Aaron’s face lit. “C-cake?”
“Yes, cake,” Frederick said. “A matter of immense consequence.”
Aaron’s eyes darted between the two of them.
“Go,” Rowan gave the smallest nod toward Frederick. “You may assist Frederick in his investigation.”
That was enough. Aaron darted off beside Frederick, already trying to ask three questions at once about layers, icing, and whether cakes differed between London and the country, his stammer thickening with excitement but not slowing him. Rowan watched them for a moment, and his shoulders loosened a little.
He stood alone for a few breaths.
Juliet was gone. Wellfield was enraged. Aaron was confused. A full congregation of peers and parasites carrying this tale away in their mouths. And beneath all of that, annoyingly persistent, the image of a woman in white wedding silk looking at him with anger and shock and something else he had not yet named.
He should have thought of Juliet and her disappearance. Instead, his mind returned to Lady Emmeline.
To the way her fingers had tightened in the folds of her gown when he said he would marry her himself. To the heat that had flared in her gaze before she hid it. To the fact that for one suspended moment she had looked as startled by herself as by him.
He did not like how clearly he remembered it, nor the way his pulse beat harder at the memory.
If Foxdale had any sense, he would repair this quickly.
“You have excellent timing,” Foxdale drawled when Rowan was shown into his study the next afternoon. “I was just leaving the country.”
That much had been plain before Rowan ever crossed the threshold. The drive outside had been full of servants moving trunks, securing traveling cases, shouting instructions to one another with the strained energy of a household uprooted in haste.
John Kirwike, Duke of Foxdale, sat behind his desk with the expression of a man prepared to find the whole scene amusing as long as the inconvenience was happening to someone else.
Foxdale did not rise.
“I have not come to drink with you,” Rowan said.
“So I gathered.” Foxdale took a lazy sip from his glass and studied him with open irritation. “Though I confess the whole matter has become more entertaining since I heard that you were involved.”
Rowan ignored the bait. “You know what happened.”
“Oh, I know enough. Your sister vanished from her wedding, and another bride appeared at the wrong chapel, which caused a stirat the one where she belonged. Charming confusion. The gossip has done most of the work for me.”
“I am not here to discuss gossip.”
“No,” Foxdale said. “You are here to discuss Lady Emmeline Greene, I gather.”
The way he said her name made Rowan’s shoulders go still. “Yes.”
Foxdale leaned back farther in his chair, stretching out with deliberate insolence. “Then by all means. Speak.”
“What occurred yesterday was a mistake created by my household. Lady Emmeline did not run from you. She was delayed because my men brought her to the wrong chapel under the belief that she was my sister.” Rowan kept his expression flat. “That misunderstanding is mine to account for, which is why I have come. You may set another date for the wedding. I will ensure the circumstances are made plain and your inconvenience compensated.”
Foxdale listened without interruption, swirling the liquid in his glass. When Rowan finished, he let the silence sit a beat longer than necessary.
“I believe you,” he said at last.
Rowan allowed himself the smallest exhale.
But Foxdale was not finished. “I believe every word of it,” he continued. “I also do not care.”
Rowan’s gaze hardened.
“The scandal is too large already. A runaway bride at one chapel, another bride misplaced at another, half the county talking, the ton no doubt sharpening its teeth even now.” Foxdale shrugged. “I agreed to marry Lady Emmeline because the arrangement was sensible. Her father needed help, and I needed a duchess without any excess nonsense. That was the bargain.”
