William was acting... rather odd.
Elowen studied him as the afternoon sunlight slanted across the private parlour, gilding the pale green walls and the faded roses woven into the carpet. She had always loved this room—unassuming though it was, compared with the grand salons of dukes and marquesses—for it was comfortable and familiar. Books filled the shelves, a pair of worn wingback chairs flanked the hearth, and the low fire gave off a steady warmth. Because she was in a rare mood for contentment, she had even asked for a bowl of lavender potpourri to be placed on the mantel. Its faint fragrance drifted through the air—soothing, domestic, safe.
She had chosen the seat nearest the hearth, her skirts spread neatly, the book she had been reading forgotten in her lap. William, who had come bursting into the room and disturbing the peaceful time she and their mother had been enjoying, leaned forward with a restless energy she was unaccustomed to seeing in him. His eyes shone with that particular brightness of the scholar—but something sharper burned there too, as though a sense of purpose had been kindled overnight.
“And what struck me most,” William said, his voice pitched low but eager, “was not Lord Redley’s manner toward the others—though that alone might have alarmed any lady in his company. He was boisterous, loud, and thoroughly ungentlemanly.”
“So you have said many times already,” Elowen observed dryly. Mama chuckled softly, still intent upon her embroidery.
William pressed on, undeterred. “Yes, but the manner in which he changed when Lord Orvilleton entered the club was most peculiar.”
Mama lowered her hands to her lap, her fine fingers curling about the frame. “Do you think it dangerous?” she asked quietly. “This connection you have observed?”
William raked a hand through his hair, making it stand even more wildly. “Dangerous? Not in the immediate sense. But it means something. Lord Redley became a different man the moment Lord Orvilleton summoned him—he abandoned his table at once. And Lord Orvilleton...” He shook his head. “He is far shrewder than most believe. Together, they are united in some cause. I feel certain of it.”
Elowen listened, her expression composed. “And what of the Duke?” she asked as evenly as she could. “He was present, was he not? I doubt you ventured there of your own accord.”
That much she was certain of—and became more so when William looked away.
“Why would you think that?”
“You and the Duke seem rather close all of a sudden, and now this? I doubt it is mere coincidence.”
He hesitated, only for the span of a breath—but she saw it: the flicker in his eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw. “Yes, he was there,” he said carefully. “But he was not the focus of the evening. Lord Redley and Lord Orvilleton—that was the true matter of interest.”
It was an omission. She felt it as keenly as if he had spoken Lucas’s name and then withdrawn it. William was not a practised liar—but he had begun to tread cautiously.
Elowen did not press. To do so would only make him retreat further. Yet she disliked how much she wished to know more—to understand the Duke’s involvement. She shouldn’t care what that man was doing, and yet...
Yet he was all she could think about.
Before anyone could reply, the butler entered and dipped a respectful bow. “Pardon me, my lady. Lord Cherrington is here to see the young miss.”
The atmosphere shifted at once. Mama straightened her shoulders, smoothing her gown and setting aside her embroidery entirely. William leaned back, his mouth already curved in that familiar, humour-laced smile.
Elowen schooled her expression into serenity.
Victor stepped into the room, all confidence and charm. As always, he was impeccably dressed—every fold precise, every button gleaming. Yet when she saw he carried both a cluster of hothouse flowers and a slim green-bound book, her heart sank.
“Lady Trenton, Miss Tremaine, my greetings,” he said warmly. He bowed before Elowen, presenting the flowers. “A poor imitation of your beauty, I fear—but I could not resist.”
Elowen smiled faintly as she accepted them, hoping no one noticed her sudden unease. She couldn’t tell what it was about Lord Cherrington that made her feel so uncomfortable.
With a flourish, he held out the book. “A new poet—the talk of every fashionable circle. I thought of you as I read it. It reminded me of your taste.”
Elowen murmured her thanks, though her heart remained untouched by the gesture. She supposed she would just add it to the other gifts from Victor—those carefully curated gifts that spoke more of calculation than of feeling.
Mama rang for tea. Victor sank gracefully into a chair, surveying the parlour before addressing William. “Mr Tremaine, how do you do? I hear you have been at Oxford—my alma mater, you know.”
“Is it indeed?” William replied brightly.
Victor chuckled. “I had quite the time there. But we may speak of my adventures another day. How go your studies?”
William shrugged. “Well enough. I am following a line of research that may—if I am fortunate—yield something of significance.”
Victor nodded and reclined in his seat, one gloved hand draped over the armrest. “Ah, excellent. Very good.”
Elowen saw his disinterest at once. “Do you wish to know more of his studies, my lord?” she asked sweetly. If she was to endure his visit, she would make sure he endured it too.
