Lady Beaumont led the way across the lawn, away from the music and the laughter and Luca shouting “Yes! Kiss her like you mean it!” at James.
We followed her back into the main house, the cool stillness of the corridor wrapping around us like a different world.
I recognised the direction we were heading.
Not to the morning room.
Not to the guest suites.
To the Library, the one that still smelled faintly of leather, old paper, and something undeniably Edward.
She paused at the door, smoothing her hand briefly over the brass handle, then opened it and stepped inside.
The room was lit by a single lamp. Shelves lined the walls, heavy with books and ledgers. A whiskey decanter sat on the sideboard, amber liquid catching the light. Somewhere beneath it all, I could feel the ghost of Edward Langston moving through the space.
Lady Beaumont turned to face us.
Her poise was still there, but the edges of it was worn. “I apologise for interrupting the festivities,” she began. “But I’m afraid I have delayed this conversation as long as I possibly can.”
Noah tensed. “If this is about earlier…”
“It is,” she said. “And more.”
She crossed to the old wooden desk, the surface cleared except for one small object resting near the blotter, a cream envelope, slightly yellowed with age, the edges worn.
She picked it up with careful fingers and turned back to us.
“I found this early this morning,” she said crisply, “in one of Edward’s old trunks.”
She held it out so we could see.
The ink was faded but still legible.
To Michael Langston.
Noah’s swallowed hard. “That’s… that’s my father.”
“Yes.” Her voice shook. “I found it sealed, tucked into the pages of a journal.”
“What does it say?” Noah asked, the question coarse with exhaustion.
“I did not open it,” she answered simply. “It was not addressed to me. And after everything I have already trespassed upon, I could not bring myself to violate one more boundary.”
She stepped closer, holding the envelope between us.
“I suspect it might contain… important information.” Her eyes filled. “I did not have the courage to face it myself. But you deserve whatever truth is inside this letter.”
She looked between the two of us.
“So,” she said, “I would like you to read it. Both of you. Because whether you admit it or not, Miss Sinclair has been the one supporting this house. And you have walked this road together.”
My throat tensed unexpectedly.
Noah stared at the envelope like it might burn him.
Then, slowly, he stepped forward and took the letter from her fingers, his hand shaking just enough for me to see.
“Would you like me to stay?” Lady Beaumont asked. “Or… shall I give you privacy?”
