Stephen watched from his window as the cabriolet drove down the road, taking Aurelia away from him, and he fisted his hands against his thigh, wishing that he might have been travelling home with her, seeing her safe.
Caring for her.
He could barely remember what that felt like any more and had not known for a long time, though the deadened anger that had held him immobile since the death of his brother wound its way into his throat, quickened, and he swallowed back thickness.
Aurelia. Even her name was beautiful.
If you did not love, you never lost. If you held people at a distance and took only what was needed, you could survive.
Flashes of their nights together held him still, his head tilted towards something he had missed.
Love. It was not always words that said it.
Love came in the smiles between them and in the soft honesty at midnight; he Could no longer be blind and deaf to all the things Aurelia was saying when she did not speak. Could he love her back in the way she needed? Could he risk a try?
He was glad his hands shook when he looked down because it showed he still had a damn heart inside him. And he knew he would not sleep.
'There is someone here to see you, my lord.' Wilson deposited a card on the bedside table and stood back as Hawk looked at the time on the clock in the corner. Half past ten. He had caught some sleep after all and whatever it was Shavvon wanted it must be important.
'Send him in.'
Alexander Shavvon looked harried and tired and he was barely in the room before he spoke. 'Freddy Delsarte, Henry Kerslake and Mrs St Harlow have gone north. They left an hour ago.'
The whole world slowed around Hawk, a gut-wrenching jerk making his world spin.
'She went willingly?'
'Her servant was found with a lump the size of Africa on his head and he said she did not.'
Shock held Stephen still.
'They have taken the Great North Road and my guess is they are headed to a manor house Delsarte inherited a year or so ago after winning a game of cards against the Earl of Kendrick. I want to see what Delsarte wants with Mrs St Harlow and what he does. When you know where they are, call in the local constabulary and have Delsarte and Kerslake thrown into gaol and then search the place. Take whomever you want with you.'
Hawk shook his head. 'I'll go alone, sir. It will be easier to remain hidden.'
'Very well. A carriage will be readied. I have already sent people to go into the warehouse to see just what might be discovered there. The family of Mrs St Harlow will need to be told of our concerns, though we will put that off for as long as possible as I do not wish for society to be gossiping about the downfall of suspects we have not yet apprehended.'
Hawk dressed and gathered his coat and hat after Shavvon left and called for his own horse to be brought around. If Delsarte or Kerslake had laid even a finger on Aurelia …
'Focus,' he whispered, 'and help her.'
The building dread clutching at him made his body ache.
Chapter Fourteen
Aurelia's cheek throbbed, the fear inside her making it pound even harder. Delsarte and Kerslake had been waiting for her at the warehouse when she had arrived with John at Park Street this morning and had insisted she accompany them in this carriage. When John had resisted Delsarte had called in other accomplices and they had dragged him away. Aurelia prayed that he had not been hurt too badly.
She had no idea where they were headed, but both men looked angry enough to hurt her if she were to put one foot wrong, and behind them in another coach were the three men she had seen at Park Street.
She prayed that her family would not be worried out of their wits by her most uncharacteristic disappearance when she failed to arrive home. Her heart sank at the thought of it.
Straightening her back, she looked ahead, her bottom teeth grinding against her top ones. Would Hawkhurst know what had happened? Would he come after her or would he imagine her involvement to be voluntary and wash his hands of her altogether?
An inn ahead had Delsarte giving the driver orders after an hour of travelling. 'Here,' he shouted, the conveyance slowing to a halt as it pulled into an establishment that had seen better days. When it stopped he turned to Aurelia. 'I hope an hour in our company has persuaded you to be reasonable?'
Waiting till she nodded, he opened the door and stepped out, making a great fuss of taking her hand and helping her down from the conveyance.
Inside was worse than out, the innkeeper unkempt and leering. Aurelia was glad of the thick coat she wore as his hand reached out towards her.
'A beauty, this one, is she not, lads? With red hair that might burn a man soulless.' A slurred waft of strong liquor accompanied the insult.
When Delsarte gestured to a table on its own by the window, Aurelia slid into the back pew, her two travelling companions effectively blocking her exit. The others accompanying them sidled across to the bar and ordered a drink.
'What does Hawkhurst know of our operation?' Delsarte asked that question as he lit a cheroot, the smoke of the small thin cigarette dancing between them.
'Nothing. It is me he imagines the traitor because of my mother's nationality.'
'Wrong answer.' Delsarte's voice was low and dangerous. 'He has had us both followed.'
'Then ask him yourself. He is hardly going to discuss his motives with me.'
'You are his lover, Mrs St Harlow, and a woman of much persuasion. I think you could find out exactly what it is you wish to know.'
Aurelia made herself laugh. 'My husband thought me lacking in all ways, sir. Why would his cousin, Lord Hawkhurst, think any differently?'
'You sell yourself short, my dear, and you always have. Sign the business over to me for the sum mentioned yesterday and I will send you home in the carriage to your family. It all comes down to money in the end, you see, a concept your husband would have entirely understood.'
He waited as the innkeeper deposited two glasses of beer before them and left. 'If I had been called into the witness stand, John Samson would have been sent to gaol for the murder of Charles St Harlow and you, Aurelia St Harlow, for the way you allowed him to get away with it. I was there, you see, watching it all from the house. How easily I could have ruined you.'
The sharp slice of shock had Aurelia's blood pounding-however, she could not afford to just leave his attack there.
'But you didn't speak because you knew Charles was uncontrollable and dangerous and it was a relief that he had finally gone. You didn't speak because the orgies at Medlands would have implicated you and society under the tutelage of Victoria would not have countenanced such depravation. You didn't speak because there were things that had happened at the Yuletide parties at Medlands that would ruin the reputation of any gentleman, yours included.'
'Shut up.' The veins on each side of his temple stood out in a knotted redness and she went quiet. As Delsarte took a good swallow of his drink, the day of Charles's death came back full blown into Aurelia's memory. The blood, the screams, the realisation and the final silence.
She had prayed for years that she might be free of her husband and as Charles had taken his last laboured breath the relief she had felt was indescribable. Murder with strings of temperance and justice attached and a lucky fall for all but Charles. Still the shame of it all made her weary.
'And now with Hawkhurst's untimely questions we have a further problem which is a dangerous thing for us all, Mrs St Harlow. We need cold hard cash to disappear and we are hoping that might come from the sale of your silk business.'
She shook her head. 'There are legal documents to be witnessed and deeds of title to be signed. Such a thing cannot be done on an instant.' She was clutching at straws, she knew, but anything to slow them down and give her time to think would be helpful.
Kerslake brought out a folder from his bag and unfurled all the papers she had just spoken of. 'I have everything we need for the transaction right here, including the right person to buy it.'
And then she understood. They would keep her with them until she signed away her company. Their profit. Their price.
'Do you have a "right person"?'
Delsarte laughed. 'Always the clever one, Mrs St Harlow. Of course we do. A sign of the pen, a tidy profit and a place on the first ship to leave London on the outgoing tide. The simpler the plan, the greater the likelihood of success. Pity we could not have held on to it for longer with the rosy state of your rising sales.'
Everything she had ever worked for gone in the slash of a pen. Her sisters' futures. Her father's comfort. Sylvienne's nurse. She would be thrown upon the debtor's block with the rest of her family, helpless to fight it. Years of endeavour and finally all for nothing. The knife she saw in Delsarte's fist beneath the table had her picking up the pen. While there was life there was hope. Stephen Hawkhurst had at least taught her that.