Outside, the windshifted again, stirring the autumn leaves and carrying whispers from the coast, soft as memory, and just as impossible to hold.
At Hawkesbury Hall, a fire crackled low in the hearth, holding back the chill as Weld turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps.
“You wasted no time,” He remarked as Barrington entered the study.
“Neither did your steward,” Barrington replied, returning the medallion to Weld’s palm. “When a man sends this, it demandsprompt attention. I was coming to see you today. Honoria is threatening I must sample more wedding cakes, and I thought Hawkesbury Hall would be a good place—”
“To hide.” Weld chuckled and gestured for Barrington to have a seat by the fire while he went to the sideboard.
The study at Hawkesbury Manor smelled faintly of coal dust and old paper, as though the very bones of the house remembered the industry that sustained it. Heavy oak shelves lined the walls, their contents thick with ledgers and mining records, the spines cracked from handling.
Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the tall windows. A scattering of maps and papers on the desk lay beneath an iron paperweight shaped like a miner’s lantern, a tribute, or perhaps a warning.
The fire in the grate had been coaxed back to life, casting flickering light across the worn carpet and drawing long shadows up the paneled walls. It was not a room of comfort, but of command. And in Weld’s presence, it was as if the house itself had roused from its long slumber.
“Brandy?” Weld offered, though his hand was already on the decanter.
Barrington nodded. Weld poured two glasses and handed one to him. The amber liquid caught the light, but neither man seemed to notice. Weld sat in the chair next to him.
“I’ve returned and found that my father has kept a great deal from me over the last few years. Accidents aren’t uncommon, but the number my father endured…” Weld paused, swirling the branding in his glass. “It’s suspect.” He didn’t look at Barrington right away. He wasn’t ready to hear his agreement, not yet. He took a slow sip, then turned to face him.
“After nearly every accident, there was an outlay of money, supposedly for repairs. But.” Weld shook his head. “I’m not so certain they were completed.”
Barrington’s gaze sharpened. “That’s not carelessness. I’ve seen work undone, on purpose.” He leaned forward slightly, his brandy forgotten. “Targeted disruptions. Financial siphons hidden behind false repairs. That’s the Order’s pattern.”
The words struck. Weld paused mid-motion, surprise flickering across his features before he looked away, thinking, recalculating. “I thought they stuck to trade routes and political channels.”
“They did. But we’ve choked off many of those.” Barrington’s voice was grim. “And now, in desperation, they’ll take what they can. Coal…”
“…is a gold mine waiting to be bled dry.” Weld finished.
“Then we move carefully.” Barrington drained the last of his brandy. “Care is a luxury we cannot afford. Last year, Ravenstock. This year, my father. Who will be next?”
Weld’s gaze settled on the map, its lines too neat to reflect the chaos beneath. He set down his glass, the fire catching in its depths, and rose. Side by side, they began.
Chapter Two
Lady Georgina hadnot expected to feel anything upon her return to Sommer-by-the-Sea, least of all a pang. But there it was, sharp and unwelcome, as the carriage rolled past the familiar bend where lavender grew stubbornly wild against the stone.
It had been nearly four years since she’d truly traveled these roads. Her last real arrival was marked by a newly inked marriage certificate and guarded optimism. Since then, there had been fleeting visits, little more than duty and decorum. Now, widowed, unanchored, and oddly restless, she returned not to her husband’s home but to a solicitor’s office to settle Rowland’s affairs.
The door latch was cool beneath her gloved hand, the luster of its brass dulled by sea air. She remembered touching it once before, years ago, when she’d stood beside her new husband, the future laid out like a map before them. Now, she traced that same handle, but the course had worn thin at the edges.
The nameplate on the door readHughes, Swift & Lacey. She stood at the threshold. The office smelled of parchment and pipe smoke, as it always had, but now the air felt heavier somehow, as if burdened by unfinished affairs. She wondered if her husband had sat at this very desk, thumbing over the same ledgers.
She smoothed her gloves, stepped inside, and nearly came to a stop.
Alexander Weld stood beside the window, tall and severe in black, his profile as sharp as the last memory she had of him boarding a ship,eyes unreadable, jaw set against grief.
“My lord,” she said carefully.
Weld turned, and for a moment, neither spoke.
She hadn’t seen him in years, but the shape of him, still and steady in the morning light, was disarmingly familiar. He had always carried himself like a man preparing to be disappointed by the world, and yet, she remembered the boy who once believed it could be better.
Weld’s shoulders stiffened, perhaps bracing for a tide of memory or something worse. “Lady Georgina,” he said finally. “I didn’t expect—” His gaze swept briefly over her, as if confirming she was not a ghost of the past but standing before him in truth.
“Nor I,” she replied, offering a tight smile. “I am sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” she added, her voice measured but sincere. “I had not known.”
