Chapter 13
The journey back to Aldermere House should not have taken long.
To William, it seemed endless.
The carriage rolled steadily through London's quiet streets while lantern light drifted across the opposite seat in shifting bands of gold. Outside, the city had begun surrendering itself to the small hours, the last departing carriages giving way to empty streets and shuttered shopfronts.
William scarcely noticed any of it.
His thoughts returned, again and again, to Rosalind.
He smiled despite himself as he remembered the triumphant look Rosalind had given him after accusing him of playing the jealous suitor rather too convincingly. She had been entirely too pleased with herself and, more inconveniently still, she had been right.
He had blushed.
Until that evening, he had never thought much of waltzes beyond fulfilling another social obligation. Somehow, dancing with Rosalind had transformed the entire experience.
He could still picture the rich violet of her gown catching the candlelight each time they turned, the flowers woven through her curls, and the way she laughed whenever she caught him looking at her.
The memory lingered only a moment before another quietly took its place.
I think I saw your brother in the gardens.
The warmth drained from his thoughts.
It simply could not be true. He had watched Algernon's carriage leave that afternoon with his own eyes.
There had been trunks strapped behind it, servants accompanying the journey, and Augusta seated beside his brother.
Everything about the departure had suggested a man leaving London for several days.
Yet Rosalind had not sounded uncertain. She had sounded convinced.
William rested one gloved hand against the cool carriage window, replaying her hurried whisper again in his mind. He searched it for some hint that she had been mistaken, some hesitation he might have overlooked.
He found none.
By the time the carriage rolled beneath the gates of the Aldermere townhouse, William found himself no closer to an explanation than when he had first begun searching for one.
The horses had scarcely come to a halt before he stepped down onto the gravel drive.
He had taken only a few steps toward the house when something stretched across the lawn let out a mournful groan.
William blinked. “Gabriel?”
One arm lifted weakly into the air.
“If you've come to bury me,” Gabriel announced to the night sky, “I ask only that you choose a pleasant corner of the garden.”
William laughed despite himself. “That sounds rather dramatic.”
“You say that because your evening ended considerably better than mine.”
Crossing the lawn, William folded his arms. “This has something to do with Miss Hartwell.”
Gabriel let out a sigh worthy of a tragic actor. “I found the gathering.”
“You actually went?”
“I ignored every sensible word you spoke.”
“I suspected as much.”
Gabriel dragged both hands through his hair. “It was magnificent. Poets, painters, philosophers... and Isabella looked happier than I've ever seen her.”
William smiled faintly. “What happened?”
“I panicked.”
“That never bodes well.”
“One of the gentlemen asked how I knew about the gathering.” Gabriel looked positively miserable. “I said Miss Hartwell had invited me.”
William's smile disappeared. “She hadn't introduced herself as Miss Hartwell.”
“She'd introduced herself as Miss Bell.”
William closed his eyes. “Oh, Gabriel.”
“They had no idea she was Baron Hartwell’s daughter.” Gabriel's shoulders slumped. “She goes there to escape all of this, and I ruined it.”
For a moment William simply looked at him. “You made a mistake,” he said quietly. “A foolish one, certainly, but not a cruel one.”
Gabriel gave a humorless laugh. “I rather doubt she will see the distinction.”
“Perhaps not tonight.” William looked toward the house before offering his friend a hand. “But tomorrow I will speak with Rosalind. She understands Miss Hartwell better than either of us, and if anyone knows how to mend this, it will be her.”
Gabriel accepted the offered hand. “I hope you are right.”
“So do I.”
Together they climbed the front steps.
Gabriel retired to the guest chamber with the slow, defeated gait of a man convinced the world had ended.
William watched him disappear up the staircase, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything that had transpired that evening. He wished his friend goodnight, waited until the bedroom door clicked quietly shut, then remained standing alone in the entrance hall.
The house had settled into the deep stillness that belonged only to the hours after midnight.
Somewhere in the distance, an old clock marked the quarter hour with a single muted chime. The servants had long since retired, the fires had burned low, and the polished marble beneath William's boots reflected little more than the soft glow of the lamps left burning through the night.
