Chapter 23
Elowen smiled. Catherine’s friendship had become a quiet joy—something she had not expected when the season began. She fetched her bonnet and reticule, wasting little time before descending the stairs.
Yet as she waited for the carriage, her thoughts drifted once more to Lucas.
Does he regret it? Does he think it folly? Or… does he feel as I do?
She thought of little else during the drive to Bond Street.
The milliner’s shop was warm and bright, scented with lavender sachets and polished wood. Ribbons, feathers, and silks gleamed beneath the lamps. Catherine was already there, examining a display of pastel trims with unfeigned delight.
“Elowen!” she cried, hurrying forward to clasp her hands. “You’ve saved me—I should be utterly lost among so many choices.”
“I doubt that,” Elowen said, laughing.
“Henry insists he likes blue, but he says so of every shade I hold up. I think he only wishes to please me, which is charming—but hardly useful.”
“He sounds very obliging,” Elowen replied with a smile.
They wandered together through the displays, selecting lengths of satin and gauze. Catherine’s chatter was bright—colours, fashions, which lady had copied another’s gown—but her tone softened as she shifted the subject.
“Let us speak of Lucas,” she said suddenly.
Elowen nearly tripped. She bent over a bolt of ribbon with unnecessary interest. “What of him?” she asked, a little too quickly.
“Lucas has always been protective. He would not encourage me if he doubted Henry’s sincerity.
And truly, Elowen, I have never been happier.
” Catherine’s eyes glowed. “Have you noticed? Henry listens—not with the empty nodding one endures at assemblies, but as though he truly hears. It is the rarest gift.”
Elowen’s heart steadied. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I have noticed.”
They drifted toward a counter where an assistant arranged samples. Catherine lowered her voice further, her eyes fixed keenly on Elowen. “Lucas seemed distracted this morning. I told myself it must be business, but perhaps…”
She paused delicately, watching Elowen’s face.
“Perhaps?” Elowen prompted, pretending close study of a ribbon.
“Perhaps something weighs on him besides business.”
Elowen’s cheeks warmed before she could help it. She looked down quickly. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”
Catherine smiled knowingly. “You cannot, can you? Well—I shan’t press. I am glad of your company, regardless.”
Elowen felt gratitude well within her. She didn’t know if she was ready to talk about it yet, when she had yet to come to terms with what had happened herself. Catherine asked no prying questions, yet her presence offered room for confidences, which Elowen appreciated.
They continued in lighter conversation, speaking of Henry’s steadiness, of how some young ladies found such temperament dull.
“At first, I thought him too quiet,” Catherine admitted. “Not… exciting enough. But I was foolish. There is depth beneath that calm—more substance than all the empty charm of others. Once I saw it, I could never think him dull again.”
Elowen traced the edge of a pale lavender ribbon. “Sometimes the surface deceives. What lies beneath—that is what matters.”
“Exactly.” Catherine gave her hand a brief squeeze. “You understand.”
Elowen smiled faintly. “Perhaps I do.”
When they left the shop, parcels in hand, the morning sun had grown bright. Elowen glanced across the busy street—and froze.
Victor stood there, speaking to a gentleman, but his gaze was fixed sharply upon her. It lingered too long, too intent.
Despite the warmth of the day, a chill crept down her spine.
Catherine followed her glance. “Oh—isn’t that Lord Cherrington? He does look rather intent.”
Elowen forced composure. “Yes. Intent is the word.”
Victor inclined his head from across the street, but there was no gallantry in it—only calculation. Possession.
Elowen turned back at once, quickening her pace beside Catherine toward their carriage.
Inside, Catherine chatted cheerfully of ribbons and bonnets, but Elowen’s thoughts had already drifted. She could still feel the memory of Lucas’s kiss—its warmth set now against the cold, assessing stare of Victor Cherrington.
One had been genuine connection. The other, calculated pursuit.
And never had the contrast been clearer.
***
Lucas paced before his desk, the surface strewn with papers—shipping manifests marked in William’s hand, columns of figures with irregularities circled, and his father’s recovered notes. The evidence grew daily, yet still lacked that one irrefutable piece.
Frederick’s latest report lay atop the rest. Ambrose was unravelling. Loud quarrels with creditors, drink taken where no gentleman of standing would be seen, whispered accusations of powerful enemies—his decline was swift and public.
Lucas pressed his fingers to his brow. He is going to ruin himself—and perhaps ruin us again in the process.
The door opened without ceremony. Henry entered.
“You look as though you’ve fought a battle and lost,” he said mildly, closing the door behind him.
Lucas gestured toward the chaos on his desk. “I sometimes think I fight shadows. Each scrap brings me closer, yet none bind tightly enough to stand in court.”
Henry advanced, resting a hand on the back of a chair but not yet sitting. “Your solicitor’s report?”
“Yes.” Lucas tossed it across the desk. “Ambrose has made himself a spectacle in half the taverns of Mayfair. If he speaks so freely, it is only a matter of time before he says something that reaches the wrong ears. His ruin may come sooner than planned.”
Henry scanned the report swiftly, his brow furrowing. “This speaks of desperation.”
“Or fear.”
They let that hang between them a moment. At last, Henry lowered the page. “Then he must be watched all the more closely.”
Lucas resumed pacing. “I have asked Frederick to keep him under watch by whatever means he can. But each day, Ambrose sinks lower. He may destroy himself before we can draw what we need from him.”
