He should not have touched her. It would only complicate what was already dangerously tangled. Yet he could not bear the sight of her standing there, proud and pale, as if she meant to keep herself upright through force alone until she collapsed in secret.
He reached out and took her hand—briefly, firmly—like a man offering support across a slippery stone.
The contact ran through him like heat. It was absurd that such a small thing should undo him so, but absurdity had never been a reliable deterrent.
Elise’s fingers grasped his for a heartbeat. She did not look at him. She did not soften either—but she did not pull away.
“Come,” he said quietly. “We must return before the town is fully awake.”
She followed without protest.
He guided her down into the tunnel. Darkness swallowed them, the damp stone closing in. He shielded their progressby holding the lantern low, as if light itself might betray them. Elise moved as if she had walked these passages a hundred times. When they emerged into Belair’s cellar, the familiar smell of bread, ash, and domestic industry struck Edmund like a kindness.
Cook, of course, was there at once—with arms folded, mouth set, and eyes sharp enough to peel a man.
“Well?” she demanded, as if they had merely been gone to market and returned late.
Elise swallowed. “It is done.”
Cook’s gaze swept Elise from head to toe. “You are not harmed?”
“No,” Elise said.
Cook’s gaze then cut through Edmund.
“I am not hurt either, thank you for your concern,” Edmund replied, because to humour Cook’s scrutiny was often the surest path to peace.
Cook sniffed. “Pity. You both look half-dead with nerves. Sit.” She jabbed a finger toward the kitchen table, where a pot still steamed faintly. “Tea will revive you.”
Elise began to protest out of habit, but the habit faltered. She turned instead, as if seeking a reason to escape the room before she did something unwise—such as shake, or weep, or look too long at Edmund’s face.
“I must check how Blake does,” she said quickly.
Cook nodded with understanding. Cook had the remarkable talent of seeing the truth without demanding its confession.
“Aye. Sophie is with him,” she said gruffly. “Go, then. If he wakes, tell him I shall have him on his feet again whether he likes it or not.”
Elise nodded once and fled from the kitchen with the pretence of purpose. Edmund watched her go, and the room seemed colder for her absence.
Cook clattered about with exaggerated noise, as if she could drive away the morning’s violence with a ladle and indignation. She shoved a bowl toward Edmund.
“Eat,” she ordered. “You will be no use to anyone with an empty stomach.”
Edmund obeyed, because Cook’s authority was the only one in the house that did not require explanation. He forced down a few mouthfuls of porridge, though his mind was elsewhere and his pulse still carried the rhythm of Holt’s hand on Elise’s arm. He finished the bowl without tasting much.
A quiet step sounded in the doorway. Sophie hovered there, pale and wide-eyed, as if she had been holding her breath since dawn.
“Mr. Leigh,” she whispered.
Cook turned on her at once. “Don’t you say ‘Mr. Leigh’ like he’s a parish curate. He can hear you well enough. Speak up, girl.”
Sophie swallowed and managed to say, “Colonel Renforth asks if you will come to the drawing room, sir. All the gentlemen are gathered there.”
Edmund set his spoon down.
Cook leaned closer, lowering her voice in a rare concession to secrecy. “What can you tell of Mrs. Larkin?”
“She went up the back stairs,” Sophie said. “She said she needed a few moments of reflection.”
