“But how am I to raise the money, Mr. Thorne?” Georgia groaned to herself, pressing her forehead to the bureau’s scarred wood. “Will I gamble that my proposed husband will be sympathetic to my quest to find my brother? Lord Emsworth of all men?”
She felt frustration welling up, manifesting as pricks of tears at the corner of her eyes.
Aunt Clarissa should care! Elias was her nephew. The son of her sister. Why are she and Uncle Benjamin so intent on preventing me from having his disappearance investigated?
A cynical part of her, one that she was not proud of, wondered if they stood to gain financially from Elias' absence. But that couldn't be the case. Elias' land, title, and wealth were held in trust until he either returned or was declared dead legally. And if the latter came to pass, his will would be unsealed, andshewould likely inherit.
She wiped her eyes and folded the letter from Mr. Thorne, untying the string holding the others and adding his letter to the bundle.
Another ending. Another disappointment. I must rise above it and try again. I will not give up on you, Eli. I will discover what happened to you. Where you are, or... and I must face it, whether you are alive or dead.
CHAPTER 3
The sound of Almack's reached Keaton's hearing before the carriage came to a halt outside.
Certainly before Uncle Edric patted his shoulder and said; “We are here, Keaton, my boy. To your left.”
Keaton had caught the strains of the musicians within the building, tuning their instruments even over the clatter of carriage wheels on cobbles and the jingle and clop of a team of horses. He often wondered how everyone was not aware of the things he was.
He felt the shifting of the carriage on its metal springs as his uncle disembarked ahead of him, felt the air stir against his cheek as the door was opened. With the familiarity of practice, Keaton reached for the door frame and put his foot on the first step. His cane came next, finding the ground precisely where he expected it to be. Then he was stepping onto the pavement.
Anyone watching would not even know he was blind. Keaton would put money on that. But now he was stepping into an unfamiliar place and a deluge of noise, which meant becoming utterly reliant on his Uncle’s guidance.
How tiresome…
“I see your face, Keaton. I know you do not wish to be here, but it really is for your own good. This is where your peers come to see and be seen. This is where a future wife will be found and an heir to Westvale.”
“Hang Westvale!” Keaton snapped sotto voce as his uncle guided his hand to his shoulder.
He immediately regretted it.
“Sorry, Uncle,” he exhaled roughly. “I know you care deeply about Westvale as your brother's legacy. I did not mean that. I… I am just on edge.”
“Understandable,” Edric said, slightly testily. “I would doubtless be the same in your condition, but we must rise above these tribulations.”
Tribulationwas truly an understatement. To lose his sight on the same evening that his life had finally begun, when he had finally taken control of the Dukedom...
Keaton had little memory of that fateful incident a decade past, except for the tinge of gunpowder smoke and a hazy voice. Aman’svoice calling out for aJoe,orJoseph,he had since deduced. And something he hadn’t told even his uncle. When he had awoken, there had been a signet ring clutched in his hand. Where it had come from, he did not know, but he felt it was connected to the name and the man who had spoken that name.
Keaton forced a tight, tense smile.
“Lead the way, Uncle. Let the dog see the rabbit, eh?”
Edric snorted at his nephew's self-deprecating humor and stepped off. Keaton felt the motion and stepped with him. His cane explored the ground in front of him, and his hand told him where his uncle was in relation to himself. Sounds from all around gave a mental image of the position of others.
From ahead came a growing din. The sound that only a large gathering of people could make. Overlaid atop it was the gentle stirrings of a string quartet.
Almack's Assembly rooms lay before him in all its dark glory, and a ball that he could not fully participate in but would, instead, stand to one side, pretending to appreciate the music while making polite small talk with members of the ton.
Members I have little respect for and no desire to socialize with. But as Uncle Edric says often, I am a custodian of Westvale. I must put it above myself.
He allowed himself to be guided through the Assembly Rooms, exchanging pleasantries with lords and ladies whose names he made a mental note of. He linked those names to the sound of their voices and the scent of their perfumes and colognes. It was a useful parlor trick for a blind man to be able to name someone before they had been formally introduced or before they had even spoken.
He would do his duty for an hour, then excuse himself. Thorne would be waiting just beyond the gardens, and he could finally steal away to speak with him in private.
Another quandary for a blind man was the inability to read. Keaton knew that Uncle Edric would read any correspondence to him and regularly did. But Edric did not approve of Mr. Aloysius Thorne, nor the task he was undertaking on behalf of the grizzled Duke of Westvale. To him, there was little difference between a moment spent dwelling on vengeance and a moment spent dwelling on grief.
After the last ten years spent chasing answers that never came, perhaps his uncle was right.
