Chapter Fifteen
“Mother, have you seen William this morning?” Elowen asked, smoothing the folds of her skirt as she settled near the window in the drawing room.
“I believe he is arranging some papers in the study,” Mama replied, her tone calm though a faint furrow creased her brow. “He promised to join us before luncheon.”
Elowen released a quiet sigh and leaned back, savouring the rare stillness. “I almost forget what it feels like to sit without a constant flurry of callers or correspondence.”
Mama smiled faintly. “It has been an odd adjustment, I must admit—but I hope dearly it will not last for much longer.”
Before Elowen could respond, the butler entered and announced with uncommon hesitation, “A visitor, my lady. Lord Redley.”
Elowen blinked. “Lord Redley? Here?” she whispered, her voice a blend of surprise and disbelief. “What possible business could he have with us?”
Mama’s expression remained composed, though the slight stiffening of her posture betrayed her curiosity. “Very well,” she said to the butler. “Show him in.”
Redley entered moments later, and the room’s tranquillity fractured. His waistcoat sat askew, his cravat hung loose, and his hair was in disarray. Bloodshot eyes flitted across the room as though searching for some hidden message upon the walls.
Margaret rose slowly, startled. “Lord Redley, you look—”
“I need Lord Trenton,” Redley cut in, his words clipped and voice taut with urgency. He paced several steps, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against his thigh. “He must come at once. It cannot wait—not another minute.”
Mama’s calm voice interceded smoothly. “My husband will be here presently. Shall I send a servant?”
“Yes!” Ambrose barked, his hand clutching at his watch chain, twisting it as if the metal might yield an answer. “Do you understand? It’s urgent. Debts—manifests—there are consequences!”
Elowen glanced at her mother, then at William, who had entered silently amid the commotion, his eyes narrowing as he took in Redley’s state.
“What brings him here in such a condition?” he murmured to Mama as he joined her side.
Elowen heard him, though she doubted Ambrose did, lost as he was in his agitation.
The baroness inclined her head slightly. “I cannot say. But say nothing, William. Let your father hear the explanation first.”
Lord Redley—Ambrose—collapsed into an armchair and buried his face in his hands. Elowen and William drifted closer to their mother, watching him in uneasy silence.
“I observed Ambrose at the Hartwell ball three nights ago,” Mama murmured. “His manner then suggested something far beyond mere inebriation.”
Elowen’s brow furrowed. “I remember. I did find his actions rather odd, if not pitiful. And His Grace was watching him then, carefully. Could that have anything to do with why he is here now?”
Before anyone could answer, a servant returned. “Lord Trenton will join you immediately, my lady.”
Papa entered minutes later, composed yet pale, the fatigue of recent days softening the sharpness of his features. He straightened at the sight of Ambrose’s frantic movements. “Lord Redley?” he said cautiously. “What is the meaning of this disturbance?”
Redley stopped abruptly and faced him. “Lord Trenton,” he barked, eyes wide. “I have said too little for too long. They are watching. They are—”
He broke off, muttering incoherently. His hands worked feverishly at his watch chain, his whole body twitching as if he expected an unseen assailant.
“My lord,” Papa said gently, taking a step forward, “please. Compose yourself. Whatever troubles you, we shall manage it calmly.”
Ambrose’s laughter rang sharp and hollow, a sound that chilled the room. “Calmly?” he repeated. “You do not understand. The debts, the manifests—the consequences! They are too—too dire!”
“Who drives these consequences, then?” William asked, his tone firm but measured. “Who is behind this?”
Ambrose’s gaze snapped toward him, unfocused but searching. “Followed. Watched. Everything I touch—they see. Do you know what that means?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a tremulous whisper. “Do you?”
Elowen instinctively shrank back, though curiosity held her fast. “Lord Redley, please,” she said softly. “We are listening. Perhaps if you explain slowly…”
Ambrose clutched at his hair in frustration. “Slowly! Do you think I can? Every second is a risk!” He whirled back to Papa. “My lord, you must—”
The baron held up a hand, his patience steady. “Lord Redley, focus. Start at the beginning. What debts? What manifests?”
Ambrose’s eyes flickered wildly toward the windows, as if he imagined watchers beyond them. “I cannot! They are everywhere—too many eyes, always upon me. You… you do not see. The consequences are too great, and—Confound it, why did I come here?”
