“I will make sure it is done,” Gabriel said.
His tone was steady, controlled, every syllable measured to conceal the storm building behind it.
Helen returned to her meal, satisfied for the moment. “Once we are settled,” she said lightly, “Anderton Manor will finally be restored to order.”
“I am sure it will,” Gabriel replied.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the door again, his pulse tightening as the minutes stretched.
Then the tavern door opened. Gabriel saw him first.
John.
And behind him, Mr Carson, the solicitor, his expression grim. Mr. Hatley, the investigator, stepped in beside them, hat still in hand. And finally, the magistrate, his presence alone was enough to shift the atmosphere in the room like a falling blade.
He knew that they would not have brought the magistrate if they did not have the evidence.
Chapter Thirty-One
Gabriel lifted a hand slightly from the table, the movement subtle but deliberate. It was not a gesture of invitation; it was a command. Behind Helen, he could feel the weight of John, Carson, Hatley, and the magistrate shifting in readiness, like men waiting for a signal at the edge of a storm.
Gabriel did not look at them. If Helen turned too soon, if she sensed even a flicker of what was about to happen, everything could collapse in an instant.
Helen, however, remained entirely absorbed in her meal. She cut into the meat pie with unhurried satisfaction, as though the world beyond the table had ceased to matter. She did not see the men. She did not see the shift in atmosphere. She only saw Gabriel, carefully composed, attentive, and obedient to her illusion.
Gabriel reached for the bottle and poured her more port with steady hands. The glass filled slowly, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like something almost alive.
“I must say,” he began lightly, studying her face, “I was confused to see you alive.”
Helen looked up at that, pausing mid-bite. “Confused?” she repeated.
“Yes,” Gabriel said, resting the bottle down with calm precision. “Why fake your death? You could have simply vanished.”
She smiled faintly, as though the question amused her. “A clean break,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “That was all I wanted. A new life. A new name.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained even. “And so you became…”
“Malorie Kemp,” she said. “I lived without expectation. Without responsibility. It was quite freeing, actually.”
The magistrate behind Gabriel shifted faintly but remained silent. Gabriel felt the tension in the room tighten like a wire being drawn too far.
He tilted his head slightly. “And how did you live?”
Helen’s expression flickered for the first time, something less polished passing through her eyes. “At first,” she admitted, “I sold what I had. Jewels. Silverware. Things that were no longer useful to me.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.
“And after that?” he asked.
“I met a man,” she said simply. “Howard Glenn. A captain in Cornwall.”
The name landed heavily in the space between them. Gabriel did not react outwardly, but he felt John shift behind him, interest sharpening.
“We lived together,” Helen continued, “as man and wife, though we never married.”
The magistrate leaned forward slightly now, just enough for Gabriel to know the confession was being carefully recorded in memory.
Gabriel’s voice remained controlled. “So for two years,” he said, “you simply disappeared.”
