When the Harcourt carriage rumbled to a stop, she smoothed her skirt and composed her expression. Her heart steadied on the third breath. She could face this. She had to.
Celeste Harcourt entered with the grace of a woman accustomed to deference. Her mahogany hair was drawn into a precise braid. Her dove-gray gown carried an elegance that softened its formality. The corners of her eyes creased when she smiled, the kind of smile that concealed as much as it offered.
“Lady Eastbury, Lady Salisbury,” she said, inclining her head. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“We are delighted you could come,” Lady Eastbury replied, gesturing to the settee. “I hear Bath keeps you busy with committees and concerts.”
“I try to keep occupied,” Celeste said as she took her seat. “An idle widow is a danger to herself, I am told.”
“You could never be idle,” Leticia said warmly. “Please, allow me to pour.” The steady rhythm of the tea, porcelain against porcelain, soothed her nerves. It was a fragile music of civility.
Gabriel entered as the tea was served, his thick auburn hair neatly combed, his cravat tied with military precision. The faint scent of starch and rain followed him. He bowed to Celeste, and she looked between him and Leticia with a knowing lift of her brows.
“I have heard a great deal about this unexpected engagement,” shesaid. “From your Colonel’s mother, no less.”
Leticia’s face grew warm, though not from guilt. “It was…quite unexpected,” she said. Across from her, Gabriel’s mouth curved, the smallest betrayal of amusement. The flicker of it drew her breath, steadying her more than she cared to admit.
Lady Eastbury asked after Celeste’s charitable work. Leticia inquired about Bath, the hot springs she had never seen. Celeste spoke of the library her late husband had loved, and how she had struggled to care for it after his death.
“I am no scholar,” she said with a rueful smile. “When I found a volume in a language I could not name, I called the Historical Society. Professor Tresham came himself. He turned each page with gloved hands, speaking of the paper as though it were a jewel.”
Gabriel smiled. “Professor Tresham has rescued more manuscripts than I can count.”
“Indeed. His visit reminded me of the necklace I had just purchased, a small indulgence, though the engraving on one stone seemed curious enough to make even the Professor pause when he saw it later at an exhibition.”
Leticia leaned forward. “Was that the necklace Mrs. Penstone wore to the Marchmont masquerade? The one that was stolen?”
Celeste’s eyes sharpened. “The same. I bought it at a private sale four years ago. The seller sent an intermediary. A young woman with golden hair and striking blue eyes. Barely eighteen, but with the manner of someone twice her years.”
She glanced at Gabriel. “Within a month, men began calling. One I remember clearly. He was nervous, always spinning the ring on his finger. An intaglio seal, engraved with a bird. He offered to buy the necklace. I refused. Later, when roof repairs became urgent, I sold it quietly through a Bath solicitor I trusted. The sale drew more notice than keeping it ever did.”
Leticia’s glance met Gabriel’s. A golden-haired woman. A ravenseal. Professor Tresham’s deft hands. The pattern shimmered, so close she could almost touch it like threads on a loom before the image appears.
“Did you ever meet this solicitor?” Gabriel asked.
“Twice,” Celeste said. “A man of middle years. Efficient, unremarkable. He left Bath soon after.”
They spoke a little longer about the auctions and the hazards of country houses. When Celeste rose, she clasped Leticia’s hand in both of hers. Her fingers were cool, scented faintly of rosewater and loneliness.
“You are more than you believe, Lady Salisbury,” she said softly. “Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Leticia smiled, touched. “Thank you.” The words lingered, threading warmth through the chill that had followed Celeste’s tale.
From the window, they watched her carriage pull away. The horses’ hooves struck wet drive gravel and faded into the distance. The silence that followed was soft but heavy.
“Will you walk with me in the garden?” Gabriel asked, offering his arm before she could answer.
They strolled along the path, edging the lawn. Rain clung to the rose leaves like diamonds. Birds sang from the hawthorn hedge. The air smelled of wet earth and new beginnings. Leticia recited the points aloud, as if speaking them might settle them into place.
“A golden-haired woman conducts a private sale. A necklace with a raven-etched diamond. Many people admire it. A man with a raven signet offers to buy it. Celeste sells it to repair her roof. Years later, it is stolen at Lady Marchmont’s masquerade.”
Gabriel’s mouth curved faintly. “Sounds like one of Barrington’s mystery tales. But,” his brow furrowed, “it is a chain worth following.”
“What do you think of the intermediary?” Leticia asked, though she suspected she knew.
Gabriel hesitated. “Celeste’s description fits Erica. But we must becertain. If she is involved, there may be reasons we do not yet see.” His gaze lingered on her, steady and unreadable, and it made her pulse trip.
They had almost reached the terrace when Felix ran up to them, his boots striking the gravel in a rhythm of urgency, and his hair windswept.
