There it was in the morning paper, undeniable in its precise black type. There was no turning back now — she was officially engaged to Raymond Reddington, Earl of Blackwood.
"The banns will start this Sunday," Aunt June said briskly. "Lord Blackwood thinks a month for the wedding, which is only just enough time, but I must say I agree with him. No point in waiting longer with you well past the age of marrying, and I do think…"
Elizabeth let her aunt's voice fade into the background as she considered the paper, touching Raymond's name lightly. She hadn't seen him for two days, and still couldn't decide if she was happy about the wedding, or dreading it. Happy, of course, at the prospect of having Raymond, her Red, all to herself, and the passion and adventure that they might find together. Dread, at the thought of an ending, to her ability to maintain independence, some measure of self-control, some…
It was pointless to worry over it, she thought with an inner sigh. The deed was done now, and she would have to turn her attention to making certain that her marriage gave her what she wanted, and robbed her of nothing.
And she thought she could trust Raymond to keep his vow — you won't regret this, he'd said, along with promises of travel and new experiences. Surely he wouldn't lie just to take her hand — why would he want to? In his position, he could marry any biddable young debutante that he wished. He'd chosen her, surely he…
"Eliza?" Aunt June sounded quite impatient, and Elizabeth wondered guiltily how long her aunt had been waiting.
"My apologies, Aunt," she said with a smile. "My thoughts were elsewhere."
She received an indulgent smile in return. "Well now, that's certainly understandable, my dear. But there's little time for woolgathering. There are many decisions that need to be made. Of course the wedding will be at St George's. Who will you have as witnesses? I, of course, will attend with you as your guardian."
"Oh," she answered, "I'd like to have Meera there, if I could. I don't really need anyone else."
"That sounds just fine," her aunt replied. "I'm sure that Blackwood will have an attendant or two, and that will take care of matters very nicely. Now, I'd be most pleased to have the wedding breakfast here — particularly since Blackwood has no family, but we'll have to ask him…"
Elizabeth couldn't pay attention; couldn't bring herself to care about all these petty details when it was her future she was concerned with. And of course, catching Sam's murderer. She was determined to have the criminal brought to justice before she went anywhere near a wedding.
She sat in the blessed quiet of her father's study, having escaped breakfast after a long hour of wedding planning. Poor Aunt June — Elizabeth knew that her aunt couldn't quite understand why she wasn't showing more enthusiasm. She'd have to try harder, participate in the plans, choose a dress…
Good grief, she thought, it's contagious, this planning and fretting. She couldn't be wasting time thinking about these frivolous things — she had more urgent concerns. She owed it to her Papa to find out everything she could, to track down his killer, before…before she embarked on a whole new life.
She couldn't help but wonder, however, what Sam would have thought of this development. Would he have been happy for her, celebrated with joy to see her safely wed, and to an old and venerated family friend, no less.
Would he shake Raymond's hand, arrange the settlements with pride? As it was, it would all be arranged through their various men of affairs. Not that it mattered to her in particular — she knew that Raymond was wealthy, and that she would want for nothing as his wife.
She supposed, all in all, she was extraordinarily fortunate. And she…cared for Raymond, and was certain he cared for her as well. He must, mustn't he? The way he had pled for her hand was surely an indication…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the study door. She looked up from the smooth desk blotter to see Tom, executing a quick bow as he entered.
"Good morning, Miss Scott," he said formally.
She was so surprised by his appearance, by his formal manners; so glad to see a friend, that she forgot any suspicions she'd been harbouring.
"Good morning, Tom," she answered. "Goodness, why so proper this morning?"
He approached the desk and sat in the chair opposite. "I wouldn't want to be inappropriate with an engaged lady."
So that was it. He'd obviously seen the paper this morning. She sighed again, and offered a slight smile, all she could muster.
"You've heard," she said. "It really only just happened. I don't really feel…I don't feel any different. Surely we don't have to treat each other any differently."
"I think we do," he returned. "I'm certainly not a person that would interest someone like your Lord Blackwood. We likely won't see each other again after you're married. I will be…very sorry to lose your friendship, Miss Scott."
"Oh, do stop," she said impatiently. "I'm sure Lord Blackwood won't be dictating who I may or may not be friends with."
"Elizabeth," he answered, shifting forward in his chair, eyes shining earnestly. "You cannot be that naive. You know perfectly well that your husband will control every aspect of your life."
She supposed she couldn't deny it — technically it was certainly the truth. "I believe that Lord Blackwood won't be overly solicitous," she said primly, because she trusted Raymond; because she hoped it was true.
"You barely know this man," Tom pointed out. "How could you possibly know what sort of husband he will make you?"
"But Lord Blackwood was a friend of Papa's," she explained. "I'm sure that he…well, I trust that he will treat me well. It's true that I didn't expect to find myself engaged," she continued, "but everyone seems well satisfied with the match."
"Are you satisfied with it, Elizabeth? Are you happy?" Tom was perched right on the edge of his seat now, hands reaching for hers, all formality forgotten. "Or do you need help? If your aunt is forcing you to–"
"Oh, no, Tom, not at all," she hastened, words tripping over one another. "Please do not be concerned. I have known Blackwood all my life, I am perfectly comfortable with our engagement. Really, do not distress yourself, everything will be just fine."
"Eliza?" The faint sound of Aunt June's voice wafted through the crack of the door.
"I must go," she said, standing in a rush, eager for this painfully awkward conversation to be over. "I'm sorry to rush off, but there's just so much to be seen to. Have a good day, Tom."
She smiled kindly, and strode quickly out of the room. She'd have been surprised to see the darkness that filtered over Tom's face as he turned to watch her go. Even more surprised to see that darkness turn to rage, as he punched the arm of the chair in a sudden fury.
