“And Deverell paid it?”
“Partly,” Latham admitted. “A mere ten pounds before he began to suspect something amiss. He overheard, quite by accident, the brother urging the sister to press the acquaintance further, to ensure a proposal, lest scandal arise from their private walks. Deverell, mortified at the idea of having been manipulated, left London that very night.”
Edward’s stomach twisted.
“Did he give names?”
“Yes,” Latham said. “The brother. The Duke of Strathmore. The sister, Lady Isla Drummond.”
Silence, thick as fog, filled the room. Edward stared at the blotter on the desk. The familiar weight settled at his shoulder, his father’s phantom presence, savoring every humiliation.
You trust too easily, boy. You trust where you should calculate. You let softness steer you, and look now, look what it buys you.
“Your Grace,” Latham ventured, “I am very sorry.”
“Is there …” Edward cleared his throat. “Is there any chance Deverell was mistaken?”
“He seemed certain of the names,” Latham said gently. “And his embarrassment was genuine.”
Edward rose too fast, the chair scraped. “I need air.”
He gathered the written statement hastily, folding it without reading more than necessary. The paper felt heavier than it should, as if some unspoken accusation clung to the ink itself.
Latham bowed. “If I may be of further service …”
“You will hear from me,” Edward said, voice hollow, and stepped out into the crisp morning.
He walked without destination until the familiar façade of his club loomed ahead. He climbed them, nodded absently to the porter, and sought the reading room. He had not been fully conscious of choosing to sit; he only realized he had when the leather creaked under him. He produced the papers. The damning lines swam before his eyes.
Charming … impressionable … debts … trap … the sister was agreeable but clearly part of … left London in haste to avoid entanglement …
Names given: Drummond. Strathmore.
He had been taken in. Isla. Warm, fierce, passionate Isla had played him for a fool. And he had fallen eagerly, like a deckhand on his first trip out of the Solent. His throat tightened. He felt, with horrible clarity, the ghost of his father’s laughter at his shoulder.
That clipped, derisive sound he had not heard since the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Did I not teach you? Did I not tell you sentiment is a weakness no Duke of Wexford can afford? You are an embarrassment.
Edward shut his eyes and pressed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. A decanter sat on the table beside him. Not what he wanted. Not what he should want. He reached for it anyway, poured a measure of amber liquid, and drank without tasting.
“Wexford?”
The voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like a rope thrown from a passing ship. Edward looked up. Henry Ashford stood over him. His coat was buttoned poorly, one glove shoved hastily into a pocket. He looked like a man who had been seeking someone with purpose.
“Henry,” Edward said, keeping his voice steady. “What brings you here?”
Henry cast a glance at the papers on the table, the half-empty glass, then slid into the chair opposite. “I was hoping you might … advise me. Or knock sense into me. Either would be welcome.”
Edward raised an eyebrow. “Advising you seems ambitious. Knocking sense into you is more realistic.”
Henry gave a thin, humorless smile. “It is Libby.”
Edward blinked. “Who?”
“Elizabeth,” Henry said, looking down at his gloves. “Libby. The only woman I have ever cared for.”
Edward frowned. “You have not mentioned her.”
