Chapter One
Lady Georgina Ravenstockpromised herself that this would be her last visit.
One year and one day ago, she buried her husband, and still the silence lingered. Not grief, precisely, but the burden of things unfinished, unsaid, unmourned.
She waited as her coachman climbed back onto the box after opening the iron gate. The autumn breeze sent leaves scurrying down the path, whipping them in circles against the stones. The coach’s wheels had scarcely come to a halt before she stepped down, already certain of her path.
The last time she stood here, she had scattered earth upon her husband’s grave and vowed it would be the final farewell. Now, after a deep breath, she made her way down the path, passing the final resting places of familiar names. Her late husband, Rowland, Baron Ravenstock, had been ten years her senior, a serious man, consumed by the responsibilities of his title and the coal mine that sustained it.
He had spent much of his time in Sommer-by-the-Sea, working alongside his men underground, while she remained in their London townhouse, managing the rest of their world. It was not distance born of disregard but of duty, carved out by expectation and necessity. A year ago, an urgent summons called her back to Sommer-by-the-Sea. There had been a terrible collapse in the mine, one that had taken Rowland’s life.
Now, she approached his grave and stood solemnly, gazing at thefine inscription. Try as she may, his features were fading from her memory. Rowland had always been a man of quiet strength, marked more by soot-stained hands than by society’s polish. She smiled, remembering the dust smudged at the corner of his brow, more than the fine lines around his face.
She had done all that was expected. The silks, the silence, the seclusion. But expectation made poor company. And with the mourning veil still clinging to her like a shadow, she was no longer certain who she was meant to be.
Georgina drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “Sleep well, my lord,” she whispered, her gloved hand brushing the top of the headstone.
Tomorrow, she had an appointment with her solicitor and planned to settle all the accounts. This would be her final goodbye. Beyond that, she did not yet know where her path would lead, only that her path would be of her own choosing.
She lifted her chin, her gaze settling on the great oak at the edge of the cemetery. The wind stirred its amber leaves, revealing the figure of another mourner beneath its branches. She stilled. Although at this distance, his features were hidden, the gentleman was tall with a familiar bearing. There was no mistaking the broad set of his shoulders, or the way he stood with a soldier’s stillness, braced against the wind, weathering the next military charge. For the briefest moment, their eyes might have met, or perhaps it was only her imagination.
Once, long ago, she had told a lanky, good-humored boy that one day he would fill those shoulders and trouble hearts without meaning to. She wondered if she had been correct.
She drew her shawl closer around her shoulders and turned away, casting her thoughts back to the matter at hand. She had returned for Rowland. To mark the year gone by and to close this chapter properly.
She turned and made her way back along the path toward the gates. The breeze shifted once more. She glanced up, and there wasthe shadow from beneath the branches. Closer now, he was unmistakably Alexander Weld.
Time had carved new lines at the corners of his eyes. There was a gravity to him now of a man who had seen too much and carried it quietly. But it was him, unmistakably him.
His gaze caught hers, sharp with recognition, and held. No words passed between them, but a flicker of something, surprise, perhaps, or memory, sparked in his eyes.
Her heart did not quicken. Absolutely not. It merely… remembered. A warmth, a shape, the ease of being seen without explanation. Nothing more. Of course, it was him. Broad-shouldered stubbornness wrapped in a greatcoat. Only Alexander Weld could turn grief into a posture.
He always stood that way, unmovable when everyone else bent to please. She had once admired that certainty, even envied it.
And yet… something tugged at the edges of her composure. Surprise, perhaps, or an echo of the ease they’d once shared. There had been comfort in his presence, laughter once so effortless it had stitched itself into her memory. She had expected familiarity.
She had not expected a flicker of warmth. Not after all these years. Not after Rowland.
With a practiced nod, she acknowledged him and continued on her way, leaving the autumn wind to scatter the leaves in her wake.
*
The sea mistclung to Alexander Weld’s greatcoat like a widow’s breath. He did not shake it off. He stood at the crest of Hawkesbury Hill. Earlier, he had followed the black-plumed hearse down the winding path toward the family vault. Below, the waves clawed at the cliffs with restless hunger, as though they too mourned his father’s passing, their fury pounding against unyielding stone.
Five years ago, he’d walked away from this land, a broken man with blood on his boots and grief carved deep into his chest. He had left behind the mine, the manor, the title, and every expectation that came with them. Now, it all came rushing back.
“Welcome home, my lord,” murmured Mr. Bexley, the estate steward, stepping beside him. “The tenants will gather in the hall to speak to you. There’s much to be settled.”
Weld didn’t reply immediately. His eyes traced the jagged skyline of Sommer-by-the-Sea, its crooked chimneys, coal smoke, and glints of steel and soot. It was a town advancing into industry, growing hungrier by the day.
For a moment, his thoughts drifted from industry and death to the woman at the cemetery. Lady Georgina Ravenstock. Even from a distance, she had seemed unchanged, poised and composed, yet there was a tightness to her expression, as if the wind carried not a chill but rather a burden. Her gaze had met his across the graveyard, steady and unflinching. A faint memory drifted to the surface. Summer sunlight on the water, and her quiet laugh came to mind. He pushed it aside. There was no room for memory now.
“I received a report this morning,” Bexley added. “Another accident in the lower shaft. One dead, two injured. Same cause as before. Equipment failure, but no explanation.”
Of course. The mine wouldn’t wait. Death did not pause for mourning.
Weld turned, his expression unreadable. “Send a message to Sommer Chase. To Lord Barrington himself.”
