He entered with his coat slung over one arm, his cravat neatly, ifhastily, tucked into place. His hair was still damp from washing. His face was unusually unguarded.
“Mrs. Hemsley insisted I eat something before I saddle a horse. I didn’t argue.”
“Wise.”
He crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a cup of coffee, and leaned against the edge of the table. He didn’t sit by her, just near.
“You’re riding out?”
“Sommer Chase,” he said. “Carver sent word early. He wants to speak with me.”
“Today?”
He nodded. “This morning, if possible.”
“What does he want?”
Alex shrugged, but there was no tension in the gesture. “Didn’t say. Likely something tedious. He said to come alone.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “You’re not troubled.”
“Should I be?”
“No,” she said after a pause. “Only… you’ve that look you get when you’re thinking five moves ahead.”
He smiled faintly. “Only five?”
She grinned, and for a moment, it was as if they’d never spent a day apart.
He reached for her cup and stole a sip. He set the cup down, then touched two fingers briefly to the spot he’d kissed last night, as if confirming the promise still held.
“I’ll be back before supper,” he said.
“I thought I’d go into town,” she said, turning slightly toward him. “Eliza’s probably ready to disown me.”
Alex smiled, then stepped forward and kissed her forehead gently.
“I’ll see you this evening,” he said.
She looked up at him, her hand briefly resting against his chest. “Don’t let Carver drag you into anything impossible.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
She let him go then, with a small smile, and watched from the breakfast room window as he crossed the courtyard and mounted his horse. Brutus trailed after him to the gate, tail wagging, the quiet guardian of a morning that already was a memory. The morning sun caught in the edge of his coat as he rode toward Barrington’s home.
She pressed her palm to the cool glass, silly, sentimental, and let the warmth there stand in for his hand until evening. Behind her, the tea had grown cold.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was justpast four o’clock when Mrs. Hemsley laid down her embroidery and realized something was wrong.
The fire in the drawing room had burned low. The house was steeped in a hush that had once been peaceful but now rang hollow. No footsteps in the corridor. No voices drifting from the stairwell. No Georgina.
She set her needle aside and rose from her chair with a slow, deliberate motion.
There was no message.
Georgina had written one that morning. Mrs. Hemsley had seen it handed off to the footman herself. A note to Miss Eliza, asking to meet behind the bookshop at half past eleven. A short outing. Familiar. Safe.
