And there it was. The shift. The sudden stillness in the marrow.
Evelyn stiffened. Her fingers curled against the damask napkin in her lap. “How nice.”
Lady Brimwood’s lips thinned. “You still haven’t spoken with her.”
Evelyn’s wine turned sour on her tongue. “No, I haven’t.”
“She is still your sister.”
“She is many things,” Evelyn said matter-of-factly.
Lady Brimwood’s gaze flickered to Robert, who had returned to the careful dissection of his roast duck as though family betrayal were merely a culinary matter. Evelyn knew he was listening. He always was.
“She isunhappy,Evelyn,” her mother said quietly. “You might consider the possibility that she regrets?—”
“I regret this conversation,” Evelyn cut in, dabbing at the corner of her mouth. “And I have no wish to sully the pudding course with talk of Matilda.”
“She gets that from your side,” her father muttered.
Her mother sniffed. “She gets her temper from you and her recklessness from me, but she gets her charm from somewhere entirely unknown.”
Evelyn offered a bright smile, all teeth and no mercy. “That must be why everyone’s so afraid of me.”
“No,” said Robert calmly, still not looking up. “It’s because you tell the truth.”
The room fell quiet. Evelyn turned her head toward him, startled, though she schooled her expression before anyone else could notice. Only her husband ever dared to toss her those brutal little gems, truths wrapped in darkness, like uncut stones, and she treasured them more than any jewel the ton could offer.
“Well,” she said airily, and rose from her chair with a rustle of skirts, “since we’ve all had our fill of duck and drama, I believe I’ll retire.”
“Already?” her mother asked, reaching out as if she might grasp Evelyn with nothing but a glance.
“I’ve a headache.” Evelyn leaned in to kiss her mother’s cheek and whispered low, “We’ll talk about Matilda another time. I promise.”
Her mother’s hand tightened, but she let her go. Robert stood as well, formal and silent, a dark shadow cast by candlelight and grief. He nodded once to her parents then followed Evelyn from the dining room without a word. The corridor beyond was cold, quiet, and lined with ancestral faces who looked far too judgmental for people who’d been dead two centuries.
“You’ll want us to sneak into the study tonight, I expect,” Evelyn said softly, leading him through the hallway with the confidence of someone who had once raced these corridors barefoot at midnight.
Robert’s voice was low and iron-edged. “If we wait too long, he might move anything of worth.”
“He’s careful,” she said. “He is my father but always believed himself untouchable regarding any wrongdoing.”
“Hewasuntouchable,” Robert murmured. “Until you married me.”
Evelyn paused at the foot of the staircase, turned to look up at him. “Regretting it already, Your Grace?”
He took the final step down and looked at her fully. “Not yet.”
Then he offered her his arm. It seemed mocking and too formal, but still warm beneath the fabric. She took it, and together, they walked up the stairs like the dutiful daughter and her solemn husband.
Only the shadows knew their secret. Only the darkness knew what they planned.
The clock in the east corridor struck one.
A low, deliberate chime echoed through Brimwood House like a whisper with teeth. Robert was standing outside Evelyn’s door, one hand resting against the cool wood, the other closed into a fist at his side. He did not knock immediately. Instead,he listened, as still as a hunter. There were no footsteps, no creaking boards. Only the hush of sleeping wealth.
Then, two gentle taps and the door opened without a sound.
Evelyn stood there in her night robe made of pale blue silk which fell down her body like water. Her hair was loosed from its elaborate braids, tumbling down her back in thick chestnut waves. She looked up at him, her eyes bright with mischief and the thrill of conspiracy. She was barefoot.
