Not to the town, exactly. To her.
He spoke with her last night. Walked with her. Heard her voice break into that familiar cadence only she had ever carried. It hadn’t been much, five minutes, perhaps less, but it had been enough.
She was not indifferent.
But she was engaged.
Rodney Wilkinson had stood at her side, publicly confident, privately watchful.
He’d brushed her arm and leaned close when she laughed at someone else’s joke. Not with affection but with ownership. A silent assertion of place. Quinton hadn’t intervened. But thattouch, more than anything, had stayed with him through the night. Nor had he missed the way Rodney angled his body, the way his eyes tracked every word. He wasn’t a man in love. He was a man in possession. And somehow, his hands had always been too clean.
Quinton wasn’t sure which was worse.
Still, Mary-Ann had chosen to walk with him. That mattered.
He wouldn’t plead. He wouldn’t press. She was not a prize to be won, and he would not dishonor her or himself by trying to pull her away through force or desperation.
But hewouldremind her.
Not just of what they’d shared but of who she was when she was with him.
There was a difference.
She had laughed, once, with a kind of freedom he hadn’t seen in her eyes the night before. And though her smile at dinner had been careful, it had cracked, just once, when she met his gaze.
That was where he’d begin.
Not with letters. Not with declarations. But with the small things. A shared memory. A well-timed observation. A burning question about the docks, the ledgers, and the shipping practices that had always sparked her curiosity.
He would approach as an ally. Let her remember what it was to be known.
And if she asked why he had come back, not to town, but toher,he would answer simply: Because you were the part of my life I never meant to leave behind. He remembered the last days and how silence pressed against his skin like stone, how the absence of her voice felt more suffocating than darkness. He held on to phrases she’d once said, replayed them like prayers. Not to escape. To remain human. And when the door finally opened, it wasn’t light that struck him first. It was the cold. And the realization that he had lived, barely, without her.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
Kenworth stepped in with practiced ease, a folded waistcoat over one arm and a knowing smirk at the ready. He glanced at Quinton’s half-dressed state with theatrical concern. “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but if you mean to conquer hearts or shipping conspiracies today, might I suggest trousers?”
Quinton turned from the window, one brow lifting as the corners of his mouth edged into something dangerously close to amusement. “And here I thought bare resolve would suffice.”
Kenworth gave a prim bow, his expression painfully neutral. “The Brigade might allow it. Society, I fear, would not. Though I suspect Miss Seaton might tolerate a bit more than most.”
Quinton smiled, a real one this time. Steady. Focused.
He moved to the dressing stand, running a hand over the folded waistcoat before pulling it on with practiced ease. The jacket followed, then the cravat, looser than regulation but enough. He adjusted the cuffs, straightened the hem, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Still lean. Still standing. No medals now. No burden. Just purpose.
“Trousers, then.” Kenworth nodded and turned for the door. As he exited, his voice drifted back without turning: “I’ll leave the war plans out, just in case.”
He dressed with purpose, each button a choice, and each layer was armor for the day ahead. He would start at the docks. Quiet questions. Familiar routes.
Barrington had mentioned a name two nights ago, Percival Trent, a clerk in the Home Office with a reputation for precision and discretion. Not loud, not flashy. But well-placed. He’d signed off on several redirected reports, and Wilkinson, it seemed, had once answered to him. It might be nothing. Or it might be a place to start.
Let her see him not as the man who had vanished but as the one who had come back, changed, yes, but still hers. He didn’tknow what she would choose. But he knew what he’d fight for: not the past they’d lost, but the future she still carried in her hands. If she truly remembered him, then the rest would follow.
Chapter Fifteen
That same Thursday,past the noonday heat, the pace of the day slowed to a measured beat. The docks smelled of rope, brine, and the sour tang of pitch. Quinton moved with quiet purpose, his boots tapping over damp planks as the morning sun climbed pale over the harbor. Salt hung sharp in the air, mingling with the scent of soaked wood, the kind that seeped into clothing and lingered there. Mist clung low to the waterline, blurring the outlines of ships and softening the world into hush. He drew it in slowly, steadying himself.
There was something about the light at this hour. It was cool, honest, and unrelenting. It didn’t comfort. It revealed.
