Arriving at home, Cedric had no intent to join the party that had retired to the dining room; the scent of death and decay lingering on his clothes would surely turn some stomachs at a meal.
Instead, he requested Hunt arrange a bath before he trudged up the stairs to his room. Inside, he peeled his clothes off and donned a robe before heading to his study to liberate a bottle of brandy and quickly downed half a glass.
“You think you knew a man,” he muttered to himself.
Padding back to his room and finding the water delivered, he had barely sunk into the soothing suds when the door opened, and Ariadne poked her head in, “I thought you’d be here. What happened?”
He let out a long breath, “Draven was murdered, Ariadne.”
“Oh god,” her hand flew to her breast, “That’s awful. I—I mean, I’d expect that you punish him for this thievery, but not—not this. Are we… are we in danger?”
“No,” he shook his head, “It seemed he owed to too many moneylenders and to my best guest, one of them ran out of patience and exacted his price. There is no harm coming to us.”
“Moneylenders arethatdangerous?” She was astonished.
“You’ve readThe Merchant of Venice,I assume,” he said, eyes closed. “If they were that bad centuries ago, they are worse now. Believe me, Ariadne, moneylenders are the worst of the worst in the city.”
She pulled up a stool to sit near his head, “Do you wish to rejoin the party?”
“No,” he said, “But you should. Don’t let me detract from your lovely night. I imagine some did ask about my sudden absence. What did you tell them?”
“Simply that you were called away on business.” She said. “Everyone in the room would understand that.”
He nodded, “You’re making a fine duchess after all.”
“Well—” she shrugged one shoulder. “It was the second thing I’d thought of to tell them. The first was that you’d drunk so much coffee, you’d gone to swim the lake to burn it off.”
He threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“I should have said that first,” she noted.
Cedric rested his head on the towel behind him and gazed at her with lowered lids, “You should return to the ball.”
Looking over her shoulder to the door, Ariadne’s face did not fall; instead, she only looked mildly concerned. To him, she said, “Is there anything you will need for Draven?”
“No,” he replied. “Well, maybe one, to bury him. He had no wife or children, so aside from that, I’ll be washing my hands of the matter.”
She nodded, “I understand.” Rising, she reached out to touch his shoulder, “The ball won’t take too long. I’ll be back soon.”
As she moved off, he grabbed her hand, and she stalled. Slowly, he turned as he pulled her down for a soft kiss, nothing more than a soft lock of their lips. He lingered there before she pulled away, shot a last look over her shoulder, and vanished.
In the midst of her family chattering over the breakfast table, Ariadne nursed a cup of tea while her sisters nibbled on coddled eggs, fruit, sausages, and buttery toast.
Whatever her sisters were chatting about went in one ear and out the other, as she was mulling over what Cedric had said to her last night.
You’re making a fine duchess after all.
“Ariadne,” Celestine’s brows were creasing, “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Just woolgathering. What were you saying?”
“That last night was one of the best nights of my life,” Celestine sighed in happiness. “I love London; it's tip-top.”
Marigold elbowed her sister, who yelped and rolled her eyes. “You are only saying that because of Lord Stromewell.”
“And what of it?” Celestine glared. “He’s handsome and smart.”
“And old,” Marigold added matter-of-factly. “If he is His Grace’s friend, the odds are that they are the same age.”
