Chapter Twenty-Three
Cassian woke before dawn, as he always did, though this morning the waking felt different. For a moment, he simply lay still, with awareness slowly settling over him. Charlotte was still blissfully asleep by his side.
Cassian closed his eyes briefly. He had held her until sleep finally claimed her, but he had not said the words she clearly needed. She stirred faintly beside him, and he knew if he stayed another moment, he would lose the will to leave at all.
He slipped from the bed with careful movements, drawing the blankets over her shoulders. Charlotte did not wake. He cast one more glance before he reached for the door handle, then let himself out.
Nicholas waited for him on the manor steps, just as they had agreed the previous night.
“You’re certain you wish to go through with our plan today?” Nicholas asked.
Cassian adjusted his coat. “I will not waste a single hour. Edmund Larke did not vanish into thin air. Men who hide leave trails, and I intend to follow every one.”
Nicholas gave a curt nod. “Then let us begin.”
They kept their investigation quiet. Discretion mattered, as Charlotte’s name was not to be dragged further through public mud.
Their first destination was an inn at the edge of town, a place known for travellers and gossip both.
The innkeeper was eager to help when Cassian laid a heavy coin on the counter, and he admitted he had seen Edmund weeks ago, looking nervous, hurried, and ducking from windows as though fearing discovery.
He had spoken to no one for long, but he had accepted a letter that seemed to alarm him.
“From whom?” Cassian pressed.
The man only shrugged. “No name. But he paid his bill before dawn and left in a panic.”
At the next stop, a small nearby market, Nicholas coaxed a merchant into talking. The merchant remembered Edmund’s face. He remembered, too, that he had exchanged some valuables for unmarked coin.
“He was planning to run,” Nicholas murmured as they stepped away.
“Or waiting for something, and when it arrived, he fled,” Cassian replied.
Their final inquiry of the morning led them to a dockhand at a smaller inn near the post road. This man, Mr. Harland, had already proven to have a loose tongue and a fondness for coin.
Cassian set another shilling on the table. “You were saying…”
Harland glanced at the door, then leaned in. “I remember the fellow ye described. Edmund Larke. Nervous sort. Always watchin’ over his shoulder. He came through here about a fortnight past. Didn’t stay long. Didn’t want to be seen.”
“Did he speak to anyone?” Cassian asked.
Harland nodded slowly. “Aye. He waited until near closing. Then a gentleman came. Well-dressed, though tryin’ to hide it.
They spoke soft, but I heard enough. They were speakin’ of travel.
Of waitin’ until the chaos in London settled.
” He lowered his voice. “The name Keaton was mentioned twice. Said the Keatons owed him favours.”
Nicholas met Cassian’s gaze. The tavern keeper’s earlier rumour had just found its teeth.
“Where were they headed?” Nicholas asked.
Harland lifted one shoulder. “Couldn’t say. But the Keatons have a house east of here. Not far from the cliffs near Saltbourne. Folk know them. Old money. Fine reputation. The kind who host poets and pretend they discovered ‘em.” He snorted. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they sheltered a coward, too.”
Coward.
The word suited Edmund far too well.
Cassian reached into his coat and placed another coin on the table, not out of generosity, but to buy silence as well as information.
“You will speak of this to no one,” he said.
Harland nodded vigorously, snatching the coin.
Cassian rose, and so did Nicholas. They left the inn in a hurry and headed for the Keaton estate, which sat perched upon the cliffs. Seagulls wheeled overhead, and the distant crash of waves struck the rocks below. It was an idyllic scene that belied the ugliness of the truth Cassian sought.
Cassian and Nicholas were shown into a small receiving parlour, and the footman hurried off to fetch the master of the house. Cassian stood with his hands clasped behind his back, outwardly calm, though impatience burned beneath his skin.
It did not take long for Mr. and Mrs. Keaton to appear. Mr. Keaton, who was a tall, silver-haired gentleman with a scholar’s posture, offered a stiff bow. His wife, a pale woman with cool eyes and a forced smile, inclined her head.
“I do not believe we have had the pleasure,” Mr. Keaton began. “I am Arthur Keaton, and this is my wife, Elise.”
Cassian returned the bow. “Cassian Oberon, Duke of Duskbourne. This is Nicholas Montclair, Duke of Hawthorne.”
At the names, both Keatons stiffened, caught between surprise and sudden caution.
“Your Graces,” Mrs. Keaton said, dipping into a hurried curtsy. “We are honoured, of course, but we must confess ourselves bewildered. To what honour do we owe such… distinguished callers?”
Cassian did not waste a moment.
