And then she saw it.
A figure lingering just beyond the edge of lamplight, pressed near a stoop as if he belonged to the stone. Not moving, not obviously watching. Not one of them.
But there.
Eleanor’s breath hitched. She closed the curtain with steady hands but did not turn around. “Lord Rathbourne,” she said, keeping her voice level.
The gentle patter of his footfalls crossed the floor too quiet for a man who wished to be heard. Graham appeared her side and lifted the curtain a fraction. “What did you see?”
“Left,” she whispered. “Third stoop.”
He looked, then a muscle jumped once in his jaw. “Yes.”
“Does he know we see him?”
“Not yet,” Graham said. “But he expects to be noticed. That is the difference between a watcher and a thief.”
Eleanor’s gaze remained fixed on the seam of the curtain, as though cloth could keep danger out.
“He is too clean,” she murmured. “No local would polish boots for this street.”
Graham’s mouth tightened. “Very clean.” He let the curtain fall. “We go before six,” he said.
Eleanor turned to him. “To the City. St. Paul’s Churchyard.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“And tonight?”
Graham’s hand came to her elbow—brief, steady, undeniably real. “Tonight,” he said, “you sleep.”
Eleanor let out a short laugh. “That is an order.”
“It is a plea,” Graham said quietly.
The words landed differently, and Eleanor’s throat tightened. “You do not know me well enough to fear for me.”
Graham’s gaze held hers, unblinking. “I know you well enough to understand that you will walk into danger with your eyes open and call it principle.”
“And you will follow,” Eleanor said.
“Yes,” Graham replied, and the certainty in his voice was not strategy.
Outside, a soft cough sounded. Polite. Deliberate.
Not the throat-clearing of a passerby, rather an announcement made by someone who expected the door to be opened.
Eleanor went still.
Graham was already moving, silent as a thought. He did not reach for his knife. He positioned himself beside the door, out of sight, and lifted two fingers in a small, spare gesture.
Let them speak. Learn what they believe you are.
Eleanor’s pulse hammered once, hard, then steadied.
She opened the door a careful span.
A footman stood on the step in the palest blue livery, holding an envelope on a silver tray. He wore Lady Mordaunt’s livery, too pristine for this lane and too deliberate to be mistaken for chance. Too clean for a mews. Too perfect.
