in his face Catherine saw not the triumph of a battle won, but defeat.
He knew what she had seen. What she was now grappling to understand. Jeremy cleared his throat.
“I am sorry, Aaron. I spoke words I should never have spoken. You were right to be angered.”
Aaron’s gaze flickered to him, weary. “Closer to the truth than you knew,” he murmured softly. “You came here by carriage, I take it? We should go, it won’t be safe here for very long.”
They returned to the carriage in silence. Aaron showed no sign of getting in. Catherine threaded her hands around his arm, holding onto him fiercely.
“You’re going to remain here?” Benedict asked.
“I know this place,” Aaron said, looking around, “it is safe enough here now that we are out of the warrens.
“Your Grace,” Jeremy offered a hand to Catherine, “you, at least, should return to Caerleon.”
Catherine shook her head. “I stay with my husband.”
Jeremy hesitated, then bowed. Benedict said nothing. They climbed into the carriage, and it departed. Catherine looked up at Aaron, whose brow was furrowed. His eyes were hooded, denying her any hint of his emotions. Then he looked at her.
He looked haunted.
“Now you know the truth. Or the shape of it at least,” he said flatly. Exhausted.
“The shape of it. And I am still here,” she pointed out.
He nodded, unsmiling.
“So you are. Well, you might as well know the rest of it.”
He looked around as though gathering his bearings. Then he led her through a narrow mews and through a rotting gate. It led to a veritable maze of alleys, some cobbled and some dirt, churned to mud.