“As you wish, Your Grace.” Frederick inclined his head.
Lucas leaned forward, pressing his fingertips against the desk. “And Frederick—discretion.”
“Always,” Frederick replied.
For the first time that evening, Lucas allowed himself a faint smile. “Good. Then go. See what more you can learn.
Frederick bowed. “Of course.” He hesitated, then added, “If I may: do not let the weight of what you know fall wholly on you. The burden is only as heavy as the man who bears it.”
Lucas gave a short, dry laugh. “And who else is to bear it if not I?”
Without another word, Frederick left; his silence as he went felt oddly familiar in the empty house.
Lucas stared at the papers but found his focus unravelling. His mind slipped, unbidden, to another face entirely—one gentler, one that put his thoughts at ease.
Elowen.
He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to push away the image, and failed. He saw again that smile of complete abandon—private and true—he alone had witnessed; the stubborn tilt of her chin when she met Lord Cherrington’s smooth advances.
He ought to be thinking of Ambrose, of Colin, of the proof that would finally expose the men who had ruined his father. Instead, he thought of the lavender note of her perfume and of how readily she coloured when he teased her in Lady Penelope’s garden.
His hand tightened around his quill until the metal creaked.Fool.She was innocent of all this—too innocent perhaps to stand so near the fire without being burned.
And yet—
He opened his eyes and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Blast it,” he muttered.
For all his discipline, his thoughts kept returning to Elowen, as surely as a compass needle returns to the north. It was not only her: it was her family—Margaret’s relentless watchfulness for her daughter’s security; William’s loyalty, now entangled in this web of deceit; Eric, who had suffered so much and yet still did his best.
It was dangerous. But danger was now inevitable.
The door creaked. Lucas looked up sharply, half-expecting Frederick’s return. But it was only his valet, bearing a tray.
“Shall I set it here, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” Lucas’s tone was curt, but not unkind.
The man placed the tray, bowed, and withdrew.
Lucas stared at the untouched glass of port he’d poured before Frederick’s arrival for a long moment before pushing it aside. He returned to the papers, but the words swam before him. The words blurred into visions of rose gardens, ledgers into echoes of soft laughter.
He dragged a hand across his face.I must find a way to secure their protection without alarming Elowen. Her safety has become paramount to me, for reasons extending far beyond this investigation.
***
Lady Harwick’s drawing room was far too warm. Candles blazed along the walls, their glow mirrored in polished wood and glass as laughter rippled through her select company. It was not a ball—no orchestra, no endless rows of partners to be claimed—but an evening of conversation, games, and a little music. Most welcome of all, Lord Cherrington was absent. Elowen could not have been more delighted.
She stood beside her mother as familiar acquaintances approached to pay polite respects. Some who had ignored them only weeks ago now offered nods, even smiles.
“Curious,” Elowen murmured.
Margaret Tremaine’s fan stirred the air. “Society shifts with the wind, my dear. Learn to feel its currents without showing that you do.”
Elowen glanced at her, recognising the cautious hope behind her mother’s calm expression. “Perhaps Papa’s reputation begins to recover.”
“Perhaps,” Margaret replied evenly, but there was no denying how much she wished that to be true.
Elowen smoothed the folds of her pale gown, conscious of too many eyes upon her. She tried to attend to the chatter around her, but her attention faltered when Lucas entered. He was impossible to overlook—tall, composed, broad-shouldered. The Dowager Duchess and Catherine accompanied him, the latter bright with excitement, Henry close behind, his gaze fixed fondly upon her..
