Chapter 6
Late that morning, Aaron left Calborough House under the pretense of business with his steward, but his carriage turned instead toward Bow Street.
The cold wind cut through the narrow streets, carrying with it the familiar tang of coal smoke and stale river air. He had not visited Bow Street in nearly a year, not since the last time Mr. Howlett had reported on an illegal scheme Aaron once, foolishly, agreed to help expose.
Howlett looked much the same as he had then. The Runner rose when Aaron entered the cramped office.
“Your Grace,” Howlett said, inclining his head. “Wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I’m not here on ducal business,” Aaron said, closing the door behind him. “I need information. Quietly.”
That earned Howlett’s full attention. “Name the man.”
“George Burrows.”
Howlett’s brows shot up. “The Marquess of Sulton? Thought he’d gone abroad.”
“So did half of London.” Aaron crossed his arms.
Howlett hesitated, then opened a drawer and withdrew a narrow ledger. “His name crossed my desk two nights ago. A fight at a gambling den in Covent Garden. Bad one.” He tapped a line with his finger. “Sulton fled before we could question him. Vanished into the alleys like smoke.”
Exactly what Aaron feared.
“Was anyone injured?”
“One man with a cracked skull. Another with a knife wound in the arm.” Howlett’s voice lowered. “Rumor is Sulton wasn’t fighting for sport. Looked cornered.”
Aaron’s jaw tightened. “Can you dig deeper? Discreetly.”
“Of course.” Howlett closed the ledger with a snap. “Same arrangement as before?”
Aaron slipped a folded note across the desk, heavier than necessary. “Find him. Quickly.”
Aaron stepped back into the bitter afternoon wind with the noise of Bow Street swelling around him. He climbed into his carriage without a word, rapped on the roof, and let it carry him toward White’s.
A drink, he told himself.
A moment to think before returning home, a certain pair of green eyes that haunted the hidden corners of his mind.
The familiar hush of White’s failed to settle him. By the time he lowered himself into a corner chair with a brandy, the weight of responsibility pressed heavier than ever.
“You look terrible.”
Aaron glanced up from his brandy to find Ernest Bannerman, the Marquess of Wilstone, settling into the leather chair across from him. Afternoon light filtered through White’s tall windows, casting his friend’s fair hair in gold while leaving his expression shadowed.
“And you look insufferably pleased with yourself, as usual.” Aaron took another sip, savoring the burn.
Ernest signaled a footman. “The betting book has three new wagers about you and the mysterious Lady Louise. An Easter wedding seems to be the favorite.”
Aaron’s fingers tightened on his glass. “Anyone who writes her name in that book will answer to me.”
He hated how quickly news flew through London. If only gossips devoted themselves to missing persons with the same zeal, the city would have no unsolved crimes left.
“Such protectiveness.” Ernest accepted his drink with practiced ease. “The impenetrable Duke of Calborough, reduced to threats over a lady’s honor. How the mighty have fallen.”
“I’m ensuring an innocent woman and a child aren’t subjected to further humiliation.”
“Of course you are.” Ernest swirled his brandy, studying Aaron with uncomfortable perception. “Tell me, have you found her brother yet?”
“No.” The admission tasted bitter. “Sulton has vanished as completely as smoke. Over a week now without word.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the comfortable sounds of the club washing over them. Somewhere behind them, a group of elderly lords debated politics. The fire crackled. Life continued its orderly progression while Aaron’s carefully structured world tilted further off its axis.
“How are the sisters?” Ernest asked finally.
“Adjusting.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Aaron stood, tossing back the rest of his brandy. “They’re safe. Fed. Warm. What more is there to say?”
“What more, indeed.” Ernest swirled his glass, a knowing glint in his eye. “I remember Lady Louise, you know. From before Sulton’s troubles became the talk of every drawing room.”
Aaron paused, halfway to standing. “Do you?”
“Mmm. Two seasons ago, perhaps three. She was at the Worthington ball, wearing something green that matched her eyes.” Ernest smiled at the memory. “I asked her to dance. She refused me quite charmingly. Said her card was full, though I suspect it wasn’t.”
“Is there a point to this reminiscence?”
“The point, my friend, is that Lady Louise Burrows is uncommonly pretty. Clever, too, from what I remember. A woman like that living under your roof …” Ernest let the implication hang in the air.
“She’s my aunt’s companion. Nothing more.”
“Of course she is.” Ernest’s grin widened. “And you invited her into your home out of pure charity. No other motivation whatsoever.”
