Redley’s deference to Lord Orvilleton was no mere affectation. It carried the weight of strategy and purpose. Not to mention the hierarchy. Lucas traced the line of cause and effect in his thoughts.
His father’s death.
Lord Trenton’s disgrace.
The growing influence of these two men in circles that should have been secure.
Yet something was missing, something that brought everything together, the singular connection.
He glanced toward the piano. Henry had moved on to a new passage, his fingers flying over the keys with a mixture of excitement and determination. Catherine’s hands hovered above his, steady and guiding, correcting him only when he strayed too far. Their harmony struck Lucas with another pang of longing.
How simple it had been for them. A bond born of shared laughter and unspoken understanding, untouched by deception or danger. He did not covet what they had, only the simplicity of it—the freedom to feel without consequence.
His own affections could never take such shape. They lived beneath constraint, bound to secrets he could not share. Every word, every look with Elowen carried weight; every stolen moment risked more than either of them could afford. His path was not one of idle affection—it was lined with duty, with loss,with peril. To yield even a little would endanger far more than his heart.
The dowager, observing him with quiet precision, spoke without preamble. “Lucas, you are quiet today. More than usual, I mean.”
He turned his gaze toward her, setting down his cup. Her expression was calm, serene, but alert. “I am simply reflecting,” he said evenly, careful not to reveal too much.
She inclined her head, as though she had expected as much. “Reflection is necessary at times—especially when one carries both duty and affection, as you do. But be wary that the two do not intertwine so tightly that one strangles the other.”
Lucas allowed himself a faint smile. “You speak wisely, as always.”
Her eyes softened. “I have my moments, I’ll have you know. But you must also understand—I do not speak lightly of such things. My words are born of experience, and of mistakes I would rather you not repeat.”
He looked again toward the pianoforte, where Henry was experimenting with the melody, his fingers tumbling over the keys in bursts of enthusiasm. Catherine watched him fondly, her patience unwavering, her laughter quick to rise when he faltered. They were lost to the room, content in their own small world.
Warmth stirred in Lucas’s chest. For a fleeting moment, it reminded him that the world still held ordinary happiness, even when shadowed by secrets. Yet the sight struck something deeper—a yearning for clarity, for simplicity, for peace. More than that, a yearning to see Elowen unburdened, to see her spirit unguarded and unafraid.
Charlotte’s voice cut softly through his reverie. “Lucas, tell me,” she said, setting aside her embroidery, “how fares your heart?”
He blinked, startled. “My heart?”
“Yes,” she replied, leaning back, her fingers steepled. “I know what occupies your thoughts—your investigation, your father’s death. But while duty may claim your focus, your heart also demands your care. Neglect one, and the other will surely suffer. You would not wish that.”
He inclined his head, his expression composed, though the words struck deep. “I will remember,” he said quietly. Yet he could already feel the tension winding through him, taut and familiar.
Mother’s faint smile held both warmth and warning. “See that you do,” she said gently. “And remember that you are not alone in this, my dear. Lean on your family, if only a little. We are here, should you choose to let us be.”
He let the words settle in the silence that followed, then rose and bowed his head. “I will consider your words—perhaps as I take a walk through the gardens.”
The dowager nodded, returning her attention to her embroidery. “I hope the air will clear your mind.”
Lucas desperately hoped the same.
Outside, the late-morning sun filtered through the trees, scattering dappled light across the gravel paths. Lucas walked slowly, his gaze tracing the shifting shadows as Charlotte’s words replayed in his mind.
He paused beside the fountain, brushing his fingers along the cool stone. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Elowen—sharp-eyed, composed, impossible to forget. He saw again the glint of perception in her eyes that night at Westbrook House, the fleeting emotion that had slipped through her careful composure.
“She notices everything,” he murmured to himself. “Perhaps more than I realise. She must suspect that we are up to something by now.
He clenched his jaw, resuming his slow pacing. “I cannot allow… sentiment… to compromise the investigation,” he whispered to the quiet garden. But even as he said it, he knew the futility of the thought. His restraint was already wearing thin.
“Curious,” he admitted softly, “how the heart insists on growing fonder precisely when it should not.”
And as the fountain murmured beside him, he could only hope that if consequence must come, it would not fall upon her.
***
