Her aunt moved at once, wrapping her arms around her, holding her close, smoothing her hair with the same rhythm as years past. The steadiness of it calmed her.
“We’ll face it, child,” she whispered. “Whatever comes.”
*
The study atAshcombe Hall smelled of smoke and stillness.
Gabriel hadn’t lit the lamps. Shadows stretched across the floor, broken only by the hearth’s red glow. He stood beside the fire, the untouched glass of brandy heavy in his hand.
Leticia’s words haunted him.I was already in it. I chose to be.She’d risked her life beside him, and he’d turned on her.
A sound broke the stillness, a knock, deliberate and too polite for the hour. The butler entered with a silver tray. “Colonel Barrington’s man delivered this, sir.” He placed a folded note on the tray.
Gabriel took the note. The paper was creased, the edges damp.
“There was an incident at Lady Eastbury’s,” the butler added. “A man was seen at the servants’ entrance. He fled, but left this.”
Gabriel set down his brandy and opened the note.
Return what is ours. Or bury her with it.
He froze.
“When?” he asked, waving the note at Kenworth. “When did this happen?”
“Half past six, sir.”
That was just before he’d arrived. The muscles in his jaw locked. His hand tightened.
“She knew,” he said quietly. “She knew when I was standing in front of her.” Barrington’s note slipped out of his hand. He picked uphis brandy again and stared into the hearth.
Something broke in his expression. Fury, shame, fear braided together.
“She looked me in the eye,” he whispered, “and still said nothing.”
He hurled the brandy glass into the hearth, shattering it against the stone, the liquid hissing as it met the flame.
His butler flinched but said nothing.
Gabriel stood breathing hard, the note crushed in his fist.
“Leave me,” he said.
The butler bowed and left.
Alone again, Gabriel stared into the fire. If they came for her again, he would be ready.
And so help him, he would have the truth.
Chapter Thirty
The west wingof Sommer Castle smelled faintly of beeswax, rain-damp stone, and the lingering sharpness of dried lavender. Though much of the grand estate remained shuttered and silent, one sun-drenched chamber had been coaxed into life.
A long table stretched beneath the tall, mullioned windows, its surface hidden beneath bolts of ribbon, ledgers, sealed envelopes, and a precarious stack of plate samples long since declared unsuitable and forgotten.
Leticia stood near the hearth, her gloves tucked into one hand, the other resting against a stack of guest lists she had already reviewed twice. She did not belong, and this room offered no answer.
Across from her, Lady Eastbury sat with the poise of a woman who had once overseen the seating of three dukes and a bishop at a christening breakfast. She made notations in a small book, spectacles low on her nose, her pen gliding in firm, efficient strokes. At the head of the table, Mrs. Bainbridge swept into motion like a small but determined storm cloud, opening boxes and lifting lids with theatrical flair.
