“Kenworth will have breakfast ready,” Barrington said. “Come in before you catch a chill.”
Quinton didn’t move right away. His gaze swept the misted fields, then lifted toward the cliffs where the sea met the sky like a dare.
Barrington paused at the door. “When you decide what comes next,” he said quietly, “you won’t be alone.”
Quinton met his gaze. For the first time, he didn’t feel like a ghost in borrowed clothes.
“I need to know why they let me live,” he murmured.
He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Listen to me. Brooding on a cliffside. I sound like a gothic novel.”
Barrington didn’t reply. He only gave a dry snort, the kind that might mean agreement or amusement, and stepped inside.
Quinton glanced toward the house. He hadn’t expected to find comfort in a valet with the sharp tongue of a field sergeant, but Kenworth had a way of making things feel… normal. Kenworth was already waiting just beyond the threshold, a towel draped over one arm.
“The coffee’s only marginally improved from yesterday,” he said. “But there’s a lemon tart left over. If you need a reason to go on living, my lord, that might suffice.”
Quinton gave a soft laugh. It surprised even him.
“I heard the staff mention that they were reserved for brides threatening elopement?”
Kenworth opened the door wider. “Not these. Come in. Let the sea keep its chill.”
Chapter Five
It was twomornings later, beneath a sky the color of steel, the Seaton Shipping offices stood at the edge of the docks, a proud two-story brick building with green-shuttered windows and a wide slate roof that bore the salt and gull-marked wear of years by the sea. Beyond it, ships creaked in the morning tide, gulls circled overhead like sentinels. The scent of brine, tar, and freshly oiled wood hung thick in the air. Carts clattered over cobblestones as dockworkers laughed and shouted orders while some lifted crates and barrels.
Inside the office, Mary-Ann sat at her desk outside her father’s office, the late morning light slanting through the high windows. Her sleeves were neatly pinned beneath linen protectors, a precaution she’d learned early when ink blotches ruined a favorite cuff. Even now, an ink stain smudged her wrist as she leafed through a shipment ledger. She stopped and turned to a previous page and studied the column of numbers. Her brow furrowed. Something wasn’t right.
A shipment from Lisbon, three crates of dried fruit, and two filled with bolts of silk were marked as received and cleared. But she’d been down at the docks two days ago. Those crates never came off theWinsome Tide.
She turned the page back. Then forward again. The same tidy handwriting. The same signature initials.
“Father?” she called.
From the adjoining room, a gruff voice replied, “Yes?”
“This entry for the Lisbon cargo says it was received, but I never saw it come off the ship.”
He appeared in the doorway, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “Probably a delay in the offloading. You know that happens more often than you think.”
She tapped the page. “But it’s already marked as received and taxed.”
He shrugged. Must have been sorted before you got there. These things are handled quickly when there’s coin at stake.”
Yet this time, something tugged at the edge of her thoughts. Not doubt, just a sense that the numbers didn’t add up the way they always did.
She wasn’t a child tallying figures for amusement. She knew the shipping routes, the taxes, and the weight of crates before they were even unlashed. And she trusted numbers. Numbers, at least, didn’t misremember.
She stood and gathered the ledger and notes into a neat pile. Her fingers lingered on the ribbon, and her gaze drifted to the window where the mast tops swayed gently in the distance. The tide was coming in. She had always liked this time of day when the harbor stirred with motion, when the world felt full of purpose and quiet industry. But this morning, the tide’s steady pull couldn’t quite wash away the unease that clung to her.
And this time, she couldn’t quite ignore it.
She had just begun to tie the stack with a ribbon when a familiar voice floated in from the doorway.
“Still buried in numbers, my love?”
Rodney stepped inside with a smile just shy of sincere and a small parcel wrapped in linen. “I brought you something from the bakery you like. Surely you can spare a moment for something sweet?”
