Page 18

E ven before they reached Alastair Court, the air had grown heavy.

The manor stood silent against the grey sky, its windows dark, its walls steeped in the hush that follows a blow.

Hooves struck the damp earth in a solemn rhythm, but no one spoke.

The cheerfulness of the weekend had died with Alastair, and they rode toward something colder than grief—uncertainty, as he relayed the update: the icehouse was being prepared.

The words settled over them like a shroud.

No one argued or questioned it. Death had a way of silencing even the most obstinate.

Barrington gave the footman quiet instructions before turning toward Blackwood. They exchanged a brief look before mounting up and making their way toward the manor without exchanging a word.

Grenville glanced over. Bridget hadn’t dismounted.

She sat rigid in the saddle, her fingers curled tightly around the reins.

Her mind refused to be still. Every detail of the past hour replayed in relentless succession.

Alastair’s unnatural stillness, the way his hand had frozen in its final grasp, the lifelessness that had settled into his once expressive features.

And the parchment. The slip of paper now hidden inside her pocket, an unspoken whisper demanding her attention.

The sensation of it, thin, fragile, yet heavy with meaning, sent an unsettling prickle up her spine.

She had yet to examine it. Every time she even thought of unfolding it, another pair of eyes lingered too long, and another question was asked. No. Not here. Not yet.

Grenville rode beside her, his silence a shield, his expression carefully schooled.

But Bridget knew better. She recognized the way his jaw set when his thoughts ran ahead of him, when his mind was already pulling apart the puzzle piece by piece.

He was calculating, assessing, and already forming the next step.

It was an odd comfort, knowing she wasn’t alone in this unraveling mystery.

Marjory remained quiet, cradled between Bridget’s arms, her posture stiff with shock.

Her hands clutched at the saddle, knuckles pale against the leather.

She had not spoken since they left the clearing.

The grief on her face was raw, unguarded.

Every so often, her breath hitched, as though she were swallowing back a sob, unwilling to break before so many watchful eyes.

The wind tugged at her riding cloak, but she hardly seemed to notice.

She only stared ahead, unseeing, as if the weight of the world had settled upon her and she did not yet know how to carry it.

The others also bore the weight of the moment.

The ease of camaraderie that had existed only hours before was now fractured, replaced with unease.

Lord Davenport, who had insisted on accompanying them back, wore his emotions more plainly than the others.

His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“It’s an outrage,” Davenport muttered at last, the first to break the tense quiet. His voice carried an edge of anger, whether at the situation itself or at the disruption of his weekend. “A damnable thing to happen here, of all places.”

“Here?” Bridget asked sharply, her head snapping toward him. “As opposed to anywhere else?”

Davenport’s jaw clenched. “I simply meant that Alastair was a well-respected man. Who would wish him harm?”

No one answered immediately. The question hung between them, thick and suffocating.

“Not a stranger,” Barrington finally said, his tone measured, his gaze fixed ahead. “Not with how quickly it happened. Not with where it happened.”

Davenport frowned, turning toward him. “What are you suggesting?”

Grenville’s fingers flexed around the reins, his voice even. “That whoever did this knew the estate.”

A sharp glance passed between some of the guests. That suggestion unsettled them far more than the idea of a passing thief. A stranger was easy to fear, easy to blame, but the notion that Alastair’s murderer had walked among them? That was something else entirely.

The weight of it settled into their bones as the estate loomed before them, its tall windows glowing against the encroaching night. The laughter and music from the evening before had vanished, replaced by a silence that carried only one certainty.

No one in Alastair Court would sleep soundly tonight.

When they reached the manor, they found Barrington waiting for them at the entrance. He turned to Marjory, who stood rigid with the footman, her eyes shadowed with grief. “You should rest.”

“I will do no such thing.” Her voice was hoarse but steady as they walked into the entranceway. “Mark is, was, my husband. I will not be sent away like some fragile thing.”

Bridget stepped closer, her fingers briefly squeezing Marjory’s hand. There were no words for a loss like this, no comfort that could be offered when the wound was so fresh.

“Then you should at least sit,” Barrington amended, gesturing toward the drawing room.

