Elise did not answer immediately.
Jane’s eyes narrowed. “You mean to go to Blake.” Jane’s voice rose a fraction. “Elise, you cannot do everything alone.”
“I must,” Elise said simply. “Blake was attacked because he knows something. He may have overheard where Holt is lodged, or who sent the men or where they mean to strike next. If he should tell anyone, he will tell me.”
Jane closed her eyes briefly, as if restraining a caustic retort. When she opened them, the fear remained, but it was harnessed now.
“What of Mr. Leigh?” she asked again. “If he is tending Blake, do you trust him?”
Elise gave her answer too quickly, too instinctively, she knew. “I trust his hands.”
Jane’s eyebrows lifted. “That is not what I asked.”
Elise felt heat rise into her cheeks—annoyance at herself, not at Jane. “This far he has proved worthy,” she said carefully, “and I trust that whatever game he plays, he is not aligned with Holt.”
Jane studied her. “You speak as if you know more.”
Elise looked away. “He is not a writer.”
“No. He has never fitted that mould,” Jane agreed.
Elise forced herself to remain calm. “Go,” she said. “Speak to Mrs. Grealey. She went earlier to check on the progress at the cottage. Discover what you can and send word to the vicarage if needed. Quietly, mind.”
Jane hesitated. “You will be alone here.”
“I will not,” Elise said, though the words tasted strange. “Mr. Leigh is here.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. “With Blake. Not with you.”
Elise lifted her chin. “I do not require a chaperone.”
Jane’s expression turned outright grim. “That has never prevented trouble before.”
Elise let her hand rest briefly on Jane’s arm. “Please, Jane, make haste.”
Jane held her gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded once. “Very well. I will go, but Elise—” Her voice softened, andin it was all the friendship she seldom allowed herself to show when duty demanded hardness. “If there is more you are not telling me?—”
“There is,” Elise admitted, because lying to Jane in that moment felt like turning her back on a rope she relied upon in order to keep from falling, “but I cannot speak of it here.”
Jane’s eyes filled, though no tears fell. “Then I beg you to speak of it later.”
Elise nodded whilst fighting back tears.
Jane turned, opened the door, and paused. “I do this for the girls,” Jane said, as if she must remind herself why she was obeying. “I am leaving you under protest.”
“For the girls,” Elise echoed. “Make haste, then.”
“We will be gone within the hour.”
Elise stood still for a moment after the door had shut, listening to the household noises quickly turn into a frenzy of packing and purpose. The house would soon be cleared.
She drew a breath and walked out of the study.
The corridor to the hidden room was narrow and dim, the stone cooler here, the air carrying that faint scent of herbs. Elise moved with quiet purpose, her skirts gathered slightly, her mind already shaping the questions she needed answered. When she reached the concealed door, she paused because she heard a voice within which was not Blake’s.
It belonged to Mr. Leigh and was low, controlled and soothing. “You are safe,” he was saying. “You are within walls that hold. Save your breath for speaking.”
Elise’s fingers grasped onto the latch. It was absurd, she told herself firmly, to feel anything at hearing his voice. Relief was practical and gratitude sensible but anything else was folly. She opened the door.
