Graham’s gaze was hard. “And Halford?”
Colin’s smile thinned into something sharper. “Halford is the kind of man who never dirties his hands,” he said. “He dirties yours. If he is involved, he will not appear at the drop. He will appear afterward, when it’s time to make records agree.”
Eleanor’s stomach rolled.
Colin inclined his head. “A pleasure, Miss Hargrove.”
Eleanor rose and followed Graham. When he stepped into the corridor, she paused, turning back to Colin. “Do you trust Rathbourne?” she asked.
Colin’s smile returned—polished, ambiguous. “I trust his instincts. I mistrust his heart.”
Eleanor did not grant him the satisfaction of a reaction.
She stepped into the corridor.
Graham fell into step beside her, the club’s warmth at their backs and the city’s damp cold ahead.
“Do you trust him?” Graham asked under his breath.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “I trust urgency. The rest is pageantry.”
* * *
The carriage ride back to the mews house passed in silence measured by listening to the wheel’s creak, the driver’s breathing, the rhythm of hoofbeats that might have been followed.
When they reached the door, Graham checked the street twice before letting Eleanor inside.
Once they were safe inside Eleanor turned on him. “I want the full truth,” she said. “You are still withholding information. No more warnings rationed like sugar.”
Graham hung his coat with unnecessary precision and stood for a long moment with his back to her, as though he needed the hearth between them to say what he meant.
“You deserve it,” he said at last. “But you may wish you had never asked.”
Eleanor crossed to the desk and drew the torn catalogue from her reticule. “Do not insult my fortitude.”
Graham turned, and the exhaustion in his shoulders made him look younger. Not softer, but worn.
“We all work for someone,” he said. “Even me. Especially me. Your father’s system was not built only to protect assets. It was built to remove them when necessary.”
Eleanor narrowed her gaze.
“Disappear them,” he said, and the word sounded like an admission he hated. “Erase them from papers, from records, from society. So the enemy can not find them.”
Eleanor held very still, thinking of her father’s quiet absences, the way names vanished from correspondence without explanation.
“And if the wrong people get the method,” Graham continued, voice flat with restraint, “they use it the other way. They erase a person by destroying the life around them. They make sure nothing remains.”
Eleanor’s hand pressed to the desk, steadying herself.
“My worst fear,” he said, eyes fixed on the torn page, “is watching your name become a cipher.”
Eleanor stepped closer—close enough to feel the heat of him, the tension he held like a weapon. “Like my father’s.”
Graham nodded, his gaze softening.
“Then we do not allow that to happen,” she said carefully. “Not to me. Not to you. Not to anyone.” Eleanor touched his sleeve, and felt his breath catch. He covered her hand with his for the briefest moment, fingers closing as if he could memorize her warmth.
When he released her, the absence felt like an echo.
