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Chapter Seventeen

“ Y our Grace, it is good to see you again,” Elias Larkin said the following morning, shaking Spencer’s hand.

Spencer had barely slept, and he could only hope it didn’t show in the tense lines on his face.

“And yourself. I will be returning to Everdawn Hall shortly, and I wish to tie up some… loose ends.” He gave the man a look. “Have you received any word on my winnings?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Elias answered, his face brightening.

“In fact, just the other day, the bets you placed became rather profitable. I have the ledgers locked safely away. Do excuse me one moment. While I keep a lot of paperwork in here, my more… refined clients need extra security, so their books are kept in a locked cabinet in the next room. One cannot be too certain of anything these days.”

“Indeed,” Spencer agreed smoothly as the man rose and pulled a set of keys from his waistcoat pocket. “I appreciate your extra measures.”

Once Elias left, Spencer shot up and rifled through the desk. The ledgers were not left out this time, and he cursed under his breath before he yanked open the desk drawer, looking for anything of note.

If Elias offered false names for betting, Spencer could be looking at any alias Follet or Belgrave worked under. But perhaps if they thought they were already being discreet enough with their cargo, they had no use for fake names.

After all, he had already seen Lord Follet’s name on a ledger.

He searched for more smudged ink, more crossed-out words, and as soon as he found one that had ‘ —rave ’ at the end, he slipped it into an inside pocket of his tailcoat.

Then, he went back to his seat before Elias even returned, smiling at the unsuspecting accountant.

Or perhaps he is suspecting. Lord Belgrave is a powerful man, after all. Perhaps his accountant is waiting for somebody to catch him out, to free him. If Elias Larkin is under similar threats as Jack Renshaw, then he might be waiting for somebody to uncover the truth.

Spencer pushed those thoughts aside. He had to focus on Charlotte and Eleanor.

“Here are your ledgers,” Elias said, handing over the books. “And do not hesitate to reach out should you want to do more business.”

Spencer smiled broadly. “I am certain I will.”

“Leave us for a moment,” Spencer ordered as he entered Eleanor’s chamber an hour later.

Frances started, before bobbing a curtsey and scurrying out of the room.

Spencer shut the door behind him and strode over to where his wife sat at her vanity.

He paused and looked at her, taking in her soft features. “You—you look beautiful.”

She blinked at him. “Thank you.”

What possessed me to say such a thing ?

He shook off the thought and produced the document he had snatched from the accountant’s desk.

“I did not want to call you to my study when we must prepare for the ball, but I wished to show you this. I got it from a clerk I have been meeting with.”

The words only rushed out because he had finally found something. It was definitely that, and nothing to do with promising to try to keep his walls lowered.

“What is this?” Eleanor turned in her chair.

Spencer’s eyes flicked to her robe, which was open loosely at the collar, revealing the chemise beneath. Her skin smelled like jasmine and honey, and he wanted to lean in closer. He wanted to press his nose to the length of her neck, to chase lines over her skin with his tongue and?—

“Spencer?” she prompted.

Heavens, his control wavered.

Forcing his attention back to the document, he spoke, “They move cargo—presumably the women—under a false label of medical supplies, but look. This is addressed to Lady H, and the address is not around here.”

Eleanor furrowed her brow as she thought, and Spencer found that he rather enjoyed watching those cogs in her mind turn.

He liked how openly she thought. He liked how she thought. She was not deft at keeping up facades, but she was when it came to piecing clues together, and he hated that he had shut her out for so long, battling his need to keep her safe.

Her mind was brilliant, honed during her years at the convent. The struggle for survival had certainly made her wits sharp.

“There was a Sister Henriette at St. Euphemia’s,” she began. “If the cargo has been sent from Belgrave, then my theory last night makes sense.”

“The women are moved through the convent, then,” Spencer concluded.

Eleanor nodded, her face pale. “I noticed… I noticed women who were there one day and gone the next, but… well, they merely told us they had repented. Nobody made friends there—not really. We were either too scared, too angry, or too helpless. Some were in denial that they would not be left there long enough to form friendships, thinking they were not needed, but friends in that place would have been useful.”

“It would have only been another loss,” Spencer said, wincing at how cold it sounded when he only wished to offer comfort.

