When Aaron allowed himself to be kind, that is.
“Perfect!” Bella pronounced at last, though her eyes were swollen and rimmed with red from tears shed earlier. “Papa will be very impressed. You look every inch the Duchess. I hope it will help him see Jeremy as you and His Grace do. Surely the approval of a Duke and Duchess will…” Her voice faltered, and Catherine clasped her hand.
“It will go well, Bella. Trust me.”
From outside, the thunder of hooves on gravel broke the air, followed by the thud of boots on the ground and running footsteps.
Catherine started, moving to the window.
Two horses, foam-flecked and blown, stood before the house. Aaron’s friend Jeremy, Lord Everdon, was there as well as another man that Catherine remembered from the wedding breakfast, Benedict Langdon, Lord Daleshire. Two close friends of her husband. Urgency painted their faces and drove their hurried strides.
A chill seized Catherine’s heart.
What has happened, and where is Aaron?
She hurried downstairs to greet them, finding them waiting impatiently in the hall, sweat on their faces and dust on their boots. Jeremy’s face was drawn, his eyes glassy and red. Hishands shook slightly. Benedict’s expression was thunderous whenever his eyes alighted on Jeremy.
“Where is Aaron?” Jeremy demanded hoarsely, ignoring all but Catherine.
“Not here,” Catherine said, suddenly uneasy. “The last I saw of him, he was riding to your home looking for you. Why? What has happened?”
Jeremy dragged a hand across his face.
“I—I was not at home. He—Aaronfound me at Spencer’s, in town… I said things. Things I should never have spoken. It was the drink, Your Grace, I swear! Baseless accusations that came from the quagmire of a drunken mind. But he… he took offense. He stormed out. I thought perhaps he would return here.”
Catherine’s stomach twisted. “…Accusations?” she pressed. “What kind?”
“Drunken nonsense,” Benedict snapped. “Pay it no mind, Your Grace. Jeremy has regretted every word since. It is best forgotten.”
But Catherine could not forget. The memory of the pickpocket in Hyde Park, the whispered name, the boy’s utter terror as he recognized Aaron. It rose in her like smoke from a wildfire. Her instincts clawed at her. The man who called himself Aaron was an impostor.
“Tell me,” she repeated softly, her gaze unflinching. “What accusations?”
Jeremy shifted, color draining from his face. “It was madness, Your Grace. Truly. I let my suspicions grow wild under the influence. I said… I said that Aaron might not be who he claims. That he was…”
“...an imposter,” she finished for him, her voice a whisper of dread.
Jeremy flinched. Benedict swore under his breath.
“It is patently ridiculous! Truly madness,” Benedict insisted. “I have known him long enough. I would know. Jeremy was lost in the bottle and spoke utter folly!”
But Catherine’s blood had gone cold. She could not speak her fears aloud, not here. For Isabella’s sake, for Aaron’s own, she forced her expression into stillness.
“Then we must find him,” she said, her tone firmer than she felt.
“Leave it to us,” Benedict urged. “You must remain here.”
“No,” Catherine interjected, surprising herself with the steel in her voice. She thought of her aunt and uncle, of the meek submission they had beaten into her. No longer. “He is my husband. I will not sit idle while he wanders into danger. I will go with you.”
The two men exchanged glances, clearly disapproving. But Catherine lifted her chin.
“I am the Duchess of Caerleon,” she said, “do not attempt to command me in my own house.”
Silence fell. Then Benedict bowed stiffly. “As you wish.”
London gripped them like a dark fist. The carriage stood before a tavern with faded paintwork and a glowering aspect. The air was thick with soot and the raucous cries of hawkers. Catherine sat stiff-backed, her gloved hands clenched in her lap, every nerve alert. At last, Jeremy and Benedict returned from a tavern, grave-faced.
“He was here,” Jeremy muttered, his voice grim. “But he left. They say he was heading toward Whitechapel. To… a gaming hell.”
