Chapter 35
“Lord Sulton must understand the gravity of his testimony.”
Howlett stood in their morning room like a sparrow among ruins, his weathered notebook incongruous against the water-stained wallpaper.
Beside him, Mr. Thornwick from the magistrate’s office appeared decidedly uncomfortable among the faded furnishings.
George sat across from him, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow, while Louise poured tea with hands that barely trembled.
“Mr. Howlett has been investigating the gaming establishments,” Thornwick said, adjusting his spectacles. “His evidence, combined with your testimony regarding both Wigram and Bragg’s operations, provides what we need for prosecution.”
“I understand.” George’s voice emerged rough from another sleepless night spent wrestling with ledgers. “Though I doubt my word carries much weight, given my … associations.”
Howlett’s pencil scratched across paper. “Your word, combined with the evidence we’ve gathered, will see Wigram transported and his associate Bragg along with him. Perhaps hanged, if the judge is feeling righteous.”
George flinched. Louise set down the teapot harder than necessary, the crack of china on wood making both men start.
“Bragg threatened to sell my six-year-old sister.” She kept her voice level through sheer force of will. “Whatever happens to him, he’s earned it.”
“Louise.” George turned to her, shame etched in every line of his face. “You don’t have to listen to this. The details of my involvement …”
“Are exactly what I need to hear.” She settled beside him on the threadbare settee, her hand finding his despite the anger that still simmered between them. “We’re past the point of protecting each other through ignorance, George.”
Howlett cleared his throat, professionally uncomfortable with family drama. “Perhaps we should begin with your first contact with Wigram’s organization.”
George straightened slightly, drawing together the remnants of his dignity. “It started with dice. Simple games at White’s, nothing significant. But the losses accumulated, and legitimate moneylenders grew scarce.”
His fingers twisted together as he spoke, mapping out months of cascading disasters. The initial loan from Wigram’s people. The impossible interest rates. The suggestion that certain goods could be moved through customs without inspection if one knew the right people.
Louise forced herself to listen without judgment, though each word felt like glass in her throat. This was her brother, who had taught her to dance, who had carried her on his shoulders through Hyde Park, who had promised at their parents’ graveside to always protect her.
“I never touched the goods directly.” George addressed his confession to the floor. “I simply provided information about shipping schedules and customs inspections. I told myself it was harmless.”
“Until Wigram decided you knew too much.” Howlett’s pencil never stopped moving. “When did you realize the danger?”
“When he started asking about my connections to other families. About whose estates might provide convenient storage.” George’s hands clenched. “I knew then that I was trapped. If I refused, he’d expose me. If I continued, I’d drag everyone I knew into his web.”
“So, you ran.” Louise kept her voice neutral, though the memory of those terrifying weeks burned behind her eyes.
“I thought he’d chase me and leave you alone.” George turned to her, desperation clear in his expression. “I swear, Louise, I never imagined he’d use you as leverage.”
Howlett looked up from his notes. “We’ll need specific dates, names, and locations. Every meeting you can remember.”
George began reciting details with the mechanical precision of a man who had replayed his mistakes countless times. Louise rose, unable to sit still while her brother’s shame filled the room like smoke.
She moved to the window where thin sunlight struggled through unwashed glass.
Outside, London continued its relentless motion.
Carriages rolled past carrying people whose lives hadn’t collapsed into scandal and debt.
A flower seller called her wares on the corner, bright blooms that would die within days in the coal-thick air.
“That’s comprehensive.” Howlett’s voice pulled her back. “With your testimony and our evidence, Wigram won’t see another free day.”
George stood on unsteady legs. “When will you need me to appear before the magistrate?”
“Thursday next. I’ll send a carriage.” Mr. Thornwick stood and nodded.
Howlett tucked away his notebook with practiced efficiency. “Lord Sulton, your cooperation won’t erase your involvement, but it will significantly mitigate the consequences.”
After Howlett and Mr. Thornwick departed, George collapsed back onto the settee, head in his hands.
“I’ve destroyed us.” The words emerged muffled through his fingers. “Our name, our standing, everything Father built.”
Louise crossed to him, sinking down beside her broken brother. “Father built his fortune on speculation that could have collapsed at any moment. You simply fulfilled his legacy of poor judgment.”
A startled laugh escaped George. “That’s harsh.”
“That’s honest.” She gripped his shoulder, feeling the bones too prominent through his coat. “We can rebuild, George. But only if you stop wallowing and start working.”
He lifted his head, hope flickering in eyes that looked too much like their mother’s. “You don’t hate me?”
“I’m furious with you. Disappointed. Hurt beyond measure.” Louise squeezed his shoulder once before releasing him. “But you’re my brother. We survive together or not at all.”
The Whitmore musicale should have been pleasant.
Louise sat between Lady Fenwick and Lady Wycliffe, offering the appropriate nods of attention while a soprano warbled through an Italian aria.
