Page 15

I n the morning, the scent of fresh bread and strong tea lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy dampness that still clung to the manor’s walls from the previous night’s rain.

Though the skies had cleared, the ground remained sodden, making an outdoor breakfast impractical.

Instead, the household had arranged for a more informal setting inside the east-facing breakfast room, where the morning sunlight poured through the windows and glinted off polished silver and porcelain.

Clusters of guests gathered around small, elegantly laid tables, some helping themselves to warm scones and fresh fruit while others lingered near the sideboard where steaming pots of tea and coffee awaited.

There was no assigned seating arrangement this morning, only casual mingling and light chatter.

Some engaged in lively conversation, while others were still fatigued from the late night.

Bridget stood near the hearth, a delicate china cup cradled in her hands, surveying the room. The quiet hum of morning chatter soon gave way to lively debates about last night’s game, signaling that the day’s events were far from over.

From her place near the hearth, Bridget observed the room. Marjory, seated beside Lady Worthington, seemed distracted, stirring her tea absently as she nodded at something the older woman was saying.

Alastair had yet to make an appearance, which was unusual, considering his tendency to be an early riser. A flicker of unease crossed Marjory’s face before she quickly masked it behind a polite smile.

“Lady Marjory,” Mrs. Bainbridge began as she buttered her toast. “I thought your sister might be joining us for the weekend.”

“Alas, Miss Ellington prefers quieter gatherings.” Marjory leaned toward Mrs. Bainbridge with a conspiratorial smile. “Which translates to, Betsy doesn’t care for my games.”

A ripple of amusement passed around the tables.

“A shame, truly,” Lady Worthington remarked, setting down her teacup with a flourish. “Your games are half the reason we all agreed to come.”

Blackwood smirked over the rim of his glass. “A pity. One must have a talent for intrigue to appreciate such diversions.”

Mrs. Bainbridge chuckled, dabbing her napkin to her lips. “Not everyone enjoys mischief, I suppose.”

From the far end of the room, Lord Davenport and Sir Townsend were deep in conversation. “Quite the game last night,” Davenport noted, taking a sip of coffee. “Some hands were most revealing.”

Townsend chuckled. “Indeed. A game of Whist does more than reveal skill. It exposes a player’s disposition. Some take risks, others remain cautious.”

“And some,” Blackwood interjected with a smirk, “are far too aware of their own cleverness.”

The remark hung in the air briefly, drawing a ripple of knowing laughter from those nearby. “A subtle jab, Lord Blackwood?” Grenville’s voice held an amused lilt as he approached, a plate in hand. “Or an admission that you lost more than you anticipated?”

“Hardly,” Blackwood replied, shaking his head. “I merely observe that certain individuals play their cards as they do their lives, with careful intent.”

Bridget arched a brow. “And what, precisely, does that say about you, Captain?”

“That I always know when to hold back and let the trick decide,” he answered smoothly, lifting his teacup in a mock toast.

A murmur of laughter spread around the table, but the exchange had done its job, setting an undercurrent of intrigue. The card game had not been merely entertainment. For some, it had been an exercise in calculation and control.

Across the room, Miss Gray returned the borrowed book to a side table with a slight frown. She hesitated before turning back to Miss Hathaway. “I took this from the library last night, something about the old manor and its first inhabitants. It was an intriguing read, though it left me unsettled.”

Miss Hathaway glanced at the tome. “Unsettled? How so?”

Miss Gray lowered her voice, aware of the curiosity sparking in those nearby. “It detailed the life of Alastair Court’s first master, a Druid scholar whose studies delved into alchemy and transformations, practices that some believed strayed dangerously close to sorcery.”

Bridget’s attention sharpened. “What became of him?” Bridget asked, her interest piqued.

“Executed,” Miss Gray said grimly. “Though, according to the book, his work wasn’t destroyed. Some believe pieces of his records were hidden or possibly passed down in secret.”

“Perhaps there’s more to Alastair Court’s history than its foundation stones,” Miss Gray murmured as she set the book down.

The table fell into a moment of thoughtful silence before Blackwood smirked. “Perhaps Alastair’s sudden interest in antiquities is more than simple restoration, then? Could he be searching for how to turn lead to gold?”

