“More than unsettled,” William said, lowering his voice further. “He was frantic—muttering of debts, shipping manifests, and consequences too dire to name aloud. He insisted on speaking with my father. I cannot help but believe it is connected to the accusations against him—or at least to the network we are following.”
Lucas’s jaw tightened, though his tone remained composed. “I suspected as much. We must proceed carefully. A singlerash move might drive him further into panic—or worse, to disclosure.”
“Indeed,” William said.
Lucas hesitated, then asked quietly, “And Elowen?”
His gaze flicked instinctively toward her. She was still deep in conversation with her parents, his own mother, and Catherine—the faintest trace of her lavender perfume reaching him even across the distance, unbalancing his focus.
“She is well,” William said softly, almost to himself. “But… always under observation, whether she knows it or not.”
Lucas’s expression grew grave. “Then all the more reason for vigilance. Even the most harmless exchange might be perilous if overheard or misinterpreted.”
William nodded, and Lucas allowed his gaze to linger a moment longer. Elowen laughed—lightly, unguarded—and the sound struck him like sunlight through cloud. She brushed a stray curl behind her ear, and his pulse betrayed him.Focus,he reminded himself sternly.
Before he could retreat further into thought, movement at her side caught his attention. Lord Cherrington approached with a polished smile, the easy confidence of a man too accustomed to getting what he desired.
“Miss Tremaine,” Lucas overheard him say, the marquess bowing low as he brushed her hand with his lips, leaning closer to murmur something near her ear. Elowen stiffened—barely, but unmistakably. The subtle tension of her shoulders would have escaped anyone else’s notice, but Lucas was notanyone else.
His gaze darkened as Victor’s hand lingered, possessive, at her waist. The minute shift of her posture, the way she leaned infinitesimally away, sent a sharp spark of jealousy through him—unwelcome, but impossible to suppress.
Without thought, he stepped forward. “Miss Tremaine,” he said smoothly, his voice cutting through the murmur around them, “allow me to escort you back to your seat.”
Victor’s head turned, his expression tightening.
“Your Grace,” Elowen breathed before he could say anything, “of course.” She stepped away from Victor, standing by Lucas’s side.
She exhaled softly as he offered his arm. A glimmer of gratitude—and something warmer—lit her eyes as she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Thank you,” she murmured, low enough that only he heard. “I was not inclined for conversation with the marquess.”
“You are most welcome,” Lucas replied, his tone controlled despite the frustration tightening his chest.
They left the others behind and walked back through the crowd, careful to maintain decorum. The ambient noise of conversation and laughter surrounded them, but Lucas was only aware of her presence. Every slight movement, the gentle sway of her gown, the faint scent of lavender. He could focus on little else.
“I was curious whether you enjoyed the performance thus far,” he said after a moment.
Her gaze met his. “I have,” she replied softly. “More than I expected, truth be told.”
Lucas tilted his head. “As have I. It is a pity,” he added, his voice dropping, “that we were not seated together this evening. I would have liked to hear your thoughts as the performance unfolded.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. He expected a polite acknowledgement—perhaps a light jest—but her answer came quiet and sincere.
“Yes,” she said, almost to herself. “Thatisa pity.”
The admission seemed to startle her as much as him. Colour rose swiftly in her cheeks, and she turned toward the stage as though the violins demanded her attention.
Lucas could not suppress the warmth her blush stirred in him. “Well now,” he teased gently, leaning just enough to catch her eye. “That is an admission I had not anticipated. Are you blushing, Elowen?”
Her lashes lowered, but not before he glimpsed her mortified spark of amusement. “You imagine things, Your Grace. It is only the warmth of the hall.”
“Mm,” he murmured, humour glinting in his tone. “Of course. Entirely the heat. Nothing to do with my remark?”
She shook her head firmly, though the deepening flush betrayed her. “Certainly not.”
Lucas allowed himself a grin. “Then I must inform you, Elowen, that when you blush so charmingly, your denials are most unconvincing.”
Her lips parted in shock, and her gaze flew to his face, as if searching for mockery. Finding none—only gentle amusement—she turned away again, one gloved hand tightening on the rail.
“You should not say such things,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.
