Page 61 of Ashen Torment

I rest my fingertips on my chin, letting my thumbnail just touch my freshly shaven beard.

“Varlen...” I murmur, trying to remember. “Yes. Our father mentioned a certain Mr. Varlen. But the face...” I shake my head slightly, “I do not recall it.”

Lucien breathes in slowly. “They were all partners, except for Gideon Hale. He worked at the foundry.” He pushes his hair back from his forehead. “We must speak with Hale.”

“Why turn to Hale and not this Varlen or Duke Lestrade?”

Lucien cannot endure my stillness, his hand shoots out and strikes the table in front of me.

“Because we know where Hale is. He is an entrepreneur in the Midlands, in the county of Blackford,” he articulates, his breath a bit too fast, “whereas with the other two, we don’t even know which continent they are on.”

I look down at his open, rigid fingers. I follow them as he realizes what he’s done, and the redness on his knuckles seems to apologize before his voice even can. Lucien withdraws, a step back that restores order to that distance.

I bring two fingers to the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes for a moment to avoid saying something that would hold more barbed wire than utility.

“We will speak with Hale,” I say into the temporary darkness I’ve created for myself. “But we must also find Varlen. And the Duke.”

“I will do what I can. I will handle everything.”

He is about to cross the threshold when I open my eyes.

“Lucien.”

He stops.

“Yes?”

“Do not delude yourself into thinking you are going to Hale alone.” I let my hand fall from my forehead to the desk, my fingers drumming the surface.

“I am coming too.”

His profile turns just enough to show me a crooked smile.

“As you wish, little brother.”

And he leaves, closing the door softly while my thoughts become tumultuous.

Ashford Manor has always smelled of damp stone and ancient paper. Sometimes it is unbearable.

Today is one of those times.

Laurence is already on the threshold before the horse has even fully slowed. “Welcome back, my lord.”

My coat slides from my shoulders.

“Are there any updates, Laurence?”

I cross the threshold.

“The Marquess Ashford has asked for you.”

I sigh, then resume my pace, the stairs ahead seem steeper than usual. Laurence follows two steps behind, always aligned with my shadow.

“He awaits you in the East Wing.”

The knot of my cravat tightens around my throat; I loosen it, pull it off, and let it fall behind me. The sound of the fabric tumbling down the steps is almost satisfying.

“Let us go face this scourge.”