CHAPTER 11
Lydia felt the air shift the instant she crossed the east wing's threshold. It was colder, sharper, as if the last decade had been sealed there and was only now allowed to escape. Maximilian entered behind her, his stride slowing. His instinct for threat was so keen it seemed to seep into her blood.
The hall, narrower than the others, curved like a sickle, lined with a runner once emerald, now the color of wet moss. Narrow windows admitted slits of late sunlight. Dust lay on the floorboards, broken only by small paw prints. Lydia crouched to study one, then rose and brushed her skirt, as if preparing for a larger trespass.
At the end, plain double doors awaited, fittedwith a sturdy lock. From her pocket, she drew the iron key discovered earlier in her aunt’s inkstand. It seemed ordinary until she noticed the engraving: E.M.—her initials, but borrowed for another legacy. She pressed it into the lock. The mechanism protested, then yielded with a shriek that shattered the silence.
Inside, the study was more a vault than a room. Lavender, ink, and Eugenia’s favored sealing wax scented the air. Light sliced in narrow bars, illuminating the desk, shelves, and locked cabinets. Lydia’s breath fogged. Maximilian closed the door with a click that sounded like a safe snapping shut.
“Extraordinary,” she whispered. “It seems frozen in time.”
He said nothing, his gaze sweeping the room before returning to her.
Lydia approached the desk, fingers grazing documents bound in brittle string, annotated in urgent handwriting. A grin tugged at her lips. “She always said a good archive was an act of war.”
Maximilian stood close enough that she felt his presence. She opened the first bundle: receipts, dull yet alive with the estate’s pulse. Beneath them lay letters tied in twine. The moment she slipped the knot, the air shifted.
These were no ledgers. The cramped handwriting addressed them toMy dearest cousin. Lydia’s breath caught. She read aloud:
Dearest Eugenia… your solicitor has assured me the transfer can be completed without fuss. I remain in your debt. E.B.
Her gaze snapped to Maximilian. “This looks as if she was leaving everything to Edmund Southgate. I thought she despised him—in the end, she made me her sole heir.”
Maximilian took the letter, studying it carefully. At last, he said, “There may be later correspondence. She was not a woman to act hastily.”
Lydia nodded sharply and turned to the cabinets. The first drawer yielded calfskin ledgers. At the bottom lay a smaller book—a diary, its pages filled with hurried writing. Lydia read:
April 16th. The Montague girl is causing trouble. Typical. I admire her persistence; perhaps it is a virtue.
Her mouth twisted. “She never called me by name.”
“Did she love you?” Maximilian asked quietly.
“Yes,” Lydia admitted. “As one loves a treasure.”
Flipping forward, she read:
June 3rd. Edmund presses for the inheritance. I may deny him, simply to see him angry.
Aug 21. I will leave it all to Lydia. The girl is spirited, very much in my imageand will be able to stand up to Edmund. She has steel in her spine.
Lydia brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. With renewed determination, she searched the desk. At last, she found a folded sheet sealed with blue wax. Breaking it, she read:
I, Eugenia Montague, revoke my prior will. The estate is to be left entirely to Lydia Montague, provided Maximilian, Duke of Hasting, escorts her to Devonshire to claim her right. Edmund Southgate may have the silverware if he can find it. The rest is for the girl who has always known how to get what she wants.
Relief washed over her. “This is dated two months before her death. Aunt Eugene had been in London due to her decline but insisted on returning here one last time. She must have written it then. She wanted me to win.”
Maximilian’s grip steadied her. “Then you have.”
They could have left the east wing and been done with it—stepped back into corridors where the air was stale instead of heavy. But Lydia lingered, circling the study, restless. The light faded, the stripe of sun across the desk dimming. A chill settled into the room, as if the house had exhaled and forgotten to breathe.
She touched the codicil once more, then set itaside for the diary. Its cover was brittle, corners softened by decades of handling. Lydia's hands, steadier now, still trembled at the edges of every motion.
The first marked entry:
April 2nd. The lawyer is an idiot. Edmund is worse. He begs for advances as if he has never earned a penny by his own wits. I told him so, though he likely did not understand.
Lydia snorted, the sound echoing off the shelves.
