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Bridget glanced up from her seat as Miss Gray wandered toward the towering bookshelves, her fingers lightly brushing over the leather-bound spines.

The younger woman hesitated, plucking a book free and flipping through its pages.

Her brows knitted together in thought before she snapped the volume shut and tucked it under her arm.

Bridget’s pulse quickened as she recalled the odd script, a secret almost whispered through the pages.

‘There’s more to this manor than meets the eye,’ she thought, determined to uncover its hidden past. Unable to resist the pull of the mystery, Bridget stepped closer. “Have you found something interesting?”

Miss Gray startled slightly before offering a quick smile. “I’m not sure.” She hesitated, then tilted the book in Bridget’s direction. “This one caught my eye. It’s filled with odd script, part English, part something else. You know old languages, don’t you?”

Bridget turned, brow arching. “A few. Why?”

Miss Gray hesitated before passing her the book. “This passage, it reads like something meant to be forgotten.”

Bridget tilted the book toward the candlelight. Her eyes narrowed at a faded margin note, written in Gaelic. She murmured aloud, translating: “Guard what must be buried. Speak only in shadow.”

A chill passed through her. She glanced at Miss Gray. “I think this is more than a forgotten manuscript.”

A shiver traced down Bridget’s spine. “This… this isn’t just any old book. Someone meant to hide it.”

Miss Gray hugged her arms. “It felt different when I picked it up. As if it was waiting to be found.” She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

Bridget didn’t answer right away. Her fingers traced the edge of several torn pages, her thoughts swirling. “Not necessarily.” She met Miss Gray’s gaze, studying the uncertainty in her expression. “Where did you find this?”

“Just there,” Miss Gray gestured to the shelf. “Tucked behind a row of estate records. Almost as if someone had hidden it.”

Bridget frowned as she wondered who tried to conceal it. Alastair?

She handed the book back, her mind racing. “Perhaps it would be worth looking through properly later.”

Her father’s warnings echoed in her mind, half-formed phrases, odd silences, letters that had never made sense until now. Could this be tied to what he feared? What he tried to protect her from?

Miss Gray nodded, pressing the volume to her chest. “I think I will.”

Bridget watched her retreat, the uneasy feeling lingering.

“Professor,” Davenport called out, eyeing the vacant seat, “it seems Miss Gray has had her fill of cards for the evening. Would you mind taking her place?”

Tresham hesitated before he reluctantly lowered himself into the chair.

“Our hostess mentioned you don’t play Whist,” Davenport remarked as he shuffled the deck with practiced ease.

“Well,” Tresham exhaled slowly. “I do play. I simply choose not to.”

“Are you trying to tell us you don’t know how to play at all?” Sir Townsend asked. He gave Davenport a curious glance.

The professor let out a slow breath as if summoning patience for one of his students. “I know the game well enough, Sir Townsend. In fact, I played often at the university.”

The competitive banter eased as the game began. With the first hand played, a hush settled over the table. Tresham laid down his cards with deliberate precision, claiming the win.

Davenport huffed and shifted in his chair. “Luck,” he muttered, already dealing the next round.

That refrain was repeated after the next hand. And the next.

By the fourth consecutive win, Davenport groaned, tossing his cards onto the table. “I thought you didn’t know how to play.”

Tresham met his gaze with mild amusement. “I never said that. I said I played at university. And then I stopped.”

Townsend arched a brow. “Stopped? Why?”

Tresham’s lips quirked faintly. “Because I was the undefeated Whist champion for four years. It became rather difficult to find a game where anyone wished to sit across from me.”

Davenport pushed back his chair, brandy swirling in his glass. “I believe that’s enough cards for one night. Some of us have an early morning.” His tone was clipped but not enough to cause a scene.

Marjory’s gaze followed him as he left. “Well,” she said lightly, turning back to the group. “That was a most enlightening evening. Shall we call it a night?”

Bridget nodded. Lord Blackwood had been correct.

There was much to be learned at the Whist table.

The overly aggressive way Alastair had played.

The tension in Marjory’s shoulders. Bridget’s gaze lingered on Miss Gray, the book now tucked discreetly against her side, as if it had chosen her, not the other way around.

Bridget gathered her winnings, but her focus remained on Marjory, who had suddenly left the room. Lady Worthington’s gaze lingered on Marjory’s retreating form, her fingers tightening briefly around her glass before she turned back to the others.

“A curious evening indeed, wouldn’t you say?” Blackwood murmured, watching the last of the guests depart.