“We come on a matter of urgency,” he said. “We seek information about a man who, we have reason to believe, passed through here and may have approached you for help. His name is Edmund Larke.”
At once, Mr. Keaton’s expression shuttered. Mrs. Keaton’s hand tightened on her shawl.
Nicholas noticed it too. “You recognize the name.”
Mr. Keaton cleared his throat. “We… have acquaintances in literary circles. We have heard it before. But what business does this Edmund have with you?”
Cassian stepped forward. “That is not your concern. What matters now is that he has committed harm against my duchess, and I mean to find him. We have reason to believe he sought shelter with you.”
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Keaton protested, “surely you must be mistaken. We offer lodging to artists and patrons of the arts, yes, but we do not harbour criminals.”
Cassian studied her. She avoided his gaze. Her husband suddenly found the carpet very interesting.
Cassian reached into his coat and withdrew a pouch of coins, placing it on a small side table with quiet deliberation.
“You will forgive me,” Cassian pointed out, “if I do not rely on polite assurances alone. We are not here to accuse you, only to learn what you know of a man who has taken my wife’s peace.”
Silence taunted them.
Then, Mr. Keaton’s shoulders slumped. “He did come to us,” Keaton confessed at last. “Briefly, though. He arrived near midnight some weeks ago, demanding refuge. He said he needed to disappear, and that if we turned him away, we would regret it.”
Mrs. Keaton had a brittle dignity that was now cracking at the edges. “He was… not the man we once knew. We sheltered him two nights, no more. He frightened the servants. And us.”
Cassian’s voice sharpened. “Where did he go when he left?”
“We truly do not know,” Keaton insisted. “He would not give details, only that he needed distance and time.”
Cassian inclined his head once. “If he returns—”
Mrs. Keaton cut in quickly, “We will send word to Duskbourne at once. We want no further part in this.”
Cassian retrieved the coin pouch, leaving only a modest amount behind.
“Then we are finished here,” he said. “Pray he does not darken your door again.”
The Keatons exhaled in shaky relief as Cassian and Nicholas took their leave.
“Well, I suppose that is all for today,” Nicholas announced, sounding even more disappointed than Cassian.
“Yes,” Cassian agreed. “But this is not over.”
They agreed to regroup once Cassian sent word of their next move, but as Cassian rode alone toward Duskbourne, irritation and frustration rode with him. Edmund had slipped through their grasp. The Keatons’ crumbs of information were enough to confirm the danger, yet not enough to seize it.
For a man accustomed to control, Cassian found failure a bitter, unfamiliar taste.
By the time the estate came into view, shadows had swallowed the sky, and a storm threatened on the horizon. He dismounted with stiff movements, tossed the reins to a waiting groom, and strode into the manor with the tight, coiled energy of a man who could neither fight nor rest.
Charlotte met him in the hall.
Her expression softened at the sight of him. “Cassian… you’re home.”
She stepped forward, resting her hands lightly on his arms. She leaned in to kiss him, but he stepped back. Surprise flickered across her face, followed by a hurt she tried to mask.
“I… thought perhaps you would join me for supper,” she said gently. “I had Cook prepare a few of—”
“I am not hungry,” he interrupted. His voice came out colder than he intended, but he did not correct it.
Charlotte blinked, steadying herself. “I understand. Then perhaps later, when you—”
“I have matters to attend to,” he said. “It has been a long day. I wish to retire.”
A faint breath escaped her, something like disappointment, or worse, resignation. “Of course,” she murmured. “Good night, Cassian.”
He inclined his head and turned away far too quickly, walking toward his chamber with a stride that felt like escape rather than dismissal.
Minutes later, he was sitting alone in the dim glow of the fire, with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tightly.
The room felt suffocating, though no one else was in it.
He exhaled.
Why had he spoken to her that way? She had greeted him with warmth and affection, and he had given her nothing in return… less than nothing. He had slapped away the tenderness she offered so freely.
He reminded himself that tenderness was dangerous. Desire was dangerous, too. But love… love was fatal.
He had learned that truth with Eleanor. He had buried that truth in the ground with her. And now Charlotte was stirring feelings he had sworn never to touch again.
Desire pulled him toward her. Fear yanked him back. And guilt sat between them like a ghost.
If I love her, I will lose her. If I let her in, I will destroy her.
Charlotte deserved safety, laughter, light, not a man haunted by ashes and graves. She didn’t deserve a husband who feared a future more than he feared any enemy.
And yet… everything that happened between them was branded inside his mind for all eternity. He cared for her, and that terrified him more than losing any fortune, title, or friend.
Sleep did not come. He did not even try.
For how could he sleep when he was wrestling with a heart that refused to obey him?