“I am.”
He reached inside his coat and took out a folded page. “Townsend brought this from Edward. I told him you were gone.” He passed the paper across.
Ink and ledgers. Neat handwriting. Names down one column. Purchases down the next. Halfway down the page, two names sat together as if they had been written to chafe the eye.
Object Identified: Diamond and sapphire brooch. Sapphireetched with a raven within a geometric diamond.
Participants Listed: Bidders listed. Five in total. Among them, Erica St. Clair and Lord Ashcombe.
Outcome Reported: Sold to Lord Ashcombe.
Transfer Noted: Anne Salisbury
The pattern that had eluded them snapped into shape.
“It was never about only the brooch,” Gabriel said, his voice low, the wordonlysmaller than the truth.
Barrington glanced north and west. “If they stay on that track, they will hit the bend to the water inside an hour.”
“And pass within a quarter mile of the old stone sheds,” Gabriel said. “Too open. Too many chances to be seen. If they are clever, they turn before it.”
“If they are tired, they blunder on,” Barrington said. His tone was dry but not unkind. “What are you counting on?”
“Not luck,” Gabriel said. “Bracken Hollow sits between the high hedges and the old oaks. The ground dips there and holds water after rain. A carriage cannot take it at speed without risking a wheel.”
Recognition sharpened Barrington’s gaze. “You want the hollow.”
“I want to cut them off.” Gabriel pointed west with two fingers. “You take the lane and hold Bracken Hollow. I ride the cut through the rise and come in from the field. We will have them trapped between us.”
Barrington nodded once. “I will keep them from slipping through.”
They moved without another word. Barrington whistled, and two men peeled off to ride wide and watch the rise. Another took a lantern and checked the southern verge for a false trail. Gabriel tightened the girth and set his boot. The gelding gathered under him like a held breath. One of Barrington’s men brought a spare lead rope and held it up without being asked. Gabriel took it with a short thanks and slid the silk scrap into his pocket, where it warmed against his palm.
“Go,” Barrington said.
Gabriel put his heels to the gelding and took the cut at a canter that lengthened into a run. Branches scraped his coat. Cold mud flicked against his boots. The hedges opened, and fields that rolled in ridges silvered with frost. He lay flat over the horse’s withers and let the horse eat the ground. Wind stung his eyes and put salt on his tongue. He thought of Leticia’s chin when she refused fear and shaped that refusal into speed.
The inland lane came into view ahead as a pale seam between hedges. He set a line that would bring him to the pinch where the road climbed past a low stone marker. He meant to stand there first.
*
The coach swayedlike a ship that had forgotten calm water. Leticia kept her back against the seat and her wrists low. The straps held fast enough to bite but not to deaden her hands. She counted the road using her senses, feel, and sound rather than sight, gravel under wheels, a hollow thud, and a change in the air that tasted clean. A bridge, water flowing underneath. The coach rattled on, and gravel gave way to turf. The pace slowed over rough ground, and the frame leaned into a turn.
Erica had left them at Dunmere Cross, her work already done. Two men rode outside. Their shadows cut across the shutter with a rhythm that matched the coach. The air inside was close with damp wool, and the breath of horse sweat drifting from the roof vent.
The lane narrowed. High hedges pressed in. The straps bit as the coach dipped again. Leticia shifted to brace her feet and felt the faint tug as the hem of her gown caught on a rough seam near the lower hinge of the door. She didn’t move. A breath later, she heard the faint hiss of silk giving way. She let it go.
The coach tilted into a turn. Branches scraped the sides. A curtainof leaves reached in, and with them, the wind. Just enough to snatch the torn silk outward. If it caught somewhere, if he found it…she could only hope.
A whistle cut the wind, and a voice followed it, low and clear.
“Bracken Hollow before nightfall.”
The name lodged in her chest. She had never been there. She only heard the way people said it with caution. A dip in the road between a hedge and an oak. A place where wagons slowed, and riders vanished without a sound. If Gabriel guessed the route, he would choose the ground rather than the wheel tracks. If he knew the hollow, he would already be moving to get there.
She shifted and tested the rope. The guard opposite her lifted his chin in a warning and let his eyes fall again when the road smoothed. Pitch stained one of his cuffs. The other man wore a ring that flashed dull in the low light. When the wheel hit a rut, the ring turned, and the face showed plain. A small diamond with a bird inside it. A raven. She looked away before she could give anything to the expression the sight wanted from her.
The coach dropped into a deeper shade. The air cooled and smelled of moss and turned earth. The horses changed their stride. The wheels complained. Bracken Hollow was close.