“I invited her because Bragg would have destroyed her otherwise.”
“Noble.” Ernest set down his glass. “You know, Calborough, your aunt isn’t the only one in that house who could use some female company. When was the last time you attended a ball? Paid a call on anyone who wasn’t a solicitor or a man of business?”
Aaron’s jaw tightened. “I have responsibilities.”
“You have excuses.” Ernest rose, clapping him on the shoulder. “All I’m saying is that a beautiful woman has landed in your lap, so to speak. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity by being your usual glacial self.”
“Your concern for my social life is touching.”
“Someone needs to be concerned. You certainly aren’t.” Ernest reached for his hat. “Just try not to frighten the poor girl off with all that brooding. Some women find it appealing, but there are limits.”
Aaron left without responding, but Ernest’s teasing followed him through Mayfair’s afternoon crowds.
Female company. As if he hadn’t noticed precisely how pretty Louise was.
As if he hadn’t spent half the night remembering the way she’d looked at him in the carriage, lips parted, pulse racing at her throat.
He would not become his father. He would not take advantage of vulnerability. He would not let passion override control.
His resolution lasted until he walked through his own front door.
Chaos greeted him. A tremendous crash echoed from the drawing room, followed by Buttercup’s booming bark and what sounded distinctly like his aunt laughing. Aaron strode toward the noise and froze in the doorway.
Devastation. Cushions scattered across the floor, furniture askew, and in the center of it all, Buttercup sat wearing an elaborate bonnet, pink ribbons trailing from his massive head.
Emily kneeled beside him, attempting to balance a teacup on his nose while Cecilia clapped encouragement while standing on a footstool.
But it was Louise who stopped his breath.
She stood on a tufted chair with one arm stretched upward toward the mantelpiece while her other hand gripped Cecilia’s shoulder for balance. Her body formed a graceful arc, skirts swaying as she reached for something just beyond her grasp.
“Almost have it,” she muttered, tongue appearing between her lips in concentration.
The footstool wobbled. Cecilia gasped. Buttercup startled at the sound, his massive head jerking upward. The teacup he’d been balancing on his snout flew through the air and shattered against the marble hearth.
“What the devil is happening here?”
Every head turned. Emily’s eyes widened. Cecilia had the grace to look momentarily abashed. Buttercup’s tail thumped against the carpet in greeting, scattering porcelain shards across the floor.
“Don’t move.” Aaron’s voice cut through the chaos. “Emily, stay exactly where you are.”
The child froze, her bare feet inches from a jagged piece of broken china.
Aaron strode to the bellpull and yanked it sharply. A maid appeared within moments, her eyes widening at the destruction.
“Fetch a broom and dustpan. Quickly.” He turned to his housekeeper, who had materialized behind the maid. “Mrs. Hammond, please take Lady Emily to the sofa and find her slippers. She’s not to set foot on this floor until every shard is cleared.”
Mrs. Hammond swept Emily into her arms and deposited her safely on the settee, producing slippers from somewhere with the efficiency of long practice.
Only then did Aaron turn to his aunt.
“You scared us half to death, bursting in like that.” Cecilia descended from her footstool with an affronted sniff. “We had everything perfectly under control.”
“Under control?” Aaron gestured at the wreckage. Overturned furniture, scattered cushions, and broken porcelain glinting like teeth across the carpet. “You were balancing on a stool while teaching that beast to perform circus tricks. You could have fallen and broken your neck.”
“Buttercup is not a beast. And I was in no danger whatsoever until you came thundering in.”
“No danger.” Aaron stepped closer, his voice dropping to something low and furious. “Aunt Cecilia, that dog weighs more than you do. One wrong step, one stumble, and he could crush you.”
Cecilia’s chin lifted. “So I’m to sit around embroidering like some invalid while the world passes me by? Is that what you want?”
“I want you to exercise basic sense. You’re a grown woman behaving like a reckless child.”
“A child?” Cecilia’s voice rose. “How dare you—”
“One slip.” Aaron cut her off, his jaw tight. “One wrong step, and you could be crushed beneath that wretched dog. I won’t stand idly by while you flaunt your foolishness under my roof.”
Cecilia’s mouth fell open. For a moment, she seemed too shocked to speak. Then her expression hardened into something brittle and proud.
“I am not a child, Aaron. And I will not be spoken to as one.”
“Then stop acting like one. I will not watch you endanger yourself in my own home.”
Silence rang through the drawing room. Emily had gone very still on the settee, her eyes darting between them. Louise stood frozen near the mantel, her face pale.