Chapter Seventeen
The fire in the grate hissed as Lucas fed another log into the embers. The brighter blaze only lengthened the shadows that leaned against the panelled walls.
He returned to the centre of his study, shoulders slightly hunched, and let one hand travel slowly over the papers spread upon the table: manifests, ledgers, margins annotated in William’s neat hand.
Beneath those lay the frailer folios salvaged from his father’s study—documents that had once belonged to a man now in his grave and whose name had been sullied beyond repair.
He exhaled slowly. “It is there, Frederick. A pattern anyone with half a brain could follow. Shipments arriving under false names, financing routed through a half-dozen fronts, debts disguised as investments. And always the same few names appearing time and time again.”
By the window, Frederick leaned one shoulder against the frame. For once, he was still. Calm. “Names such as Lord Orvilleton.”
Lucas lifted his gaze. “Lord Orvilleton, yes. And Lord Redley. But never in ink firm enough to bind them. It seems they have been far too careful.”
“Careful men can make mistakes,” Frederick said quietly. He faced Lucas, arms crossed. “Especially when they grow arrogant. And I have a feeling that Lord Orvilleton’s arrogance is boundless.”
Lucas tapped a finger against one of the manifests. “William’s work at the docks was thorough. Without him, we’d have nothing to show. But even this—” He flicked the edge of the paper. “It’s just a suggestion, not solid proof.”
“Suggestion can ruin a man as thoroughly as proof,” Frederick replied. But he, too, knew the truth. It was not enough.
Lucas arched a brow. “Will it be enough to ruin him as he ruined Lord Trenton?”
Frederick tilted his head but did not look away. “I’m afraid I cannot be the one to say, Your Grace.”
For a moment, only the fire filled the silence in the room. Then Lucas went to his desk to sit, folding his arms. “Tell me, then. What else have you learned of Lord Redley?”
Frederick straightened at once and began the familiar pacing, fingers twisting in the air.
“His decline worsens. For three nights, he has nearly come to blows with creditors at Brooks’s.
An investigator saw him last evening in a tavern so far beneath him that his presence caused whispering.
He shouted at nothing, spoke of conspiracies and powerful men plotting in corners—of debts not his to pay.
Pressed, he named no one, but his ramblings were enough to unsettle those who overheard and to set the rumour-mill turning. ”
Lucas’s brow tightened. “Which is why Orvilleton and his circle will move against him, if they have not already.”
“I believe so, too.” Frederick continued to pace, though his movements were measured, not frantic. “They cannot allow him to unravel in public when he may drag their names with him. And yet, the man cannot hold his tongue; he grows reckless by the day.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed on the flames. “That recklessness may serve us—if it does not destroy him first.”
Frederick halted, his gaze sharp. “You would use him, then?”
“I would use anyone,” Lucas answered coldly, “if it meant learning the truth of what they did to my father—and to Lord Trenton.”
Frederick examined him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “That is what I expected you to say.”
They stood a while in silence. At last, Lucas spoke. “Continue to watch him. Closely. If he slips further, we must be ready to catch what spills from his mouth before it is silenced forever.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Frederick inclined his head.
Lucas leaned forward, pressing his fingertips against the desk. “And Frederick—discretion.”
“Always,” Frederick replied.
For the first time that evening, Lucas allowed himself a faint smile. “Good. Then go. See what more you can learn.
Frederick bowed. “Of course.” He hesitated, then added, “If I may: do not let the weight of what you know fall wholly on you. The burden is only as heavy as the man who bears it.”
Lucas gave a short, dry laugh. “And who else is to bear it if not I?”
Without another word, Frederick left; his silence as he went felt oddly familiar in the empty house.
Lucas stared at the papers but found his focus unravelling. His mind slipped, unbidden, to another face entirely—one gentler, one that put his thoughts at ease.
Elowen.
He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to push away the image, and failed. He saw again that smile of complete abandon—private and true—he alone had witnessed; the stubborn tilt of her chin when she met Lord Cherrington’s smooth advances.
He ought to be thinking of Ambrose, of Colin, of the proof that would finally expose the men who had ruined his father. Instead, he thought of the lavender note of her perfume and of how readily she coloured when he teased her in Lady Penelope’s garden.
His hand tightened around his quill until the metal creaked. Fool. She was innocent of all this—too innocent perhaps to stand so near the fire without being burned.
And yet—
He opened his eyes and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Blast it,” he muttered.
For all his discipline, his thoughts kept returning to Elowen, as surely as a compass needle returns to the north.
It was not only her: it was her family—Margaret’s relentless watchfulness for her daughter’s security; William’s loyalty, now entangled in this web of deceit; Eric, who had suffered so much and yet still did his best.
It was dangerous. But danger was now inevitable.
The door creaked. Lucas looked up sharply, half-expecting Frederick’s return. But it was only his valet, bearing a tray.
“Shall I set it here, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” Lucas’s tone was curt, but not unkind.
The man placed the tray, bowed, and withdrew.
Lucas stared at the untouched glass of port he’d poured before Frederick’s arrival for a long moment before pushing it aside. He returned to the papers, but the words swam before him. The words blurred into visions of rose gardens, ledgers into echoes of soft laughter.
He dragged a hand across his face. I must find a way to secure their protection without alarming Elowen. Her safety has become paramount to me, for reasons extending far beyond this investigation.
***
Lady Harwick’s drawing room was far too warm.
Candles blazed along the walls, their glow mirrored in polished wood and glass as laughter rippled through her select company.
It was not a ball—no orchestra, no endless rows of partners to be claimed—but an evening of conversation, games, and a little music.
