Chapter 26
“Your Grace!”
Keaton was disturbed from a conversation with Georgia as they walked along a path in Ranelagh Gardens. He recognized the voice as belonging to Aloysius Thorne. He stopped, turning towards the sound.
“Thorne! What brings you here? And how did you know where to find me?”
“Your Grace, I first visited Westvale and was told by Mr. Rutherford that you were on your way to Ranelagh. It seemed that I had only just missed you. I arrived here shortly after you did and spotted you alighting from your carriage. I would have addressed you there and then, but dropped my cab fare in my haste.”
“Ah. Georgia, this is my invaluable investigative aide, Mr. Aloysius Thorne,” Keaton introduced.
“A pleasure, Mr. Thorne,” Georgia curtsied politely.
“And to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Thorne replied with a formal bow. “When I learned the name of His Grace's new wife, I recalled your letter to me on the subject of your brother. I am truly sorry that I could not be of help.”
“Not at all, Mr. Thorne. I understand that you have to earn a living,” Georgia reassured with a smile in her voice.
Keaton frowned, remembering his promise to Georgia and knowing that fulfilling said promise might—if her feelings for him were not all she claimed them to be—precipitate her departure. He felt guilty that he had strung her along with promises and no action.
I was afraid of discovering the truth. That I had been manipulated. That I had lowered my defenses in vain...
Now was the time to address that fear and assuage Georgia's magnificent patience.
There was still a risk, of course. They had enjoyed each other's bodies the previous evening, retiring to separate rooms by silent, mutual agreement, but the atmosphere between them had been different the following day.
Keaton's paranoia had eased. He had felt pride that such a beautiful and desirable creature had chosen him, and with it came a sense of contentment that he had been sorely lacking in the past.
Perhaps I have been lacking it since my father died. I did not notice because I had never known differently.
“That is no longer a problem, however. You have the resources of Westvale behind you now,” Keaton declared firmly.
“I did not wish to presume…”
“You should. Mr. Thorne, you will from this point on devote yourself to my wife's quest. You still have her letter outlining her case?”
“I do have it on file, Your Grace. Are you certain that...?”
“Quite certain. I would not have spoken so if I were not, would I?” Keaton said, sharply, “I want word of her brother or the man himself brought to light. Spare no expense.”
“As you wish, Your Grace. I will dedicate myself exclusively to the task from this moment on. I still remember his name… Elias Roseton, was it not?”
“Yes,” Georgia whispered. It was almost a gasp.
Keaton could sense the aweness in her words, in the slight breathlessness.
He patted her hand, fingers feeling her pulse and finding it rapid.
She squeezed his fingers in response. They were learning to communicate without words and without the visual cues that facilitated non-verbal communication for sighted people.
A touch, a caress, or a squeeze could say much, and Keaton felt he had a good grasp of what Georgia wished to communicate. He smiled.
“There is… another matter, Your Grace,” Thorne said with diffidence, “it is perhaps no longer as urgent as once it was, given that you have changed the task to which I am assigned. But, while I have your time, I think it's wise to mention it.”
“Of course, man. Get on with it.”
Georgia patted his arm gently, a rebuke for his impatience and his habit of being abrupt with people. She was seeking to smooth away his rough edges, making him more acceptable to society. He appreciated that it must be an uphill struggle at times.
“I wrote to you recently about the ring which you were found holding,” Thorne communicated.
Keaton frowned. “I received no such letter.”
Thorne paused, and Georgia spoke up, for Keaton's benefit, indirectly telling Keaton what she was seeing.
“Mr. Thorne, you seem perplexed by my husband's response. Why is that?”
“Well, Your Grace… I know it was delivered, because it was delivered by hand. Not by me, but by a runner that I use. A reliable lad that got a receipt from the cab he used to get to Westvale and a receipt from Mr. Rutherford for the letter he handed over,” Thorne replied.
Keaton's brows knitted. His mouth tightened into a straight line. He spoke quietly.
“Are you suggesting that my butler is hiding correspondence from me?”
“Not at all, Your Grace!” the investigator hastened to put in. “I have always believed Mr. Rutherford to be the very soul of respectability and reliability. I would not impute his good name. But I cannot deny the facts. The letter was certainly handed to him.”