Still, Eleanor nodded again. “You are right.”

She stood up. He didn’t step back, letting her move into his space. His hands rose, automatically anticipating a stumble, and he laughed under his breath. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed as if she knew.

“I believe Lord Belgrave will be present at the ball tonight.”

Her face shuttered at the revelation.

“I do not know for certain, but he has been absent during smaller gatherings, where he would have been easily spotted. I think he is afraid that with your new title, you have the power to expose him publicly and with my full support. However, the masquerade ball tonight will provide cover for him and any of his associates. You will not go unprotected.”

He did not know much of her manner was bravado and how much was confidence and assurance of her power, but she had a fierce look on her face that assured him she would get through the night.

She had endured far worse.

The ballroom at Livingston House was a sea of masks trained on Eleanor—masks that could be hiding Belgrave from sight until he was ready to reveal himself.

She navigated that sea, her husband a solid presence beside her, and felt as though she could handle whatever the night brought.

Elaborate disguises hid influential members of the ton.

Earls grinned behind lion masks, and ladies lifted their feathered adornments to their eyes, while others were fastened with silk ties.

Eleanor’s mask was thick without being obtrusive.

It was streaked with silver, curling into a point between her eyes, while a bronze-colored ribbon kept it affixed to her face.

Next to her, Spencer’s fox mask was dramatic and striking, the color matching his hair. It hid most of his scar, but there was no mistaking how the scar tugged at his cheek and slashed down to his jaw.

Eleanor always thought it made him look darker, more wicked, though she had kept that observation to herself. It made his smile sharper, wielding danger in such an open way that people knew if they crossed him, he was more than capable of handling himself.

Eleanor still did not know exactly what he had handled.

Ladies fanned around her in their finery, enjoying the anonymity of the masquerade. The chandelier overhead cast dim light to create a mysterious atmosphere. She could swear that shadows danced between the guests, and she followed them with her eyes, making sure it was not her imagination.

Spencer’s voice was low at her ear. “I do not see Belgrave or Follet. Even with the masks, I do not see any hints of them. Not in attire or stature.”

The knowledge should have eased her nerves, but it did not.

She turned her face to him. “Me neither.”

“Then again, this is only one part of the ballroom.” Beneath the edge of the mask, Spencer’s mouth was visible, and he smiled. “It has come to my attention that I have not asked you to dance.”

“If I recall correctly, you told Lord Avington that you do not dance.”

“I only said that to get him off my back. I am actually quite a good dancer.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “What other hidden talents do you have?”

“Not as many as you do, but I will settle for showing you my dancing prowess for now.” He offered his hand. “Duchess.”

“Duke,” she answered smartly, taking his hand and letting him lead her to the dance floor.

The guests parted for them, and although they were not the only couple ready to start dancing the waltz, Eleanor felt as though they were the moment Spencer faced her and placed his hand on her waist.

She swallowed as he drew closer and eased her into the first step of the dance.

His expression was impassive, impossible to read, and yet she could not stop searching for a hint of something in his eyes.

He watched her just as keenly, and she wondered what he saw on her face, half hidden by her mask.

Her feet moved gracefully, her body recalling the intensive lessons she’d had before her debut. In turn, Spencer moved just as smoothly, leading her as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hand around hers, his palm on her waist—it all felt right.

Spencer never once broke their stare, not as he spun her around the dance floor, their movements fluid and in sync. There was no awkward fumbling, no stumbling. It was perfect.

He raised her arm so he could spin her beneath it, and her skirt billowed. As she spun back in, she moved too fast, swiftly bumping into his chest, but he held her there. His hand burned hot even through the layers of her dress. Beneath her hand, his heart beat erratically.

His eyes searched hers. This close, she could see the honey flecks among the brown. Heavens, he was handsome. His scent was intoxicating, and Eleanor found herself leaning in closer beneath the guise of a slower part of the dance.

Cinnamon. He smelled like cinnamon and the autumnal woods behind Everdawn Hall. He smelled like… home.

Eleanor didn’t move for a moment. She simply stood there, gazing up at him. But then the music reached a crescendo, and Spencer twirled her around, their feet moving fast to catch up with one another.