Chapter Eight
Lucas stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a murderous scowl etched upon his face.
Spread across the desk before him lay a series of letters Frederick had uncovered, arranged neatly by date.
With each one, the late duke of Beaushire appeared increasingly unhinged—his words shot through with paranoia that was wholly unlike the man Lucas had known.
He could scarcely reconcile the stern, imperious father who had ruled his household with an iron hand with the desperate man who, in his final letter to Lord Redley, had all but begged him to stop whatever he was doing.
What exactly that was, however, his dear father had decided to leave out. And these were letters that had remained in his possession, never sent.
Still, one thing had become clear: the late duke had not fallen to his death by accident. Lucas had always known as much. Now, he intended to prove it.
Frederick burst into the study with his usual air of flustered urgency, though Lucas scarcely spared him a glance. He moved instead to the sideboard—experience had taught him that he would require a drink before this conversation was through.
“Your Grace,” Frederick huffed, collapsing into a nearby armchair, “I must insist that our future meetings take place at my office. There we are far less likely to encounter your cousin—or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Would you like a drink, Frederick?” Lucas asked without turning.
“If it is no great inconvenience, Your Grace, a glass of port would be most welcome,” the solicitor said, still catching his breath. “Goodness me.”
Lucas poured it for him, opting for something far stronger himself, and crossed the room. The solicitor was already dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief.
“I take it you and Catherine exchanged words again?”
“She all but accosted me, Your Grace!” Frederick spluttered, swallowing half his port in one go. “She insists I be invited to dinner in the near future and refused entirely to heed my objections.”
“For the sake of my amusement, Frederick—what is your stance on the matter?”
The solicitor looked as though he might faint. “My stance, Your Grace? Why, it should be perfectly obvious!”
“Not nearly as obvious as you seem to think.”
“I can imagine few things worse,” Frederick continued hotly, “than sitting through an evening of Miss Beaumont’s chatter—”
“Careful,” Lucas drawled. “That is my cousin you malign.”
Frederick blinked, visibly composing himself. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I have overstepped.”
“It’s nothing,” Lucas said with a faint smile. “Catherine enjoys making you uncomfortable. Almost as much as I enjoy watching it.” He gestured to the papers. “Now, I trust you came here with something more pressing than tales of my cousin’s tyranny?”
“Ah—yes, indeed.” Frederick rummaged through his satchel. “Our investigator has submitted several reports which I believe Your Grace will find rather interesting.”
Lucas accepted the bundle, suppressing a grimace at the solicitor’s disordered papers. “In the interest of time, why don’t you summarise?”
“Gladly!” Frederick perched forward, spectacles slipping down his nose. “Our man reports that Lord Redley frequents gambling hells far more often than a gentleman of his rank ought. It appears he has amassed significant debts.”
Lucas sipped his drink, eyes narrowing. “A gambler, then. And where there is gambling, there is leverage.”
“Precisely. Only, Redley’s case is unusual.
” Frederick jabbed a finger toward the report.
“He remains in good standing with his creditors—almost too good. Our investigator observed several meetings wherein Redley seemed to provide… updates of some kind. He could not hear the particulars, but it seems the man’s debts are being rather carefully managed. ”
“Hm.” Lucas skimmed the page, brow furrowed. “Curious. You would not think that he is so heavily in debt on the surface. He carries himself very much the same as normal, from my observations.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. It is too early to tell whether this connects to your father’s death, but we shall keep our eyes on him.”
“Do so,” Lucas said, setting down his glass. He returned the papers to the desk, adding them to the growing pile of mysteries. “Is there anything else?”
Frederick hesitated. “Ah, yes—though I confess, I do not quite see what relevance it bears to your investigation.”
“Out with it, Frederick,” Lucas sighed, facing him once more.
“You asked me to report any movement within the Tremaine household,” he said begrudgingly. “Frankly, it feels rather beyond a solicitor’s duties.”
At the mention of the Tremaines, Lucas’s pulse gave an involuntary lurch.
He could not think of that name without picturing Elowen—the fire in her eyes, the sharpness of her wit, the guarded way she held herself.
They had parted ways two days ago, but the memory of her lingered like a splinter under his skin.
He had half a mind to call upon her again. Only, he didn’t yet know what he would say.
Good day, Miss Tremaine. I hope you are having a wonderful afternoon. What did you say your favourite flower was?
“Well?” he prompted, noticing Frederick’s reluctance.
“The son has returned home,” the solicitor muttered.
“William?” Lucas’s tension eased. For a moment, he had imagined an endless parade of suitors calling at Tremaine House, each vying for Elowen’s attention.
“If that is his name, yes. He returned yesterday from Oxford.”
“This is good news, Frederick,” Lucas said with a grin. “William is currently undergoing his studies at Oxford in order to succeed his father. I cannot say what has drawn him back so suddenly, but his return may prove… useful.”
Frederick frowned. “Useful, Your Grace? In what respect?”
“The baron’s scandal and my father’s death are not isolated events,” Lucas said quietly. “They are strands of the same design. Lord Trenton may know it, but his health leaves him unable to pursue the matter. His son, however, is young—and perhaps less easily deterred.”
Frederick sighed. “I suppose Your Grace must know best. I cannot begin to fathom what you intend.”
Lucas arched a brow. “Is that sarcasm I hear, Frederick?”
“I am never sarcastic, Your Grace,” Frederick said solemnly.
That, he believed.
“In any case,” the solicitor went on, standing with a rustle of papers, “I must be off.”
“Allow me to escort you,” Lucas said, rising. “It would be most cruel to subject you to a second assault from my cousin.”
Lucas chuckled when Frederick visibly shuddered at that. “That would be greatly appreciated, Your Grace.”