Raymond sat, comfortable in the deep club chair, having obtained a spot by the fire merely by virtue of having been there so long. He was lost to his own musings — Sam, Lizzy, the threat, the promise…
It was enough to drive a man mad, he concluded ruefully. Between a potential murder, settling his own affairs, and a prospective bride, he should have been busy enough not to worry. But worry he did. Over all these things, and more.
Most of all, the thought of Elizabeth haunted him. Could he make her happy? Could he chase the doubts from her mind and bring her joy in marriage?
Could he make her love him?
He'd rather thought he'd been done with love, long ago. He pictured the laughing eyes of his first wife, and wondered what Naomi would think of him. Would she have liked Elizabeth, he wondered, would she think now that he was doing the right thing? She certainly wouldn't have expected him to spend the rest of his life alone. And although they had grown close and affectionate over the course of their marriage, had it really been love?
How did one know?
He was thankfully interrupted in his maudlin musings by the arrival of Dembe in the chair across from him, settling by the fire with a pleased sigh.
"It's cool here, at night," his friend said. "I'm still not used to it."
"It takes time," Raymond admitted. "I feel it myself, after so long in the South. Tell me," he continued, thinking again of Elizabeth, "do you wish to return? Or do you like London life?"
Dembe raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Are you eager to be gone then, Raymond? What will your new bride think of that?"
Raymond smiled, remembering the lively interest she'd had in his travels. "Oh, I don't think she'll mind at all," he said. "Elizabeth has an inquisitive nature — she welcomes new experiences with remarkable zest. I think she'll thrive with our travels."
"Where you go, I go," Dembe said simply. "But if your direction leads us home, I certainly won't complain." He shivered, dramatically, and Raymond laughed.
There was a great comfort in the loyalty of the other man, and in the steadfastness of his companionship. Trust had developed over long years of doing business, and then of friendship, and it was a relationship Raymond truly treasured. Surely, he and Elizabeth could develop a similar harmony of mind…
He shook himself inwardly; it wouldn't do to get lost along that track again.
"Tell me, Dembe," he said, redirecting his thoughts firmly. "Did you happen to run into Sinclair while you were at Jackson's?"
The other man grinned widely. "It just so happens that I did," he replied. "We had a very pleasant conversation about investment opportunities."
"How did he seem? Did you manage to work Sam into the conversation?"
"I did, and he seemed truly regretful over Sam's loss. He remembers him as an honourable man with a sharp head for business. There was no anger there, Raymond, no resentment that I could see."
Raymond sighed, looking into the heart of the fire as if the answers lay within the flames.
"He was the last man on Elizabeth's list of suspects," he said thoughtfully. "And we are no further along."
"I think you know the answer to this puzzle, Raymond," Dembe said solemnly. "I know you don't want to think it because of how it will hurt Miss Scott, but there is one clear direction in which this path leads."
Thomas Keen.
Raymond frowned. "I know it as well as you do," he admitted. "But one can't just accuse a man of murder because of his…overenthusiasm towards a lady friend. I don't know if Elizabeth will be satisfied with anything less than her murderer being hauled off by Scotland Yard."
"She may have to be," Dembe said. "He won't admit it even if you did accuse him — and I can't see any way to get proof. Miss Scott may have a hard lesson ahead. It is good you will be there for her to lean on."
"If she does, rather than turn away in disappointment," Raymond said heavily. "I…I don't know if she cares for me enough to put her other desires aside, Dembe."
Dembe laughed, surprising him. "Raymond, don't tell me you are suffering from a lack of confidence? My friend, one only has to see the way she looks at you to know — her heart is yours already."
"I hope you're right," Raymond said. He sighed, then smiled at his old friend. "It's growing late, is it not? Shall we head for home?"
"I'll call for the carriage," Dembe replied, and slipped away.
Raymond followed him, mulling over the dilemma of Elizabeth and Tom Keen. Was this young man a murderer, or only a hopeful lover? How was one to tell? He stood outside on the walk, awaiting his carriage, deep in thought.
Could he shatter Elizabeth's illusions? Was it better to tell her his thoughts, or just that her list had led to no viable suspects, and the matter was at a dead end? Which way would hurt her less? Which way might sate her need for justice?
He heard the horses' hooves on the street, breaking his train of thought, and looked up. Looked up just in time, as a body collided hard with his back, and thrust him forward, throwing him off balance. Time seemed to slow to an infinitesimal crawl as he fell, his feet losing purchase, his body pitching into the path of his own horses.
He had time, in that hazy space, to picture Elizabeth's sweet face, and mourn the loss of what might have been. He closed his eyes against his own death…and choked against the cutting edge of his cravat, suddenly tight against his throat.
A strong hand at his back, pulling with extraordinary might. He found himself sprawling, not forward into certain death, but backward, landing on his backside on the walk in a painful and undignified manner.
He'd never been so happy to be embarrassed in all his life. Another's breath panted loud and harsh nearby. He turned, eyes wide, still in the throes of panic, to see Dembe sitting on the ground beside him, hand still fixed on his collar. The other man managed a smile.
"Dembe," he gasped, wind knocked out of him. "My friend…thanks are insufficient."
"I am only glad that I came out at the right time," Dembe said. "You were almost lost to us, Raymond."
"Someone pushed me," he said thoughtfully, as they both drew themselves back to standing. He brushed absently at his trousers and jacket. "I don't suppose that you caught sight of whomever it was?"
"Just a glimpse," Dembe replied. "He turned and ran just as I came down the steps. Young man, dark hair, glasses, clean shaven. Does that sound familiar to you?"
Raymond thought again of Sam's diary, of Elizabeth's Tom, and his thoughts went dark.
"I am very much afraid," he said, "that I know exactly who was responsible for this night's work."