Lucas shook his head. “Not until this business ends. Not while Lord Cherrington prowls and Orvilleton watches from the shadows. To draw her closer now would place her in danger.”
Henry considered. “Danger finds her regardless, if Lord Cherrington is as entangled in this as you suspect. Would you have her face it without your protection?”
The words struck deep. Lucas sank into the chair opposite Henry, suddenly weary.
“I cannot disentangle my duty from my heart,” he admitted. “She is both—my responsibility, and my weakness.”
Henry smiled faintly. “That sounds remarkably like love, though I know you will not name it.”
Lucas gave a sharp exhale that sounded almost like laughter. “Love. A fine word for men less burdened with secrets.”
“Or perhaps,” Henry said softly, “it is the only word for men who bear them.”
They sat in silence a moment, the firelight glinting off paper and glass.
Finally, Lucas said, “What would you advise, then? You, who speak of love with such certainty.”
Henry’s face softened at the thought of Catherine. “I would say this: do not mistake restraint for protection. Sometimes honesty shields more than silence.”
Lucas absorbed that. “And yet discretion must guide us.”
“Discretion, yes. Denial, no.”
Before Lucas could reply, hurried footsteps echoed in the hall. Frederick entered without ceremony, pale and shaken.
“What is it?” Lucas rose instantly.
Frederick held out a crumpled note. “Lord Redley has been found dead.”
Henry shot to his feet. “Dead?”
“Found in his rooms not an hour past. They call it an accident—too much drink, a fall. But…” Frederick hesitated, his eyes dark. “There are details I cannot dismiss.”
Lucas’s blood chilled. “What details?”
“A bruise at the temple, not explained by the fall. Papers missing from his desk. And a witness who swears he heard raised voices shortly before.”
The study fell silent, the fire’s crackle suddenly harsh.
Henry spoke first. “Then our shadows struck sooner than we thought.”
Lucas’s jaw hardened. “This was no accident. Ambrose was silenced.”
He looked down at the scattered documents, then up at both men. “If they are willing to silence their own, we are closer to the truth than we ever imagined.”
The fire snapped, sending sparks upward—like an omen, bright and brief before the dark swallowed them again.
Chapter Eighteen
The morning sun filtered weakly through the heavy curtains, and dust motes drifted in the still light of the drawing room. Elowen sat upright on the settee, her fingers tracing the embroidery of the cushion as she absorbed the news of Lord Redley’s death. Servants whispered in the hall—low, curious voices tinged with that peculiar blend of pity and fascination London reserved for scandal. Even natural causes could not escape suspicion.
A knock broke her thoughts. A servant appeared. “Lord Cherrington,” he announced with a bow.
Elowen’s stomach tightened, a faint unease rising in her chest. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady despite the quickening of her pulse.
Victor entered with a measured smile—perfectly timed, perfectly poised. The quiet of the house, with her parents away visiting relatives, made his arrival feel uncomfortably intimate. The maid who stepped forward to chaperone did little to lessen the tension.
“My dear Miss Tremaine,” Victor began, his voice smooth as polished mahogany, “I trust you have heard the unfortunate news this morning. Lord Redley’s passing must have unsettled your household. I hope your father remains in good health?”