Henry finally seated himself in one of the armchairs. “You have always preferred careful construction of cases. But sometimes—”
“No,” Lucas cut him off. “If we move without certainty, men like Lord Orvilleton will twist it to their advantage. Lord Trenton’s disgrace taught me that.”
The name fell heavily between them. Silence followed, punctuated only by the fire’s low crackle.
At last, Henry leaned forward, folding his hands. “Tell me, then. What weighs more heavily—Ambrose’s decline, or something else?”
Lucas halted mid-stride. “What do you mean?”
Henry’s gaze was steady, perceptive. “I have known you too long, Lucas. This restlessness is not merely about papers and accounts. Something else troubles you.”
Lucas turned away, staring into the flames. Elowen. Her name pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat. But he could not speak of that now. Henry saw too much already.
Instead, he said quietly, “Do you think Lord Cherrington has made inquiries about William?”
Henry’s brows rose. “Why do you ask?”
“Because Frederick believes so. A few discreet questions to the wrong people—too curious by half.”
Henry considered. “And you believe it tied to his attentions toward Elowen.”
The name struck too near. Lucas’s jaw tightened. “Perhaps.”
Henry did not press. “He courts her quite publicly. One might almost call it devotion.”
“Devotion?” Lucas gave a short, cold laugh. “His devotion is theatre. His eyes follow her even while he speaks to others. That is not affection, Henry—it is calculation.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.” Lucas’s tone was sharper than he intended. He steadied himself. “It is too convenient. His interest began only after…” He stopped.
“After what?” Henry prompted.
The realisation struck him with sudden clarity. “After her family’s disgrace served his allies well. And now, as whispers begin to shift, he reappears—gracious, charming, well-timed. It reeks of strategy.”
Henry studied him quietly. “And yet it disturbs you.”
Lucas turned sharply. “You suggest—”
“I suggest nothing,” Henry said mildly. “Only that you are more troubled than you wish to admit.”
Lucas exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Very well. You observe correctly. She has borne more than her share of society’s cruelty. She deserves honesty, safety—not to be used for ambition.”
Silence fell again, broken only by the hiss of the fire.
At last, Henry said softly, “Lucas.”
Lucas met his friend’s gaze reluctantly.
“You care for her.”
The words left no room for evasion. Lucas turned away. “I should not.”
“But you do. You may even love her.”
“Yes.” The admission escaped him like breath. He could not deny it any longer.
Henry leaned back, arms crossed. “You surprise yourself more than you surprise me.”
Lucas gave a humourless laugh. “I had not meant to speak so plainly.”
“Then perhaps you needed to.”
Lucas braced both hands on the desk, staring down at the scattered papers. “A moment’s folly could ruin her. Last night—” He stopped abruptly.
Henry raised a brow. “Last night?”
Lucas bit back a curse. “I forget how easily you draw confession from me.”
“You kissed her.” It was not a question.
Lucas said nothing, but the silence confirmed it.
Henry’s expression softened. “And she?”
“She did not turn away,” Lucas admitted hoarsely. “But it was reckless. Had we been seen—”
“But you were not.”
“That changes nothing. Her reputation—”
“Lucas,” Henry interrupted gently, “you are not a man to trifle. If you feel as I believe you do, then her reputation may not be endangered, but rather assured.”
Lucas shook his head. “Not until this business ends. Not while Lord Cherrington prowls and Orvilleton watches from the shadows. To draw her closer now would place her in danger.”
Henry considered. “Danger finds her regardless, if Lord Cherrington is as entangled in this as you suspect. Would you have her face it without your protection?”
The words struck deep. Lucas sank into the chair opposite Henry, suddenly weary.
“I cannot disentangle my duty from my heart,” he admitted. “She is both—my responsibility, and my weakness.”
Henry smiled faintly. “That sounds remarkably like love, though I know you will not name it.”
Lucas gave a sharp exhale that sounded almost like laughter. “Love. A fine word for men less burdened with secrets.”
“Or perhaps,” Henry said softly, “it is the only word for men who bear them.”
They sat in silence a moment, the firelight glinting off paper and glass.
Finally, Lucas said, “What would you advise, then? You, who speak of love with such certainty.”
Henry’s face softened at the thought of Catherine. “I would say this: do not mistake restraint for protection. Sometimes honesty shields more than silence.”
Lucas absorbed that. “And yet discretion must guide us.”
“Discretion, yes. Denial, no.”
Before Lucas could reply, hurried footsteps echoed in the hall. Frederick entered without ceremony, pale and shaken.
“What is it?” Lucas rose instantly.
Frederick held out a crumpled note. “Lord Redley has been found dead.”
Henry shot to his feet. “Dead?”
“Found in his rooms not an hour past. They call it an accident—too much drink, a fall. But…” Frederick hesitated, his eyes dark. “There are details I cannot dismiss.”
Lucas’s blood chilled. “What details?”
“A bruise at the temple, not explained by the fall. Papers missing from his desk. And a witness who swears he heard raised voices shortly before.”
The study fell silent, the fire’s crackle suddenly harsh.
Henry spoke first. “Then our shadows struck sooner than we thought.”
Lucas’s jaw hardened. “This was no accident. Ambrose was silenced.”
He looked down at the scattered documents, then up at both men. “If they are willing to silence their own, we are closer to the truth than we ever imagined.”
The fire snapped, sending sparks upward—like an omen, bright and brief before the dark swallowed them again.