Page 83

Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)

After their afternoon spent selecting books, Brendan lingered in the entryway, watching Lily ascend the staircase to change for dinner. The fading light from the tall windows cast a golden sheen on the polished banister, and for a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of watching her silhouette disappear around the landing.

So much had changed.

Turning to head toward the library, he was halted by the soft clearing of a throat behind him.

He pivoted on his heel. “What is it?”

Michaels, unusually hesitant, stood with his hands folded. His usually impassive face bore a crease between the brows. “The study is ready, milord.”

Brendan blinked. “The study?”

“We have … managed to clean the floors,” the butler said slowly. “And a new rug has been placed. I took the liberty of moving the furniture and rearranging the objets d’art to …” He faltered, the final words lost in a vague motion of his hand.

Despite the uncharacteristic awkwardness, Brendan understood what was being conveyed. The traces of blood. The shattered statue. The final breath of the late baron. All had been erased or hidden beneath layers of polish and new fabric.

He lifted a hand to his temple, rubbing absently before catching himself. The old tension was back, coiling behind his eyes.

“I see.” He had not stepped foot in the room since the night he had found the body. Perhaps it was time. Time to reclaim what was his.

“After you.”

Michaels offered a short bow and turned toward the west wing. Brendan followed him down the corridor lined with gilt-framed portraits, the hush of the house swallowing their footsteps.

At the threshold, Michaels opened the door but did not enter, stepping aside with silent deference.

Brendan crossed the threshold alone.

The study was softly lit, the oil lamps casting a warm flicker over shadowed corners. The heavy damask drapes had been drawn back, allowing the last of the afternoon sun to brush over the furnishings. His mahogany writing desk, which once faced the east windows, now stood on the far wall, facing west. A new rug—Persian, from the look of it—had replaced the old one. Rich reds and deep indigos grounded the room in fresh color.

The arrangement atop the mantel had been altered. Bronze busts now flanked a clock he did not recognize, and the shelves between the tall windows had been restocked, their spines aligned with a precision only Michaels could muster.

Brendan stood still, taking it in.

“It was an excellent idea to rearrange the furnishings,” he murmured. “I do not think I could have walked in to find everything …” He hesitated. “To find it exactly as it was that night would be macabre, to say the least.”

Michaels nodded. “It was a sad day for Ridley House, milord. I have no wish to think of it each time I enter the room.”

Brendan turned slowly toward him. “Are you … holding up? It must be difficult to take a man’s life.”

Michaels pressed his lips together, his gaze straying to the window. For several seconds, he stood in contemplative silence before replying.

“It would have been inconceivable to allow Lady Filminster to come to harm. Her ladyship is a vibrant mistress, one who will shape the next chapter of the Filminster title. I find myself quite looking forward to … the progression of the Ridley family.”

Brendan’s lips twisted into a wry smile. The butler’s oblique reference to Lily’s future procreation stirred a warmth in him that he, too, anticipated with fondness.

With a discreet bow, Michaels turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Brendan crossed the room and approached the desk—his desk now. He ran a hand across its polished mahogany surface, his fingertips trailing the edge where delicate scrollwork had been carved into the wood. The shape was familiar. Solid. Steadying.

Dropping into the chair, he stretched his legs out, one boot tapping lightly against the rich wool of the rug. Deep reds and blues gave color to the otherwise somber room. Michaels had done well refreshing it. Even before renovations could begin, the space already felt less haunted.

Leaning back, Brendan’s hand found the carving beneath the lip of the desk. He had always enjoyed journaling, though his thoughts had remained unwritten since the baron’s arrival. His fingers moved along the groove with practiced ease, finding the hidden clasp. His mother had once shown him a similar drawer in the matching desk at Baydon Hall, so he had known what to look for.

With a muted click, the hidden compartment released.

Inside was his well-worn leather journal. But just beside it, half-tucked into the shadows, lay a loose page. His hand stilled.