He ought to have been exhausted.
Instead, the quiet seemed to give his thoughts more room to move.
The evening had left him unsettled in ways he could not easily separate. There was Rosalind herself, who had somehow become far too easy to think about when she was nowhere near him, and then there was the warning she had delivered before leaving the ball.
He had spent the journey home trying to dismiss what she believed she had seen. He had watched Algernon leave London. He knew what he had seen just as surely as Rosalind seemed to know what she had seen.
Both things could not be true.
William loosened his cravat and crossed the hall, but instead of turning toward the staircase, he stopped.
That was what troubled him most.
He trusted his brother. He always had. The certainty had been so deeply rooted that he had never thought to question it. Yet tonight, for the first time, Rosalind had placed the smallest crack in something William had always considered immovable.
He did not like it. Nor could he seem to put it from his mind.
Sleep, he realized, was unlikely to come anytime soon.
Perhaps a book would fare better.
William turned toward the library.
Books had rescued many restless nights before. If nothing else, an hour spent with history or philosophy might finally silence the endless procession of thoughts chasing one another through his mind.
The corridor was cool and almost unnaturally still, the only sound the soft echo of his own footsteps across the polished floor. Every lamp but one had been extinguished, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of warm candlelight.
He was only a few paces from the library when something made him slow.
Light.
A narrow band of gold stretched beneath the heavy oak door, bright enough to catch his attention immediately.
William frowned.
At this hour the room should have been empty.
His mother had retired hours ago, and both Algernon and Augusta were supposed to be well beyond the outskirts of London by now, their carriage carrying them toward Aldermere. Perhaps one of the servants had left a lamp burning.
Then he heard voices.
He stopped instinctively.
They did not belong to servants making their final rounds, nor to the butler ensuring the house had been secured for the night. He knew both voices too well.
Algernon.
And Augusta.
William stood motionless, one hand resting lightly against the brass handle. Every instinct urged him to announce himself at once. He had no desire to overhear a private conversation between husband and wife, and for a brief moment he considered turning quietly away.
Before he could move, Augusta spoke.
“This cannot continue forever.”
The words themselves were unremarkable.
Her voice was not.
William had known Augusta for years, and in all that time he could not remember hearing her sound anything less than perfectly composed. Even in disagreement she remained measured, almost impossibly controlled, as though she weighed every word before allowing it to leave her lips.
Tonight there was no trace of that composure.
Only exhaustion.
Silence settled over the room before Algernon answered, so quietly that William caught only the end of the sentence.
“...I know.”
“You always say that,” Augusta replied, the weariness in her voice somehow more unsettling than anger would have been. “Knowing it does not change anything.”
The scrape of a chair echoed faintly through the door, followed by slow, deliberate footsteps crossing the library floor.
William pictured his brother pacing before the fire, just as he had done countless times while wrestling with estate accounts or difficult decisions. Yet this did not sound like an estate matter. There was a heaviness to the conversation that made the corridor itself seem colder.
“It was your decision,” Augusta continued quietly. “You insisted upon carrying this alone, and you cannot go on pretending that is still possible.”
Without realizing it, William tightened his grip upon the brass handle.
He ought to leave.
Whatever this conversation concerned, it belonged to his brother and his wife. Remaining where he was felt uncomfortably close to eavesdropping, and everything in his upbringing told him to walk away.
He even shifted his weight with every intention of doing precisely that.
Then Algernon answered. “I will find a solution.”
“You have been saying that for three years.”
William's breath caught.
Three years.
The words settled heavily inside him, refusing to move on as the conversation continued beyond the door. Three years ago their father had died. Three years ago Algernon had inherited the dukedom. Three years ago something, apparently, had begun.
A faint uneasiness crept slowly through William's chest.
Perhaps it was coincidence.
It had to be.
Yet the certainty he had carried all evening began to slip quietly through his fingers.
Augusta spoke again, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “It is not only your burden anymore. You have to ask for help.”
“I cannot.”
“You must.”
“I said no.”
William became suddenly aware of the steady thud of his own heartbeat.
It was not fear that rooted him to the spot.