Page 73 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

Lyness glanced back once more where Emily had disappeared, the image of her retreat carved into his mind like stone relief. He forced himself to speak before Roman could worry too deeply. “I am n-not c-certain. B-but I will f-find out. I n-need a m-moment.”

“Of course.” Roman stopped, studying his younger brother. “Your betrothed stood here a moment ago, looking nearly as distressed as you do,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

Roman’s attempt at humor landed like a blow. Lyness did not have breath enough to correct him, but he sent a glare at his brother that communicated his displeasure clearly enough.

Raising his hands, Roman stepped back. “My apologies. It is none of my business.” He cleared his throat. “I will go check on our mother’s comfort.” He disappeared down the path and around some rubble.

For the first time since Lyness had dared to hope for a future with her, he felt it slipping through his fingers like sand—fine, impossible to grasp, hopeless to gather. He needed to understand. He needed to speak to her. But she had asked for time. He would give it to her, and gladly. But he feared time might take her further from him rather than bring her back.

He stood alone amidst the ruins, praying that whatever had shaken her would not break him as well.

Chapter Twenty-One

The upper rooms of Etridge’s Royal Hotel smelled of ink, candle wax, and the unmistakable whiff of too many men who had been arguing since tea time. High ceilings, tall windows overlooking Blake Street, and a growing tension made the Whig club feel more like a battleground than a meeting room. The results of Race Week’s lower than usual turn out, the Duke of Sussex refusing to attend their party’s supper, and other disappointing losses for their members, had all of them looking for someone to blame.

Lyness entered behind Roman, still shaken from the abbey. Emily’s retreat haunted him. The way she had stepped away…as though the sight of him pained her. He could still feel the echo of it, like a hand pressed hard against his chest.

Roman, by contrast, looked carved from granite—anger contained so tightly it might crack.

Several men turned at once.

“Ah! Hartwell!” Archibald Kettleburn called. “Come to tell us you have unearthed the villain who meant to poison you with opium?”

Roman removed his gloves with clipped control. “No. That individual remains unfound.”

Lyness sat beside him at the table, quiet. His mind kept showing him the image of Emily’s pale face, rehearsing for him the trembling in her voice. He forced himself to focus.

Phineas Nelson lounged near the fire. “If someone tried to make a fool of you during Race Week, he is either fearless or stupid.”

“Or very sure of his protection from prosecution,” Christopher Holly said from his seat nearer the window.

“That narrows it to half of York,” Mr. Cooke muttered.

Roman ignored them all, looking over the lists and maps covering the table—the city’s wards, voters, patrons. His jaw flexed. “What are we discussing here?”

“Reports on profits and losses from businesses during Race Week. Holly had it in his mind to see if the shops Whigs owned had more losses or similar to the rest,” Sir George said as he read one of the reports, making notes. He looked up at Kettleburn. “You could help us go through these. They are most interesting.”

“Dashed lot of paperwork.” Kettleburn shrugged. “I am more interested in Hartwell’s troubles.”

With a put upon sigh, Sir George lowered the papers to the table. “We do not even know if the person who tampered with his glass did so because of his politics. It could have been a jealous suitor, or someone who lost money to him gambling, or any number of things. Club matters should remain restricted to the things that have a direct correlation to our political work.”

Tapping his glass, Kettleburn did not even look at the older gentleman. “If a servant handed you the drink directly, he belongs to someone wealthy enough to hire carelessly. Or maliciously.”

Roman’s voice was controlled steel. “I have considered every possibility.” He picked up one of the papers Sir George handed to him, scowling at it.

Leaning forward, Phineas shared a crooked grin with Lyness. “One of my cousins bid me to offer congratulations to you, Eastwood, on your engagement. But he was confused, as a few weeks ago, he thought it was Hartwell he saw driving Lady Emily through town.”

The room went quiet, and Lyness felt his pulse jolt painfully. Not now, he wanted to say. Not when he felt Emily slipping away from him.

Usually left out of the more social aspects of the club’s members, Sir George blinked up at Lyness. “ You are engaged, Eastwood?”

Holly smiled as though he had made the arrangements himself. “To Mr. John Sterling’s sister. The Earl of Benwaith’s daughter.”

Roman’s expression barely shifted, but a shadow crossed his eyes.

“Yes,” Lyness said, steady even as his heart twisted. “We are engaged.”

“Excellent!” Sir George exclaimed. “A love match, is it?”