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E leanor was hiding something, and Graham Sinclair had never been the kind of man to ignore a mystery—especially not when the woman he loved was at the center of it.

James’s cryptic words still echoed in his mind as he left the ballroom and made his way toward the quieter halls of Ashworth Manor. The air was cooler here, away from the heat of the party, the candlelight dimmer, casting long shadows over the dark-paneled walls.

What could Eleanor be hiding?

There was something about the way she had stepped back from him at the lake, the way her voice trembled when she said she couldn’t kiss him—it wasn’t just hesitation.

James knew something, but he wouldn’t tell him, which meant Graham would have to find another way to uncover the truth. He needed information—and fast. And there was one person in this house who might be willing to give it to him.

Mrs. Greaves had been the Ashford family’s housekeeper for as long as Graham could remember. She had been here when he and James were boys, sneaking into the kitchens for stolen pastries, when Eleanor was still a girl who followed them, determined to keep up.

The housekeeper was also a keeper of secrets, and if anyone knew what had happened to Eleanor in his absence, it was her.

He found her in the dimly lit servants’ corridor, issuing instructions to a footman. At the sight of him, she arched a silvered brow, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Mr. Sinclair.” A pause. “I haven’t seen you in some time.”

He inclined his head. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Greaves, but my name has changed. I’m now the Duke of Covington.”

She quickly bent into a curtsy. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

He chuckled. “But since you have known me as a child, I will allow you to call me Graham.”

She smiled. “Indeed, you will always be my little Graham.” She studied him for a long moment, then gave a short nod. “What do you need?”

He hesitated. He could not be direct—not yet.

“I saw Eleanor earlier tonight,” he said carefully. “She seemed… different. She is not the girl I remember.”

Mrs. Greaves hiccupped a laugh. “Mayhap it’s because she is no longer a girl.”

He grinned. “Very true. But I get the impression that something happened to her while I was away.” He lowered his voice. “Something she won’t tell me.”

For the first time, Mrs. Greaves looked away. Graham’s stomach tightened. Indeed, they were hiding Eleanor’s secret well.

“I cannot say,” she murmured. “It is not my place.”

Which meant there was something to say.

He stepped forward. “Mrs. Greaves, I care about her. I need to know if she’s—if she’s safe.”

The older woman’s face softened, just a fraction. She looked at him long and hard before speaking. “She is safe,” she said at last. “But she is not untouched by the past.”

Graham stiffened. “What does that mean?”

Mrs. Greaves shook her head. “That is for Lady Eleanor to tell you.”

Graham clenched his jaw and swore under his breath. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand she tell him… but then he hesitated.

Mrs. Greaves’s expression flickered with a touch of mischief. “I will say this,” she murmured. “If you are truly here for her, Graham, you will not leave so easily this time.”

Then, with a quick nod, she turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving him alone with more questions than answers.

Graham grumbled and marched down the corridor until returning to the ballroom. He scanned the crowd, searching for anyone who might know more. James had been evasive, Mrs. Greaves had been cautious, but someone in this house knew what had happened to Eleanor in his absence.

His gaze landed on a familiar face. Thankfully, the masks had been removed, and faces were easily recognized.

Miss Beatrice Langley—Eleanor’s childhood friend. The closest thing she had to a confidante.

She stood near the refreshments table, absently swirling a glass of punch as she spoke to a few other ladies. If anyone knew Eleanor’s secret, it was her.

Graham wasted no time. He crossed the room and approached with his most charming smile. “Miss Beatrice.”

She turned, startled. Then her lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Mr. Sinclair… I mean, Your Grace.” Her face flamed red from her blunder. “How bold of you to return after all these years.”

“I’ve been accused of worse.”

She laughed softly. “No doubt.”

He inclined his head. “I was hoping to steal a moment of your time.”

Her brows lifted, but she excused herself from the other ladies before turning back to him. “This should be interesting.”

Graham wasted no time. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I need you to tell me what happened to Eleanor while I was away.”

Beatrice’s smirk faltered. For the first time, her usual sharp confidence wavered. She looked around as if making sure no one else could hear.

Then she whispered a name.

A name that made Graham’s blood run cold.