As luck would have it, they reached the front hall without incident. Frederick departed hastily, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting Catherine to materialise from the shadows.
Once alone again, Lucas returned to his study—but not to the desk. The work awaiting him there could wait a while longer. He poured himself another drink and sat, thoughts churning.
Despite everything Frederick had reported, his mind returned—again and again—to Elowen Tremaine.
There had been no mention of her today, yet she lingered at the edges of his thoughts, a quiet, stubborn presence he could not shake.
He wondered what she was doing that very moment.
Whether she ever thought of him.
Whether things might have been different had her father’s ruin never come to pass.
He took another slow sip of brandy, his jaw tightening.
The only thing that kept him from seeking her out was knowing that he would see her tomorrow at Lady Westbrook’s dinner.
He had been the one to suggest the idea to Henry—and had ensured that the Tremaines were included among the guests.
He would see her then. Until that time, he would do his best not to think of her.
***
Westbrook House was aglow with candlelight, a golden beacon along the darker streets at the outskirts of London. Few among the ton chose to keep their principal residences here, but the Westbrooks had ever been known as fashionable outliers.
Elowen had never met Lady Westbrook herself, though her mother claimed the two had once been close. Mama had described her as the sort of woman who went through life with little concern for what society thought of her.
Elowen had a feeling she might like her.
That feeling multiplied tenfold when, upon stepping into the foyer, she was at once enveloped in a warm embrace by a tall woman who smelled faintly of citrus. For a startled moment, Elowen found herself pressed against a silken gown and a generous shoulder before her hostess drew back with a laugh.
“Careful, Mother,” came a familiar drawl from ahead. “You shall frighten her away—or choke her half to death.”
“Oh, forgive me.” Lady Westbrook released her with a laugh. “I do not often have much patience for formality.”
“You never have, Josephine,” said Margaret, joining Elowen’s side with a smile, “and I daresay you never will.”
Henry appeared beside his mother with a grin. “That much is certainly beyond dispute.”
Josephine, the Dowager Viscountess of Westbrook, gave her son a playful swat on the arm before turning back to Mama with open arms.
“Oh, Margaret, it has been far too long!”
“Indeed it has,” Margaret said, stepping into the embrace. “But I see the years have been kind to you.”
“And to you, all things considered.” Then Josephine turned to Papa, who—by good fortune—felt well enough to attend that evening. “And you are a sight for sore eyes, Lord Trenton. How do you do?”
“Clearly not half as well as you, my lady,” Papa said with a weak chuckle. “The years have treated you very kindly.”
“And I might say the same of you, my lord.” She embraced him as well, and Elowen could tell from her tone that she meant it—another point in her favour, as far as Elowen was concerned.
At last, Lady Westbrook turned her attention to William, who stood a pace behind with curiosity bright in his expression. “Do not tell me this is your youngest! He has grown quite tall.”
“I long for the day when people recall that growing older and taller is rather expected of me,” William said lightly.
“And he has a tongue on him, I see,” Josephine said, clearly delighted.
William spread his arms. “I suppose I do not merit the same greeting then?”
Elowen’s eyes widened; her head snapped toward him, a silent warning blazing in her gaze. Beside her, Mama’s smile tightened, though she held it bravely in place. Her son, it seemed, had forgotten just how narrow the bounds of propriety could be in society drawing rooms.
But Lady Westbrook only laughed, waving away the brief silence that followed. “My word, I shall pity the poor ladies of the ton who must contend with that charm when it comes time for him to marry. Such a smile—and such audacity—will have them falling in droves.”
“For now, I shall enjoy my anonymity,” William said with an easy grin, taking her hand and pressing a gallant kiss to it.
Josephine grinned broadly. “You have raised quite wonderful children, Margaret,” she said.
Elowen managed a polite smile, though she doubted the compliment included her; she had yet to utter a single word.
“Come,” Henry said cheerfully, playing the gracious host. “The other guests are waiting in the drawing room.”
“The other guests?” Margaret asked as they followed.
“Yes, the Duke of Beaushire and his family have already arrived,” Henry said over his shoulder.
Elowen very nearly tripped over her hem. She caught herself quickly, smoothing her features even as her mother cast her a gleeful look. Her expression remained composed—but her stomach turned over itself.
The Duke was here.
It shouldn’t come as such a surprise to her.
Lord Westbrook was known to be one of the Duke’s closest friends, and Miss Beaumont’s fondness for Henry made their presence tonight almost inevitable.
Indeed, Elowen would not have been surprised to learn that the invitation to her own family had been extended at the Duke’s suggestion.
They were hardly at the top of anyone’s guest list, after all.
Still, she had not expected to see him here—and Elowen despised being caught unprepared.
“Ah, how fortuitous,” Papa was saying, unaware of the silent panic beside him. “I did not have the chance to speak much with His Grace at Miss Beaumont’s ball. It will be good to catch up.”
“I believe he is quite eager to see you as well,” Lady Westbrook replied with a grin. “He has been enquiring after your arrival since the moment he stepped into the house. One would think he had no interest in dining with his hostess.”
Her laughter rang through the corridor as they approached the drawing room.
Elowen, meanwhile, discreetly edged away from her mother’s elbow, which kept nudging her in silent triumph. She knew exactly what Mama was thinking—and she could not deny she had thought the same.
Had the Duke of Beaushire arranged this evening merely to see her again?
Nonsense, she scolded herself. Do not flatter yourself, Elowen. Why would a man like him go to such trouble merely for your company?
But her mind could not reason her heart into stillness. It beat wildly as they reached the drawing-room doors. Henry pushed one open, and the sound of a deep, masculine laugh spilled into the hall.
And in that instant, Elowen had the unshakable sense that this evening would leave its mark upon her.