Marjory did not resist, though her steps were mechanical as she crossed the threshold. Bridget followed, her mind still whirling.

Blackwood entered the hall, his gaze sharp, as if he had already heard whispers of what had transpired. “Word is already spreading among the staff.”

Barrington swore under his breath. “That was inevitable. The key is ensuring speculation doesn’t overtake fact.” He spoke to Grenville, Bridget, and Davenport quietly. “Not a word about Alastair’s wounds or where they are.”

They all agreed.

Bridget listened but found her focus slipping. The investigation could wait for now. There was only one person who mattered.

*

Marjory sat in the drawing room, Bridget and Grenville across from her.

The elegant surroundings offered her little comfort, as the memories of the chase, and the unbearable knowledge of Mark’s death, replayed in her mind.

Her gaze, unfocused and distant, lingered on the patterned rug as if searching for clarity in the midst of Mark’s death.

Each shudder that passed through her seemed to echo the chaos of the morning and the harsh reality of loss still fresh in her bones.

A short time later, Mrs. Simmons entered, her footsteps soft and her voice gentle. “My lady.” She paused by Marjory’s side, “you mustn’t remain in these muddy clothes. Please, come with me. You’ll feel better once you’ve changed into something dry.”

Despite the deep sorrow etched on her face, a flicker of gratitude warmed Marjory’s eyes. With a reluctant sigh, she rose and, with Mrs. Simmons’s guidance, climbed the stairs.

*

Bridget started slightly as Grenville’s fingers closed around hers, a silent reassurance she hadn’t known she needed. She turned to him with a smile. “It seems whenever we’re together, we wind up in the mud.”

His face broke out with a smile that, even amid the gloom, took her breath away. “You go on. I need to clean up as well.” A playful note softened his tone, a brief spark of levity in an otherwise depressing morning.

She went up the stairs and when she entered her room, found Catriona already at work. The woman was selecting a fresh day dress from the wardrobe. Bridget’s heart lifted at the sight of her fellow clanswoman.

“Catriona, I’m glad you’re here.” Bridget’s voice was low as she stepped forward.

“Stay where you are, and I’ll get those clothes off you.” Catriona was already moving to help her.

As Catriona worked, Bridget ventured carefully. “You’ve heard about Lord Alastair, haven’t you?”

Catriona’s expression darkened as she adjusted the dress. “Aye. It was a shock. Everyone below stairs is unsettled. They don’t know which way to turn. Drummond said you and the captain found his lordship and Lady Marjory. Do you have any idea what happened?”

Bridget’s heart ached at the thought of stirring gossip, yet silence would serve no one. “Nothing conclusive. It looks as though Alastair fell from his horse.”

“And her ladyship?” Catriona’s voice softened as she helped Bridget into the fresh dress. “How is she holding up?”

Bridget paused, her gaze flickering with both sorrow and steely determination. “She is utterly taken aback, devastated.” The words were difficult to say as she tried to steady her racing heart.

Catriona sighed deeply, her eyes reflecting a shared grief. “Aye, my lady, it is a bitter pill indeed. But we must keep our tongues in check. Rumors have a way of igniting fires where they ought not to burn. There, you’re all done.”

Bridget offered a smile of gratitude before nodding. She left the room and returned downstairs.

She found Marjory in the conservatory, seated on a chaise with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped tightly around them.

The faint scent of lilies filled the room, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows.

Marjory looked up as Bridget approached, her face pale and drawn, but her lips tightened in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Bridget.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “You’ve come to scold me for running away, haven’t you?”

“Not at all,” Bridget replied gently, taking the chair opposite her. “I’ve come because I’m worried about you.”

Marjory let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Worried about me? Of all the people here, I’m the least deserving of anyone’s concern.”

Bridget leaned forward, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “That isn’t true, Marjory, and you know it. Please, talk to me. I’m here to listen, and I’ll believe whatever you’re willing to tell me.”

For a long moment, Marjory stared at the delicate patterns on the carpet beneath her feet. Finally, she sighed and leaned back against the chaise. “Mark and I rode together earlier,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Something was on his mind. I could feel it, but he wouldn’t share.”

“Did he mention meeting someone?”