Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cedric could not recall the last time he had set foot in Spitalfields Slum. It was the middle of the night, yet life was scattered around the squalid tenement.
Painted women vanished down alleys, jug-bitten men played cards on an overturned crate, and lanky youth lingered under sagging eaves. Following Silas, he inched his way up the rotting steps, bracing himself for a fall if the frail wood crumbled under his heavy boots.
Down the slender hallway, through a door with rusty hinges, constables were already waiting. Ducking under the low ceiling, the walls were cracked and blotched with dark smears that he had no intention of identifying.
The smell was that of a pit left to go rancid, and Cedric bit back a surge of nausea at the upsetting smell of dead flesh; lying on a pallet was his old steward, Draven, dead.
This death was old, the body bloated, blue skin, and crusted in ashy black from where someone had tried to set him ablaze. The once familiar face was now shreds of rotted skin and gutted eye sockets. Cedric fanned an annoying fly away.
“Why cut his throat, stab him, and try to burn him?” he asked the constable who had identified himself as Allan.
“It’s usually a tactic to keep the body unidentified, but lately, we’ve been seeing this used as a scare tactic from moneylenders,” Allan crouched and used a pencil to prod at Draven’s tightly closed fist.
“Cross me, and you will end up like this.” Cedric inferred.
“Exactly, Your Grace,” Allan nodded, then looked at the two, “Are you certain you wish to be present, my lord? Perhaps you would care to wait in the carriage.”
“No,” Silas said.
“How long has he been this way?” Cedric asked.
“I would say over five days,” Rowe said. “I see no blood spill in the room, so my guess is that he was killed somewhere else and dragged here.
“I suppose I do not have to ask about the motive?” Cedric asked quietly.
“Money,” Allan replied. “From what I have found, Draven was swimming to his eyeballs in gambling debt. He would have found himself in debtor's prison if you had not been paying his salary.”
“And skimming the funds from my charities,” Cedric added. “How much debt was he in?”
“As far as I know at this moment, a thousand pounds,” Allan replied. “He had a passion for whist and was using Peter to pay Paul in a round of the seven creditors he had, landing him blunt.”
Standing, the constable gestured to the door, “I think this is enough for now, please.”
Cedric headed out first, remembering to duck his head under the low beam as he exited. It was only when he hit the cold night air that he was able to rid his nose of the horrid stench of death and vomit.
Allan turned right and stopped in front of a door to seal it with a padlock and chains. “Our men will take it from here.”
“Is there anything you need from me, constable?” Cedric asked the lawman before stepping into the waiting carriage. “Records of his payments, his taxes? Anything?”
“I do not think so,” Allan’s brows creased, “But I will hold onto the offer, thank you.”
Arriving at home, Cedric had no intent to join the party that had retired to the dining room; the scent of death and decay lingering on his clothes would surely turn some stomachs at a meal.
Instead, he requested Hunt arrange a bath before he trudged up the stairs to his room. Inside, he peeled his clothes off and donned a robe before heading to his study to liberate a bottle of brandy and quickly downed half a glass.
“You think you knew a man,” he muttered to himself.
Padding back to his room and finding the water delivered, he had barely sunk into the soothing suds when the door opened, and Ariadne poked her head in, “I thought you’d be here. What happened?”
He let out a long breath, “Draven was murdered, Ariadne.”
“Oh god,” her hand flew to her breast, “That’s awful. I—I mean, I’d expect that you punish him for this thievery, but not—not this. Are we… are we in danger?”
“No,” he shook his head, “It seemed he owed to too many moneylenders and to my best guest, one of them ran out of patience and exacted his price. There is no harm coming to us.”
“Moneylenders are that dangerous?” She was astonished.
“You’ve read The Merchant of Venice, I assume,” he said, eyes closed. “If they were that bad centuries ago, they are worse now. Believe me, Ariadne, moneylenders are the worst of the worst in the city.”
She pulled up a stool to sit near his head, “Do you wish to rejoin the party?”
“No,” he said, “But you should. Don’t let me detract from your lovely night. I imagine some did ask about my sudden absence. What did you tell them?”
“Simply that you were called away on business.” She said. “Everyone in the room would understand that.”
He nodded, “You’re making a fine duchess after all.”
“Well—” she shrugged one shoulder. “It was the second thing I’d thought of to tell them. The first was that you’d drunk so much coffee, you’d gone to swim the lake to burn it off.”
He threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“I should have said that first,” she noted.
Cedric rested his head on the towel behind him and gazed at her with lowered lids, “You should return to the ball.”
Looking over her shoulder to the door, Ariadne’s face did not fall; instead, she only looked mildly concerned. To him, she said, “Is there anything you will need for Draven?”
“No,” he replied. “Well, maybe one, to bury him. He had no wife or children, so aside from that, I’ll be washing my hands of the matter.”
She nodded, “I understand.” Rising, she reached out to touch his shoulder, “The ball won’t take too long. I’ll be back soon.”
As she moved off, he grabbed her hand, and she stalled. Slowly, he turned as he pulled her down for a soft kiss, nothing more than a soft lock of their lips. He lingered there before she pulled away, shot a last look over her shoulder, and vanished.
In the midst of her family chattering over the breakfast table, Ariadne nursed a cup of tea while her sisters nibbled on coddled eggs, fruit, sausages, and buttery toast.