Most welcome of all, Lord Cherrington was absent.
Elowen could not have been more delighted.
She stood beside her mother as familiar acquaintances approached to pay polite respects. Some who had ignored them only weeks ago now offered nods, even smiles.
“Curious,” Elowen murmured.
Margaret Tremaine’s fan stirred the air. “Society shifts with the wind, my dear. Learn to feel its currents without showing that you do.”
Elowen glanced at her, recognising the cautious hope behind her mother’s calm expression. “Perhaps Papa’s reputation begins to recover.”
“Perhaps,” Margaret replied evenly, but there was no denying how much she wished that to be true.
Elowen smoothed the folds of her pale gown, conscious of too many eyes upon her.
She tried to attend to the chatter around her, but her attention faltered when Lucas entered.
He was impossible to overlook—tall, composed, broad-shouldered.
The Dowager Duchess and Catherine accompanied him, the latter bright with excitement, Henry close behind, his gaze fixed fondly upon her. .
Elowen’s pulse quickened. She forced herself to remain still, nodding to a passing remark while her awareness shifted wholly toward the man across the room. He noticed her too; his eyes caught hers and lit briefly before courtesy demanded his attention elsewhere.
A flutter of fear accompanied the giddiness that rose within her. She was beginning to hope—a dangerous indulgence. She could not allow herself that luxury, and yet when he looked at her…
She needed to step away. The room was getting far too hot for comfort. Elowen glanced at her mother, who was too engaged in conversation to notice her, before she slipped away, heading towards the terrace.
The cool night air met her like a balm, scented faintly with climbing roses. She crossed to the balustrade, resting her hands lightly upon the stone. Moonlight silvered the garden below, soothing her restless thoughts for a moment.
A door creaked. Footsteps. She turned—and her breath caught.
Lucas stood framed in the doorway, the light behind him. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, uncertain, but whatever he saw in her expression must have reassured him.
“Elowen,” he said softly.
“Lucas.” Her voice was calm, though her heart raced.
“Forgive me. I had not meant to intrude.”
“It is no intrusion. The air is very pleasant.”
He joined her at the balustrade, leaving a careful space between them. “Indeed. The room grew stifling too quickly.”
She smiled faintly. “I had feared it was only my own nerves that made it so.”
“Then we share the fault,” he said.
They stood side by side, hands resting near but not touching. The silence that stretched between them was not uncomfortable, only heavy with unspoken things.
At last, she asked, “Do you enjoy these smaller gatherings?”
“I prefer them,” Lucas said. “Less spectacle, fewer games. The conversations have more weight.”
“And you prefer when they are weighty?”
“With the right company, yes.”
Her breath caught again. She looked down at her hands. “Then Lady Harwick has done us a service.”
“She has,” he said quietly.
Laughter drifted faintly from indoors.
“You are thoughtful tonight,” Elowen said after a pause.
“I am often accused of that.”
“And do you plead guilty?”
“Without hesitation.” He turned slightly toward her. “But what of you? Are you enjoying the evening?”
“I am. More than I expected.”
“Because a certain gentleman is not present?”
Her lips curved despite herself. “Perhaps that improves it. You notice such things quickly.”
Lucas’s smile flickered. “I shall not name him—for we both know.”
“You are very generous,” she said, laughing softly.
He studied her in the moonlight. “And what candid thought will you bestow upon me this evening, as you so often do?”
She hesitated. “I do not have any. At least, not any I could possibly say aloud.”
His voice lowered. “That is a dangerous confession.”
She met his gaze. “And yet I make it.”
For a long moment, they simply looked at one another, the air between them charged. Lucas shifted, closing the space by a fraction.
“Elowen,” he whispered—her name escaping him like a breath he could not hold back.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Her pulse drummed so loudly she could hardly breathe.
The space between them vanished. He bent toward her—slow enough for her to refuse him, yet quickly enough that she did not. Their lips met—light, brief, tender. A promise rather than a possession.
Time held still.
Then footsteps and Catherine’s bright voice shattered it. “There you are! Lady Harwick announces a musicale!”
Henry followed, smiling. “We thought to fetch you.”
Lucas inclined his head smoothly. “Miss Tremaine and I were admiring the air,” he clearly thought it fit to explain, even though neither one of them seemed perturbed by the fact that they were alone.
“Indeed,” Elowen added, heart racing.
Catherine’s cheer dispelled suspicion. “Then come—music awaits!”
Henry’s glance flicked between Lucas and Elowen before returning to Lucas. Something unspoken passed between them. Elowen hardly noticed. Her legs felt untrustworthy beneath her.
Together they re-entered the drawing room. Elowen summoned her composure, slipped her mask of calm back into place, and tried to pretend that her world had not just changed forever.
***
Elowen sat at her dressing table, fingers brushing absently across her lips.
Moonlight, roses, and the unexpected warmth of Lucas’s kiss had followed her even into her dreams. Improper—yes.
Incredibly improper. If anyone other than Catherine and Henry had discovered them, the night would have ended very differently.
Yet she could not summon even the faintest regret.
That same betraying flush returned each time she thought of it. A single kiss had changed everything—or perhaps only revealed what had always been there.
A knock sounded, and the door opened softly. A maid entered, carrying a small envelope upon a tray.
“A letter, miss.”
Elowen’s heart gave an unsteady flutter. Was it from Lucas? “Thank you,” she managed, striving for calm.
The maid set it down, curtsied, and withdrew.
Elowen reached for it at once, her breath catching—only to find Catherine’s familiar hand upon the seal. She smiled, though a trace of something wistful lingered, and broke it open.