“Could he have mislaid it?” Georgia offered.
“Rutherford is not the sort to mislay an important...” Keaton began, “Wait. He did mishandle a letter recently. It was from Thorne as well.”
“Nobody's perfect, I suppose,” Thorne shrugged.
“No, but your letter simply stated that no progress had been made,” Keaton pointed out.
“It most certainly did not. For it was not true. Progress had been made. Has been made,” Thorne said in an animated voice, as though he felt his reputation questioned.
Keaton took in a deep breath, rounding on the source of Thorne's voice.
“Now look here—” he started, hotly.
Then, Georgia's voice was in his ear, whispering.
“There are many people enjoying the gardens today. It is such a bright and lovely day.”
Keaton nodded, smiling for the benefit of the people passing by.
“Let us find a quiet spot, by the river perhaps, where we can discuss the matter, shall we?” he said in a tone that suggested to anyone listening that nothing at all of import was to be discussed.
Georgia guided Keaton along the path they had been following, through the sound of other visitors.
Keaton could hear the solid, steady tread of Thorne, hobnails clicking against the paved path as he strolled.
He could smell tobacco from the man and soap from Georgia.
Over it all was the scent of fresh-cut grass, the river, and flower beds that undoubtedly lined the path.
He sensed the volume of people they shared this space with, could feel the movement of air displaced by them, as well as hearing their amorphous babble.
Georgia's hand was a beacon on his arm, a guide he was coming to trust implicitly.
How is it that Uncle Edric mistook the contents of the letter? Was there more than one? Perhaps Rutherford lost the letter in question, and Edric found another one, previously misplaced. Or did Edric merely glance at the contents and not bother reading it?
“This is an excellent spot,” Georgia finally announced, “a pleasant cluster of willow providing some shade and a vacant bench.”
“Rare enough at Ranelagh—even after the rotunda was demolished, people still seem to come here in droves,” Thorne remarked, sighing as he sat, as though glad to take the weight from his feet.
Keaton felt the wrought iron armrest of the bench and sat too, Georgia sitting next to him. He heard the striking of flint and steel, then the bitter, woody smell of burning tobacco.
“We have all the privacy this place can afford,” Keaton declared. “Now, I should like to know what you think is going on?”
“Your Grace, I have no answers when it comes to my letter. I am not aware of any previous correspondence being misplaced.”
“But you had news of import?”
“A member of Palin's, the gentlemen's club for expl—”
“I know it. I am a member,” Keaton cut in impatiently.
“He intimated that he might recognize the ring from a description I gave. He claims to have sighted a man wearing such a unique ring on the night of your accident.”
“And this man was a member of Palin's?”
“He was, but has not been seen at the club from that day to this,” Thorpe replied.
Keaton thumped a fist against the arm of the bench, grinding his teeth. “Then we truly are no further forward.”
“It does not sound that way to me,” Georgia put in with optimism. “If this ring can be identified, then you are a step closer to the man who gave it to you and clearing the mystery around what happened that night.”
“My thoughts exactly, Your Grace,” Thorne nodded, “if I might have the ring for a while. No more than a day, I will have some definite information for you, I am certain of it.”
“Very well!” Keaton snapped, then moderated his tone, “Very well, Thorne. When I return to Westvale in a few hours, I will fetch the ring. Come to the house around supper time, and you will have it.”
Thorne took his leave. Keaton sat in silence for a moment.
“Does this not make you happy?” Georgia asked after a while.
Keaton stirred, realizing that he had been somewhere else for a moment.
“Yes, of course. A step closer to understanding. It has been my quest for a long time. It is just that...”
He felt Georgia's fingers intertwine with his own.
His mind went back to the previous night, to her luscious body beneath his mouth.
They'd been forced to scurry through backstreets, Keaton's coat concealing her nakedness, the dress that was supposed to do the job in tatters.
They'd found a cab and got back to Westvale without incident.
It had been the most exciting night of Keaton's life.
Not the ball and not even the lovemaking, not quite anyway, but the daring dash through the night-haunted streets with Georgia by his side.
Exposure and scandal had been ever-present.
By God, but I do not think I have ever felt so alive as in that moment!
“You do not sound convinced,” Georgia breathed, her voice close to his ear.