The door opened, and Alastair entered, wearing his usual easy smile. “A fascinating theory, Lord Blackwood. But I assure you, my interest in the past is purely academic.”

Bridget studied Alastair as he spoke, recalling how he’d played with such boldness at the card table the night before. Was it mere bravado or something else?

Lady Worthington observed the exchange with quiet interest, though she said nothing. Instead, she turned her attention to Bridget. “Will you be joining the chase, Lady Bridget?”

Bridget nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Lady Worthington smiled, though there was something calculating in her expression. “I find such outings tend to reveal things about people, who leads, who follows, and who knows when to sprint to the finish line.”

The Captain, who had resumed his meal, let out a quiet chuckle. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in quiet observation, as though committing her to memory. “And which do you suspect Lady Bridget to be?”

“That remains to be seen,” Lady Worthington mused, dabbing her lips with a napkin before setting it down. “But I suspect she is one to act when the moment calls for action.”

Bridget met her gaze evenly. “Hesitation rarely serves anyone well.”

Marjory abruptly set down her spoon, the gentle clink against the china oddly loud in the lull of conversation. “Perhaps we should all take caution today. The grounds are still damp, and the course is not without its risks.”

Alastair exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “We’ve had worse conditions, Marjory. There’s no need for concern.”

“Perhaps not,” she replied, but her fingers tightened subtly around her napkin.

Bridget glanced between the two, a quiet tension pressing in around Marjory’s words.

She caught Grenville’s eye, and though he said nothing, there was a shared understanding in the look they exchanged. Marjory’s unease ran deeper than the weather. But whatever stirred beneath it, they would have to wait to learn more.

Across the room, Blackwood clapped his hands together. “Enough with the serious discussions! A good chase is exactly what we need after last night’s revelry. And I, for one, intend to enjoy it.”

“Spoken like a man who lost more than he’d care to admit,” Davenport teased.

“And yet,” Blackwood countered, lifting his cup in another toast, his gaze flickering across the table, “I remain unscathed. Can the same be said of all present?”

Laughter rippled through the gathering, shifting the mood effortlessly, anticipation replacing the earlier tension as the guests began to disperse to prepare for the chase.

A new energy stirred, one charged with anticipation and the unspoken.

Revelations would come, perhaps on the heels of galloping hooves.

But for now, the secrets remained tucked behind smiles and morning pleasantries.

Miss Gray’s words stirred curiosity among the guests. Lady Worthington pursed her lips thoughtfully, then added, “It is not the first time such tales have been whispered about old estates. There are always rumors of ghosts, lost knowledge, hidden secrets, even hidden treasures.”

Davenport, setting down his coffee cup, mused, “Stories like these often hold a grain of truth. And considering Alastair’s recent acquisitions, well, I’d wager some of those relics have more than just sentimental value.”

As the guests began to disperse to ready themselves, the captain lingered at the doorway, watching Bridget.

He caught the barest flicker of amusement in her gaze, defiant, self-assured, and altogether too intriguing.

“Lady Bridget,” he said at last, “try not to fall behind.”

Her answering smile was quick, teasing. “I’d be more concerned about whether you can catch me.”

He felt a flicker of amusement himself as he tipped his head. “I look forward to it.”

And with that, the morning’s preparations for the chase were fully underway.

*

The morning air carried the night’s lingering chill, crisp yet mild, as Grenville joined the others.

He could almost taste the promise of a new day beginning in the cool dampness, each step echoing the uncertainty of a day reborn after storm and suspense.

Beneath his boots, the ground remained slick from the relentless downpour of the past three days.

Overhead, the sky stretched in crimson and gold, dawn breaking as if the storm had been nothing more than a distant memory.

He could almost taste the promise of a fresh start in that cool, damp air.

The guests began to mount their horses on the wide drive by the front lawn, chattering with excitement while the horses, held by the stable boys, snorted and stamped, eager to begin the equestrian chase.

Alastair lingered near the edge of the group, absently tightening the leather strap on his glove, then loosening it again. His gaze kept drifting toward the tree line. Marjory, standing beside Bridget, let out a quiet sigh. “He’s been like this all morning.”

“Distracted?” Bridget asked.

“Restless,” Marjory murmured, adjusting her reins. “As if waiting for something, though neither he nor any of us can say what that might be.”