“Love isn’t enough.”
“No,” Ernest agreed. “But it’s a beginning. The rest, you build together.”
Silence followed. Then Cecilia sighed.
“You think she needs rescuing,” she said. “What she needs is honesty.”
Aaron poured another glass.
Ernest pushed it gently away. “Or sobriety.”
That earned a short, humorless laugh. “You see? I’m hopeless.”
Cecilia reached for his hand instead. “Human,” she corrected.
They lingered after that, conversation circling without landing. At last, coats were fetched, gloves drawn on. Cecilia rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to Aaron’s forehead. For an instant, the gesture hurt in a way that stole his breath.
Aaron returned to the window, to his vigil over nothing. Tomorrow would bring more of the same. Estate business that barely held his attention. Brandy that barely dulled the ache. Sleep that brought dreams of copper hair and green eyes and a voice saying his name like it meant everything.
He had made his choice. Louise would recover, find someone worthy of her, and build a life that didn’t include him.
It was for the best.
He repeated it like a prayer, like a mantra, like the lie it was.
It was for the best.
The brandy bottle sat empty.
The house sat silent.
And Aaron sat alone, exactly as he deserved.
CHAPTER 37
“Wigram will be transported to Australia.”
Howlett stood in their morning room, his weathered face bearing the satisfied expression of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey. The late winter morning cast weak light through windows that needed cleaning, illuminating dust motes that danced above furniture that had seen better days.
George gripped the back of the chair, knuckles white against worn wood. His face drained of color so completely that Louise rose halfway from her seat, prepared to catch him if he fell.
“When?” George’s voice cracked on the single word.
“Next month, from Portsmouth.” Howlett pulled out his notebook, the leather cover worn smooth from years of use, pages yellowed at the edges. He consulted neat rows of information written in his precise hand. “His network has beendismantled. Twelve arrests in total. Most face transportation, though three received lengthy prison sentences.”
Louise watched her brother sway slightly, whether from relief or remembered fear, she couldn’t tell. The teacup in her hand rattled against its saucer until she set it down with exaggerated care, the delicate china loud in the sudden silence.
“And my involvement?” George forced the words past bloodless lips. His fingers trembled where they gripped the chair, and Louise could see the pulse jumping wildly at his throat.
Howlett tucked away his notebook with deliberate precision, the gesture carrying weight of finality. “What involvement, Lord Sulton? According to official records, you were recovering from illness in Bath. Several reputable physicians have confirmed your presence there.”
George’s mouth opened, closed, opened again like a landed fish gasping for air that wouldn’t come. “I don’t understand.”
“His Grace was quite specific.” Howlett moved toward the door, his boots heavy on threadbare carpet. “Your testimony was given in private to select magistrates. Your name appears nowhere in public records. As far as the Crown is concerned, you’re guilty of nothing more than poor health.”
Louise rose on unsteady legs, one hand braced against the table for support. “The duke arranged this?”
Howlett paused at the threshold, his weathered face softening with something that might have been sympathy. “His Grace has considerable influence when he chooses to exercise it. He made it clear that Lord Sulton’s cooperation deserved protection, not prosecution.”
