But long after her brother had gone, Elowen remained by the fire, the clock chiming softly into the quiet. Her thoughts gnawed at her—the memory of Victor’s eyes, his slip near the study, the unmistakable sense that he wanted something from their household.
She had extinguished her lamp when at last she went to her room, but sleep would not come. The unease coiled tighter within her chest. Lord Cherrington wanted something. Of that she was certain.
But what? Was it her? Surely not. And yet… why not?
She had always trusted her instincts, and every instinct warned her there was more behind his interest than courtship. Only she could not yet see what lay in the shadows.
She rolled onto her side, pressing her cheek against the cool pillow, her heart restless, her mind crowded with suspicion—and something else entirely.
Lucas.
He appeared unbidden: standing beside her at the museum, smiling across the drawing room at Westbrook House. She had not meant to think of him, yet her thoughts betrayed her, conjuring his steady gaze, his quiet attention, the sense that he trulysawher. That single memory stirred her more deeply than any gallant word ever could.
Victor’s flowers, his poetry, his calculated touches—none of it stirred her at all.
It should have. By every standard, he was an enviable match: wealthy, charming, well-connected. Any other young woman would have been flattered. Mama certainly thought her fortunate. Even William, despite his distaste, could not deny that such notice was not to be dismissed lightly.
And yet Elowen felt nothing but unease.
She turned again, staring up at the ceiling. Perhaps she was foolish to draw such sharp comparisons. Perhaps she was only unsettled by the way she felt when the Duke turned his gaze on her and pulled her into infuriating, incredible, titillating conversation. But deep within her, she knew it was more.
It was the difference between something genuine and something hollow. Between fire and polished glass.
Her chest tightened with the realisation.
What was she to do? She was warming to Lucas—there was no denying it. But he had shown no desire to court her. If he wished to, would he not have made it clear by now?
Should she speak with Mama about it? Her mother would only urge patience, politeness, acceptance. William might understand, but he had burdens enough of his own, chasing secrets that already drew him into uneasy company. Her father was far too ill to be burdened with such things, though she was fairly certain he would welcome it. And Lucas—
Her heart stuttered at the thought of him. She could not possibly.
She pressed her palms over her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But the darkness only sharpened her thoughts.
Victor was not to be trusted.
Lucas was not to be forgotten.
And the days ahead promised to entangle them all in ways she could scarcely foresee.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucas left Frederick’s company with the unsettled clarity of one who has glimpsed part of a truth but not the whole. The two men had sat together in the corner of a coffeehouse near Lincoln’s Inn, their conversation cloaked in the hum of other patrons and the rustle of newspapers.
Frederick, as unsteady and pedantic as ever, had laid out the observations the private investigator had gathered. Ambrose’s bearing was unmistakably that of a subordinate, his words clipped and deferential whenever Orvilleton spoke. The roles between them were clear: Colin—Lord Orvilleton—directed; Ambrose followed. Lucas had assumed as much, but to receive the same information from someone else only further compounded the notion.
“It is no longer speculation,” Frederick had said, his voice far too hushed, as if he truly feared being overheard in the humdrum of the coffeehouse. “Lord Redley answers to Lord Orvilleton, not the other way around. And their alliance—whatever drives it—is growing bolder. The pieces are aligning, Your Grace. The only question is how far the net extends.”
“How far indeed,” Lucas murmured. He lifted his cup, though the coffee had long since gone cold, and kept his expression unreadable. Yet beneath that composure, his thoughts churned. His father’s death still hung over him like a shadow—too sudden, too convenient to be chance. Then had come Lord Trenton’s disgrace, swift and damning, tangled with names and dealings that never seemed to resolve into clear evidence. And now Redley and Orvilleton—two threads in the same dark weave—tightening into a pattern he could not yet discern.
His certainty that they were involved mounted daily, each observation tightening the pattern. But proof—irrefutable proof—remained out of reach. Until he could grasp it, he moved through fog, half-seeing shapes that might yet dissolve into mist.
The air outside was sharp with an odd chill when he returned home, his boots crunching over the gravel path. He pushed aside the weight of conspiracy long enough to follow the faint sound of music drifting through the corridor. It was not polished playing, but a halting attempt at a passage repeated, stumbled over, and tried again. A bright laugh followed—Catherine’s—and then Henry’s unmistakable patient murmur.
Lucas paused at the morning-room door, steeling himself. The last thing he needed was to find his closest friend parading his affection for Catherine before him. Though—why should it matter? He had never cared for such foolishness before. He had never even thought of love before... before Elowen...
Lucas shook his head, dismissing the thought as he entered the room.
Henry sat at the pianoforte, his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers stumbling through a scale. Beside him, Catherine leaned close, guiding his hands with calm assurance. “Try again,” she said, her tone steady. “Not so fast—let the notes breathe.”
