“Thank you,” Owen offered him a hand.
Carter gave a faint, bitter smile, then shook it. “Don’t thank me yet. Make use of it first.”
“I intend to.”
Carter bowed awkwardly and took his leave. The moment he was gone, Owen rang for Harcourt.
“My horse,” he ordered.
Harcourt blinked. “My lord?”
“My horse. Now.”
He knew that a carriage would take too long. Every minute arranging one would be a minute in which Aurelia sat believingherself alone, believing that the world was closing around Clara because no one had yet found a way to force it open again.
Owen had the statement. It wasn’t the public reckoning he needed yet, but it was hope … real hope.
Not even fifteen minutes later, he was riding harder than prudence allowed. The streets blurred past him in a confusion of wheels, shouts, and startled pedestrians. He scarcely noticed. Carter’s statement lay against his chest like a brand. Each hoofbeat seemed to strike out the same demand.
Make it right.
Make it right.
By the time he reached the house, his horse was lathered and his own breath was harsh in his chest. He dismounted before the groom had fully reached him and went up the steps. He knocked. The servant who opened the door looked startled to find a marquess on the threshold in such a state.
“Lord Westbridge,” he greeted him.
“I must see Miss Finch. At once, if she will receive me.”
There was a pause. Then he was shown in. Owen had expected to wait. Instead, he was led almost immediately into the drawing room. Aurelia and Clara were both there. At the sight of them, every urgent word he had carried with him seemed to stop in his throat.
They looked exhausted. Clara was sitting on the sofa, pale and swollen-eyed, with her hands clenched in her lap as though she had been holding herself together by force. Aurelia was standing near the window. She turned as he entered, and though she was composed, her face bore the unmistakable traces of tears.
Owen felt his heart constrict, threatening to burst at the sight of them in such a state.
He had come with proof. He had come with victory, or the beginning of it.
But looking at Aurelia’s drawn face and Clara’s ruined brightness, he understood at once that he had also come too late to spare them the hurt.
Chapter 32
Aurelia had barely begun to smooth the ribbons at her hairline when a knock at the door startled her. It was neither timid nor perfunctory, but firm, deliberate and insistent. It was a knock that carried a certain authority and urgency all at once. Her hands shook slightly as she brushed down her hair, then lifted them to her cheeks, as if she could somehow sweep away the evidence of tears with a single motion.
“My lord!” she exclaimed, breathless and startled, the moment that the doors opened and revealed Owen standing there. “What … what are you doing here?”
He stepped forward, with his coat still carrying the faint sheen of exertion. His dark eyes were steady and serious.
“I have some important news,” he revealed without a proper greeting. “But first, I wanted to assure myself that you and Miss Blackmore were all right and safe.”
Aurelia forced a small, composed smile, though her chest felt impossibly tight. She could not let him see how deeply the afternoon had shaken her, not when he had already carried so much on her behalf.
“Safe,” she repeated, testing the word aloud. “I … I assure you, it is nothing I have not handled before.”
She assumed that he was referring to the tea party, though she wondered how he heard about it so quickly. Then again, London kept its sordid secrets only to amuse itself, and reveal it at just the right moment. She glanced at Clara, who was lingering by the doorway, looking pale and hesitant.
“Clara, would you give us a moment alone?”
Clara inclined her head silently and withdrew, leaving Aurelia and Owen in the quiet drawing room. The sudden hush pressed upon her, making her heart hammer against her ribs. She smoothed the folds of her gown and raised her chin, willing her composure into place, though she felt hollowed by the weight of the day.