“Ambrose,” Mama said softly, her voice calm and even, “you are safe here. Speak clearly, and we will understand.”
He exhaled a ragged breath, leaning against the chair for support. “I have said too much already,” he muttered. “Perhaps nothing will save it now.”
Elowen exchanged a glance with William. “He is frantic, but there is something more beneath it,” she whispered.
William nodded gravely. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Ambrose suddenly straightened and strode toward the door. “I must go. I cannot remain—it is too dangerous.”
“My lord!” Papa called, his voice firm. “You would leave without explanation?”
Ambrose paused, glancing back with wide, almost pleading eyes. “There are warnings,” he said. “Fragments of what you must know. But it cannot be gathered here—and I should not have been the first to speak it. Forgive me. But beware.”
And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him. Silence followed, heavy and uneasy.
Elowen released the breath she had been holding. “I—” she began, but Margaret Tremaine lifted a hand gently.
“Composure, Elowen,” her mother said softly. “Do not let his actions disturb you. He is… unwell.”
Papa ran a hand down his face, the weariness in his eyes more evident now. “Unwell, yes—but perhaps not entirely without purpose.”
William stepped forward. “Then we should see him safely to his carriage. It may spare him a greater scene—and give him time to recover enough to speak coherently later.”
Mama inclined her head. “Yes. Send a servant at once to ensure his carriage is ready.”
Elowen’s gaze lingered on the closed door. “It is unsettling,” she admitted quietly. “He seemed frantic—as though he feared he had run out of time.”
“Indeed,” Papa agreed softly. He, too, stared at the door, but Elowen couldn’t help but think he was seeing more than she was. Even Mama and William held a grim look that made her wonder if they’d pieced together the reason behind Ambrose’s visit.
From the window, Elowen saw a footman and William guiding Lord Redley toward the waiting carriage. The poor man was still dishevelled, though somewhat steadier now beneath William’s careful direction. Elowen and her parents watched from afar as he was helped inside.
“He looked almost pitiable,” Elowen murmured, her pulse still unsteady.
Mama’s expression softened. “Yes. Poor man. Whatever madness drives him, it has taken firm hold.”
Elowen remained near the window a moment longer, watching the door where he had vanished. Lucas saw him at the ball, she thought, recalling his watchful expression as Lord Redley faltered and embarrassed himself. What coincidence—what brings him here? And why now?
Her mother’s gentle hand on her shoulder pulled her back to the present. “Come, my dear. Let us not dwell entirely upon disquiet. Allow your father and brother to manage what must be done.”
Elowen nodded, though unease still stirred beneath her composure. Lord Redley’s visit was no simple interruption—of that she was certain. She only feared how soon they would discover why.
***
“Honestly, Henry,” Catherine exclaimed, her hands fluttering as if she might catch the music from the air itself, “I cannot imagine a more delightful evening than attending the Royal Opera! The chandeliers alone are worth the price of admission.”
Henry smiled, his gaze resting on her with an easy patience. “I am pleased you find it so captivating, Catherine. And I agree—the setting is exceptional. Yet I find the music itself equally compelling.”
Lucas leaned back in his seat, arms loosely crossed, watching them both. “I am convinced,” he drawled, “that the chandeliers are the true performance this evening. The music is, at best, a pleasant accompaniment.”
Charlotte Beaumont’s lips twitched at his tone. “Lucas,” she said gently, “your appreciation of society’s refinements never ceases to astonish me.”
“Merely honest observation, Mother,” he replied with a shrug. “Though I confess—a touch of melody does not entirely escape my notice.”
Catherine rolled her eyes. “Lucas, you are incorrigible. Can you not enjoy one evening without your relentless sarcasm?”
“I do my best,” Lucas murmured, casting her a sidelong glance. “But some spectacles are better admired from afar.”
The Dowager Duchess leaned slightly toward him, her eyes shrewd. “And yet,” she said softly, “you observe more closely than anyone else in the room.”
Lucas inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Observation is not enjoyment, Mother. But it can be… informative.”
From their elevated box, the view of the opera house was magnificent.
Below them, the stage swept wide and glittering, the balconies shimmered with light, and the murmuring crowd formed a living mosaic of movement and colour.
Yet his gaze faltered—caught, quite without his consent—when motion at the entrance drew his eye. His breath stilled.
“Elowen,” he whispered, the name escaping him as though it carried its own breath.