Chapter 11 #3
Luca stepped fully into the apartment, his boots crunching on broken glass.
A familiar heaviness settled over him. He had seen rooms like this before—too many times during his investigations—always followed by the same grim discovery.
He moved with cautious purpose towards the bedroom, his breath tightening.
The door stood slightly ajar. He nudged it open with his fingertips.
Mr. Griffin lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed, his limbs twisted unnaturally. A dark, dried pool of blood stained the carpet beneath his head. The sight made Luca’s heart drop like a stone in his chest.
How did they discover his betrayal so quickly? The man had barely given Luca the ledger. Their enemies were organized—far more than he had accounted for.
Luca crouched down beside the body, the floor creaking beneath his weight. He reached into Griffin’s jacket pockets, methodically searching for letters, notes, anything that might have been overlooked. Nothing. His fingers brushed only lint and the crumpled lining of a man who’d died too soon.
Not that he’d expected much. Whatever mattered had already been taken.
He straightened slowly, scanning the room once more. No signs of a struggle beyond the ransacking. No hidden papers tucked under the bed. Whoever had done this had known exactly what they were looking for.
He had no desire to explain his presence here to the constables. It would lead to questions he couldn’t afford to answer. He took one last look at the bloodstained carpet and then turned on his heel, slipping out of the residence and closing the door softly behind him.
He arrived at his carriage and climbed in just as the elderly woman returned with a burly man who had all the looks of a constable—broad shoulders, heavy tread, and suspicion already darkening his gaze. The carriage lurched forward, merging into the congested London traffic.
The ride back to his townhouse felt interminable.
The steady clip-clop of hooves, usually soothing, grated against his nerves.
He tapped his fingers against his knee, frustration gnawing at him with every passing moment.
He was one step behind, and he hated being behind.
Every lead he followed dissolved like smoke between his fingers.
When the carriage finally pulled up to his townhouse, he didn’t wait for the footman. He stepped out and strode up the steps, his jaw set.
The moment he stepped through the door, Jude appeared from the corridor, his dark brows arching at Luca’s appearance.
“Why do you look like death?” Jude asked.
“I do not look that bad,” Luca muttered, yanking on his cravat.
Jude lifted a single brow higher. “I’m afraid you do. You will want to wash up before Lady Benson’s ball this evening.”
The last thing Luca wanted was to wade into a ballroom full of simpering guests and hollow laughter. “I am not going,” he said flatly.
“But you must,” Jude countered. “This is the first social event you will be attending with your betrothed, Miss Winslow.”
“I don’t even know if she will be in attendance,” Luca said, tugging off his gloves with more force than necessary.
Jude’s gaze sharpened. “Didn’t you just return from a carriage ride with her?”
“Yes,” Luca admitted, “but we didn’t discuss our plans for this evening.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Jude pressed, “Then what did you discuss?”
“The weather,” Luca replied.
Jude’s mouth twitched, though he pressed it into a firm line. “Fine. Do not tell me. But I have it on good authority that Miss Winslow will be attending with her brother this evening.”
Luca hated to admit it, but Jude had a point.
As much as he wanted to retreat to his study, bury himself in the ledger, and ignore Society altogether, he couldn’t.
If Charlotte was attending Lady Benson’s ball, then he needed to be there—by her side.
It wasn’t merely a matter of propriety. It was his responsibility as her fiancé.
“I will go,” he muttered, the words tasting more like resignation than enthusiasm.
Jude’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Good choice,” he said lightly, though there was a glint of knowing in his eyes. “Is something troubling you?”
Luca gave a half-shrug. “No more than usual.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
Luca turned towards the grand staircase, eager to end the conversation. “I know,” he admitted over his shoulder, “but it’s best that you don’t know.”
Jude’s exasperated sigh followed him up the stairs like a chastising echo. “You have become much more secretive since you acquired those newssheets of yours,” he called after his brother.
“It is the nature of my work,” Luca replied, not bothering to turn around. His voice was even, but inside, a pang of guilt pricked at him.
He hated keeping secrets from his brother. Jude had always been his confidant, the one person who’d stood by him through their mother’s death. But the world Luca inhabited now—the investigations, the dangerous truths—was not one he wanted Jude entangled in.
It was safer this way. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.