Her new evening dress, a modest creation of amber silk, had cost more than they could afford but was necessary for appearances.
It felt like armor that did not quite fit.
“Lord Calderley has been asking after you,” Lady Wycliffe murmured behind her fan. “Such a charming young man.”
Louise managed a polite smile while her mind catalogued household expenses. The coal bill. Emily’s lessons with Miss Whitfield, which Aaron still mysteriously paid for despite their departure. The medicine for Mrs. Fielding’s persistent cough.
“He’s very kind.” The expected response emerged automatically.
During the interval, Lord Calderley materialized at her elbow with the determination of a man on a mission.
“Lady Louise.” He bowed with excessive flourish. “Might I fetch you some refreshment?”
She accepted because refusing would cause talk they couldn’t afford. George stood across the room, attempting conversation with men who had once called him friend, their discomfort visible in every stilted exchange.
Lord Calderley returned with a glass of punch that tasted of sugar and social obligation. “I trust your brother’s health continues to improve?”
“Yes, the physicians are quite encouraged.” The lie rolled off her tongue with practiced ease. Bath waters. Miraculous recovery. So fortunate.
“Perhaps, when he’s fully recovered, I might call on you?” Calderley’s eagerness made him look younger than his twenty-seven years. “With proper chaperonage, naturally.”
Louise studied the punch’s pink surface, seeing Aaron’s reflection instead of her own. The way he had looked at her that last morning, resolution and misery warring in his expression.
“That’s very flattering, Lord Calderley.”
He waited for more. When nothing came, his enthusiasm dimmed slightly. “But not welcome?”
“I’m focused on my family’s recovery.” She handed him the barely touched glass. “I’m sure you understand.”
He didn’t, but he pretended to, which was all society required.
The second half of the performance dragged interminably. Mr. Sheridan approached during the final piece, whispered an invitation to tomorrow’s garden party. Lord Ashford’s younger son cornered her near the door, suggesting a drive through Hyde Park might be refreshing.
Each man was perfectly pleasant. Appropriately bred. Financially stable. Emotionally available.
Yet none of them made her pulse race. None of them looked at her like she was sunlight after years of darkness. None of them had ever fought five men to protect her or spent weeks searching for her worthless brother.
None of them were Aaron.
The carriage ride home with George passed in silence until he spoke into the darkness.
“Three men approached me about you tonight.”
Louise kept her gaze fixed on passing streetlamps. “How flattering.”
“You refused them all.”
“I’m in mourning.” The words emerged bitter as winter air.
“For what?”
For morning walks in a garden that wasn’t theirs. For Emily’s laughter echoing through halls they’d never own. For strong hands, gentle in her hair, and a voice saying her name like a prayer.
“For the life we had before you became a criminal.” She let him hear the sharp edges of her anger.
George absorbed the blow in silence. They rolled through Mayfair, past Calborough House with its windows glowing like golden eyes in the darkness. Louise forced herself not to look, not to wonder which room held him, not to imagine him standing at those windows watching the city sleep.
“The duke still pays for Miss Whitfield.” George’s observation came carefully neutral.
“An oversight, I’m sure.”
“Louise.” Her name carried all the gentleness he could manage. “You love him.”
She closed her eyes against the truth of it. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”
“Doesn’t it? He fought for us, searched for me, protected you both.”
“And then he let us go.” The words scraped her throat raw. “Without a word of protest, without asking us to stay, without fighting for what we’d found together.”
George reached across the darkness, his hand covering hers. “Perhaps he’s as frightened as you are.”
Louise thought of Aaron’s face that last morning, the way he had stood so carefully distant, holding himself apart as if proximity might shatter his resolve.
“Fear is a luxury we can’t afford.” She pulled her hand away. “We have Emily to think of, debts to manage, your testimony to survive. Whatever existed between the duke and me is finished.”
The lie settled between them like a third passenger, taking up space they couldn’t spare.
At Sulton House, Emily slept curled in their mother’s chair by the dying fire, a book of fairy tales open in her lap. Louise lifted her carefully, carrying her to bed while George banked the coals.
Emily stirred as Louise tucked the covers around her. “Did you see him tonight?”
“Who, darling?”
“The duke.” Emily’s eyes opened, too knowing for six years. “You always look sadder when you might see him.”
Louise smoothed copper hair back from her sister’s forehead. “Sleep now. Lady Merrow comes tomorrow with Buttercup.”
“I wish we could just go home.” Emily’s whisper barely disturbed the air.
Louise pressed her lips to her sister’s forehead, tasting salt from tears she hadn’t realized were falling.
“So do I, sweetheart. So do I.”
But home wasn’t a place anymore. It was a person who had chosen fear over love, safety over joy, isolation over the terrifying possibility of happiness.
And that was a door that, once closed, could never be opened again.