Whatever her sisters were chatting about went in one ear and out the other, as she was mulling over what Cedric had said to her last night.
You’re making a fine duchess after all.
“Ariadne,” Celestine’s brows were creasing, “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Just woolgathering. What were you saying?”
“That last night was one of the best nights of my life,” Celestine sighed in happiness. “I love London; it's tip-top.”
Marigold elbowed her sister, who yelped and rolled her eyes. “You are only saying that because of Lord Stromewell.”
“And what of it?” Celestine glared. “He’s handsome and smart.”
“And old,” Marigold added matter-of-factly. “If he is His Grace’s friend, the odds are that they are the same age.”
“Thirty-two is not old,” Ariadne said while finally eating. “It may look old to you, but it’s truly not.”
While refilling her cup, Marigold asked, “Where is His Grace this morning?”
“Resting,” Ariadne replied while closing her utensils. “He got some disturbing news last night during the middle of the ball, and I assume by today, he will be dealing with it,” She sighed. “Please don’t ask too much about it. It’s very sensitive.”
A confused look crossed their faces, but they did not pry into it— well, Marigold and Celestine were not. Belatedly, Ariadne realized Isolde was not speaking at all. Her sister’s face was down on her plate, and a sickening feeling ran through.
Celestine and Marigold had enjoyed last night to the fullest—but what about Isolde? Had she pushed too hard?
“Miss Aria?” Emily’s voice had her head snapping to the doorway, and she saw the little girl looking at them curiously. “Who are your friends?”
“Not friends, Emily,” she pushed her chair back. “These girls are my sisters. Do you want to join us?”
“Is Papa here?” Emily said as she came closer.
“No,” she said while finding another chair. “Your father didn’t sleep well last night, so he’s sleeping now.”
Emily frowned, “Is he ill?”
“No, sweetheart,” Ariadne replied. “Just tired.”
“Oh,” the girl said, then gave a wide smile. “I’m Emily. What are your names?”
“I’m Marigold,” her sister said while dropping a hand on Celestine’s shoulder. “And this is Celestine.”
“How old are you?” Emily said.
“I’m twenty years old,” Celestine said.
“And I am eight and ten,” Marigold added.
Emily blinked, “You are old.”
Gasping in horror, Celestine slapped a hand over her breast. “I am not old!”
The jagged scrape of a chair over the floor had Ariadne turning to Isolde, “Excuse me.”
Both Marigold and Celestine gaped as Isolde hurried off, presumably to the rooms they had slept in last night. Worried, Ariadne told the two sisters who remained to look after Emily before she hurried after Isolde.
Her suspicions were right as the door to their rooms was open; however, she found Isolde leaning on the balcony outside.
“Isolde,” she asked carefully. “Are you alright?”
“I—” Isolde straightened as she rubbed her chest. “I don’t know. I have this hot feeling flaring right here and…. I don’t know what to do.”
“This is because of last night, isn’t it?” Ariadne’s voice dripped. “Is it about Duke Igthorne?”
“Yes, no—” Isolde grimaced, “I don’t know.”
Grimacing, Ariadne said, “I understand that I pushed too hard, even knowing you don’t want marriage. And I am sorry. I suppose I got too caught up in all that was happening last night.”
Isolde kept facing away. “It is immodest to assume that I can just live how I want to live, and not be broken into the mold the ton had made for us? Keep your head down. Do as you're told. Wear beautiful dresses, be coquettish, and do not act smart. I don’t want to embarrass Mama but…”
“You could be the first,” Ariadne replied. “Remember all those late nights when you were little, and we’d talk about our deepest, most innermost dreams?
“You said you wanted to learn how to fight and that you wanted to teach women and girls how to defend themselves. Now you have the opportunity.”
Isolde’s tone was still. “Dreams aren't the same as reality. Look at your situation. You wanted to find true love, but now you’re married to someone only to snuffle a scandal.”
“That is true,” Ariadne admitted. “But my idea of what love was mired by all those novels I read. I formed an idea of a handsome prince with all the virtues of an angel.
“I’m realizing that I didn’t need a handsome angel. Maybe a scarred curmudgeon with a permanent scowl and a precocious little girl that loves cats.”
Isolde gazed at her. “Are you telling me you’re…. You are in love with Duke Holloway?”
“I feel like I am,” Ariadne admitted. “But what about your happiness?”
“I don’t know,” Isolde said.
“Was Duke Igthorne rude to you?” She asked.
“No,” her sister said, sniffling. “He was perfectly nice and a gentleman through and through. He told me about Scotland and how the women there are so different from English women.”
Joining her sister at the balustrade, she gazed down at the flowers below, and the subtle scents of honeysuckle, musk rose, and wildflower wafted up.
“Different how?”
“They’re independent and strong,” she said with a note of yearning. “He told me a story about his grandmother who held down his home when his grandfather went to war. He told me she wielded a weapon as well as any man.”
That is something you want.
Considering her words carefully, Ariadne asked, “Is it the fear of finding some unexpected love or is it the anticipation of being disappointed and hurt that is stopping you from trying?”
Her sister’s eyes widened comically. “Is that— is that a riddle?”
“Life often is,” Ariadne wrapped her sister into a tight hug. “Don’t fret too much about it, Isolde. I know you will figure it out.”