Carolyn nodded, feeling tears begin to prick at her eyes as she looked down at the gloves again. There was evidence here, she was sure of it.
“Then I shall tell my brother that I have his gloves and have every intention of repairing them,” she said, with more firmness in her voice than she felt. “I thank you.”
The footman bowed and turned away, leaving Carolyn and Lady Callander standing alone.
“Do you mean to say that your brother is dancing, at present, with no gloves?” Lady Callander asked, a mirthful tone in his voice. “Good gracious, I –”
“This is dreadful,” Carolyn whispered, her heart in her throat and tears already beginning to form. “How could he have done such a thing?” She was quite certain that his gloves proved that he had done something to involve himself in the fire, had done something to set it up or make arrangements for it. “And what will I do?” Her questions remained unanswered as she stared down at the gloves, hardly feeling Lady Callander’s hand on her arm.
“Whatever is wrong, my dear?” Lady Callander asked, softly. “You appear to be quite horrified about something.
Tears flooded Carolyn’s eyes and she let them fall without hesitation. Lady Callander said nothing, only taking in a sharp breath at Carolyn’s evident distress, before putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her towards another room. Carolyn went willingly, her heart aching and her sense of loyalty slowly detaching from her. Her brother, if he had truly chosen to do such a thing, could expect none of her support and encouragement now. It was all much too late. She would have to speak to Lord Franks tomorrow, would have to take her brother’s gloves with her and show it to him, so that he might see as she did. What would happen thereafter? Would Lord Franks go to Lord Hamilton and drag him towards the gallows himself? Or would there be a chance for an explanation, an opportunity to state precisely what had occurred and why? She could only pray that it would be the later, already afraid what her brother would say when the time came. Would he see her as the disloyal one? Fickle? Untrustworthy? Or would he understand that she had been trying to help him but had been forced to put the safety of her King and her country ahead of that love?
Wiping at her eyes, Carolyn let Lady Callander embrace her, feeling tears flowing down her cheeks.
“It is all quite at an end now,” she whispered, as Lady Callander released her, her expression filled with concern. “And I am going to be the one to bring it.”
Chapter Eleven
Robert could still not quite believe it. To know that one of his friends was now gone, taken from this earth having let out his last breath, was almost too difficult to accept. Lord Caravel had succumbed to his many injuries and, just after Robert and the rest of the men from the ‘League’ who had been at the ball had arrived, had let his life drift away from him. He was gone now, gone from this world and never to speak to Robert or any other again.
Robert could only be grateful that Lord Caravel had no wife nor children to speak of, wondering who the title might go to now that Lord Caravel had passed away. Pacing up and down his drawing room, he let out a long, slow breath, trying to push aside the shock that refused to leave him.
“My lord?”
He looked up, irritated. The butler stood by the door, looking somewhat hesitant.
“I did knock,” he said quietly, perhaps realizing that Robert had not heard it. “My apologies if you…”
“What is it that you want?” Robert asked, irritated, not by anything the butler himself had done but rather because of his own upset. “Is it a matter of importance?”
Again, the butler hesitated. “The lady in question states that it is so, yes,” he answered, as Robert turned around sharply, seeing the butler spread his hands. “You have a Miss Hemmingway present, who wishes to speak to you, my lord.” Again, that momentary pause. “She is accompanied by her maid.”
Robert resisted the urge to look at the clock, aware that it was very early indeed for any sort of visitor. The butler too looked somewhat astonished but clearly had decided that it was important enough for him to disturb Robert at such an early hour.”
“Send her in at once and have a tray brought up from the kitchens,” he instructed, suddenly feeling a sense of urgency in his heart, as if he could not wait another moment before seeing her. “And have her maid come in also.” He knew it was not proper for a young lady to call on a gentleman entirely on her own, but it was early enough for the ton not to notice her movements and, besides which, the beau monde did not know of the urgency that filled them both at this present time. The butler excused himself, leaving Robert to turn and glance in the mirror, taking in his somewhat haggard appearance and realizing too late that there was very little he could do about it.
“Miss Hemmingway, my lord.”
He turned back at once, seeing Miss Hemmingway step through the door, her eyes searching the room for him before she found him. Her eyes were glassy, her skin paler than he had ever seen it before, and a deep sense of sadness seeming to weigh her down.
“Lord Franks,” Miss Hemmingway murmured, curtsying quickly. “I am sorry for the intrusion, when I know it is much too early and, indeed, something of an imposition to have a young lady call on you at such an early time as this, but I have found something of importance that I feel you must become aware.” Without giving him time to speak, she dug into her pocket and pulled out a brown paper packet, tied with string. It was very flat indeed but she passed it to him with almost reverential care biting her lip as she did so.
“My brother was not wearing gloves last evening,” she explained, as he set the paper parcel down on the table and began to open it. “What I mean to say is that he was doing so, just as you would expect, at the start of the ball. However, when I came to speak to him after the fire, I realized that he was no longer wearing them.”
“Then how did you discover them?” he asked, looking down at the gloves and seeing the dark marks on the fingertips. Gingerly, he picked them up and lifted them to his nose. There was a slight odor to them, and something lingered on his fingers after he had set them back down. His stomach tightened. He knew precisely what this meant and, from the look on Miss Hemmingway’s face, she knew it also.
“I asked my brother why he was not wearing them,” Miss Hemmingway said, softly, looking at him with a wretched expression. “I kept my tone as light as I could, but he responded with both anger and a sense of deep distress which he tried to hide from me.” She shook her head, closed her eyes and turned her head away so that he could not see her expression in its entirety. “His response to me was one of fury,” she continued, her voice breaking with suppressed emotion, blinking rapidly. “I tried my best to convince him to be honest with me, so that I might bring help to him in some way, but he did not respond well to such a thing.” Again, he saw her eyelashes flutter and knew that she was trying to keep the tears at bay. “He told me that he was not at all struggling with any difficulties, that there was nothing that, at present, he was being forced to do.”
“He may not be telling you the truth,” Robert responded, taking a step closer and feeling himself almost desperate to bring her a little comfort. “Surely you know that?”
Miss Hemmingway still did not look at him. “I did not want to bring the gloves to you,” she said, honestly. “I wanted to keep such things to myself, wanted to throw them on the fire as my brother himself had requested, but I did not.”
Robert frowned. “He wanted them burned?”
Miss Hemmingway finally glanced at him, her lips trembling. “Yes,” she whispered, a single tear tracking down her cheek. “The footman at the ball did not do it, howeve
r, but put them in his carriage. Most likely because he feared that a gentleman in his cups would not be likely to make wise decisions when it came to something such as a smudged glove.”