Cook snorted softly.
Edmund stood up. He smoothed his coat as if he were about to enter a salon rather than a war council in a country house.
Before he could move, Cook caught his sleeve with quick, strong fingers.
“You mind how you speak to her,” Cook said in a low voice, as fierce as any soldier’s warning. “She has carried this place on her shoulders through storms and worse. Don’t you be going anddropping more weight on her now that you have done your brave work.”
Edmund met Cook’s eyes. He could not remember the last time anyone had spoken to him with such blunt protectiveness on someone else’s behalf.
“I will not harm her,” he said quietly.
Cook’s grip firmed for a moment, as if measuring whether or not he meant it. Then she released him.
“You had best not,” she muttered. “Now go. They will be a-wanting to congratulate one another.”
Edmund walked through the hall toward the drawing room. Belair House was quieter than he had ever known it, stripped of its usual life.
He paused with his hand on the drawing-room latch, hearing the faint murmur of men’s voices behind the closed door. He had been trained to face enemy fire without hesitation, yet this—this gathering of friends, this inevitable reckoning—pulsed in his chest in a way that felt almost like fear.
Tall and composed, Renforth stood near the hearth. Nearby, with one shoulder against the mantel, Manners lounged with deceptive ease, his eyes bright. Stuart sat in a chair, bearing the calm patience of a man accustomed to waiting. Fielding was pouring himself a drink. Baines prowled near the window, looking faintly disappointed. They all looked up at Edmund’s entrance.
Fielding lifted his glass. Baines grunted. Manners’ mouth curved. “You look as if you have swallowed a cannonball. Sit down before you topple.”
Edmund did not sit. “Holt is secured?”
“Well secured,” Renforth said. “His men too. They are on their way to London. The ledger is with me.”
Renforth briefly held up the leather packet and then tucked it away again as if it might burst into flame from being looked at for too long.
Edmund drew a slow breath. The objective was achieved. Holt was contained; the ledger was recovered. Despite this success, his mind would not settle.
Renforth studied him. “Where is Mrs. Larkin?”
“She went to visit Blake.”
A flicker crossed Renforth’s eyes—approval, perhaps, or something like relief.
“She held herself well,” Stuart said quietly. “I have seen officers with less bearing.”
“She was fortunate you were close, Chum,” Fielding sympathized.
Baines scoffed. “If Holt had tried that with me, I would have broken his arm.”
Renforth lifted a hand, and they fell silent.
“The immediate danger is ended. Now we decide what comes next.”
Edmund felt his stomach clench. “What comes next,” he said carefully, “is that Mrs. Larkin is not left to drown in the aftermath.” He looked at Renforth. “You promised me clarity.”
“You shall have it,” Renforth replied.
Renforth moved toward the window and looked out—not at the sea, but towards the grey strip of lane where Holt had been taken away. He spoke without turning.
“Your inquiry about Blake has been answered.”
Edmund’s pulse thrummed.
“He is known to us,” Renforth said. “He is one of the men Larkin used when he was tracing Singleton’s routes. He was meant to be dead.”
