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T he sun rose as it always did, casting a golden glow over the estate and illuminating the gardens with its gentle light.

Birds sang their morning serenades, blissfully unaware of the grim events that had transpired within the grand manor.

Servants bustled about, attending to their morning duties with practiced efficiency, as if nothing had changed.

But for those who knew the truth, the day held a darkness that not even the brightest sunlight could dispel.

Barrington, Grenville, Tresham, and Bridget gathered once more in Alastair’s library. The gravity of their task was clear. Townsend was ready to leave for Whitehall on a moment’s notice, armed with a copy of the translation. Everyone else worked to plan the groundwork for their deception.

The decoy manuscript was Tresham’s responsibility, but the success of their plan depended on how well they could convince the Order that they had what they wanted.

Barrington stood with hands clasped behind his back. “If we want them to take the bait, we need to make them believe the book is still within reach, somewhere hidden, waiting to be retrieved. We cannot simply hand them a target. We have to make them work for it.”

Thomas leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his gaze thoughtful. “There are a few ways we could accomplish that.” He drummed his fingers once against the wood, considering.

“We could leave an anonymous message, something cryptic, just vague enough to stir their curiosity. But that could backfire if we misjudge their reaction.”

He shook his head slightly and pushed off the desk. “Another option is to plant a false lead in the correspondence of someone they already watch. A letter intercepted at the right time might give them the impression that the book was hidden somewhere before Alastair’s death.”

Thomas paused, then added. “But the simplest, and perhaps the most effective, is to let the rumor grow organically. We don’t feed them the direct information.

We let them overhear whispers, half-truths, and fragments of conversations until the idea takes root.

If they think the book has merely been misplaced rather than taken outright, they’ll keep searching. ”

Bridget nodded, considering. “We need to be subtle, though. If it’s too obvious, they’ll know we’re leading them. We should let the rumors arise naturally.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Barrington asked, arching an eyebrow.

A slow smile formed on Bridget’s lips. “The house staff. They hear everything, and their gossip reaches further than any of us could. A misplaced word, a half-heard conversation between guests, if the idea takes root in the right way, the Order will act.”

Tresham adjusted his spectacles. “A clever approach, but we must be mindful. If we fabricate the wrong rumor, they may search in the wrong places and figure out the ruse. It must be just believable enough to entice them.”

Barrington nodded. “Then we start with a simple premise, that Mark Alastair kept a record of his findings, separate from the book itself, and that it may still be within the house.”

“Not just a record,” Thomas added. “A journal. Something personal, something only he would have hidden away. That will make them desperate to find it.”

Bridget crossed her arms, intrigued. “And how do we convince them without being obvious?”

Thomas’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “We let them overhear. Gossip and theories are already forming about Lord Alastair’s death. All we need to do is add the idea of his journal to the mix.”

Bridget tapped her fingers against the desk, considering. “We need someone who can speak naturally about the idea, someone the Order wouldn’t suspect of working with us.”

A thought struck her, and she looked to Thomas. “Catriona and Killian.”

He gave her a puzzled expression.

“They’re trusted,” Bridget said. “They move about the estate without raising questions, and they owe Alastair their safety. If they speak of a missing journal, it won’t look like a planted rumor. It’ll look like a discovery.”

Barrington nodded slowly. “A clever approach. But they must be cautious.”

“I’ll speak with them,” Bridget said. “They’ll understand what’s at stake.”

*

Later that morning, with the plan still settling in her thoughts, Bridget stepped into the corridor in search of Catriona. She found her just as she was setting a bundle of linens on a hall table.

“Good morning, my lady,” she said softly. “Are you looking for something?”

“Actually, I am looking for you.” Bridget paused and took a breath. “I need your help. You see—”

“Tell me what needs doing.” Catriona’s voice was steady and confident.

Bridget exhaled, pulling her into a quiet alcove. “It’s about Lord Alastair’s journal.” At Catriona’s sharp intake of breath, she pressed on. “We need people to believe it’s still here, hidden, misplaced, waiting to be found.”

Catriona’s brows pulled together, her expression cautious. “But it’s not, is it, Lady Bridget?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Bridget waited. Catriona was a clever woman. She would get Bridget’s meaning quick enough. “What matters is that the people responsible for his lordship’s murder think it is. We need to draw them out.”

Catriona hesitated, her loyalty to Bridget warring with her instinct for caution. “And you need someone to spread the whispers?”

Bridget allowed a small smile. “You and Killian. You’re trusted. You move about the estate without raising questions. If you mention a missing journal in passing, it won’t look like a contrived piece of hearsay, but like a discovery.”

Catriona nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “A bit of Scottish mischief, is it?”

Bridget’s lips twitched. “Something like that.”

“We need to speak to Killian,” Catriona said. “He’ll want to hear this.” She took off her apron. They both left for the stable.

A short while later, Bridget, Catriona, and Killian stood behind the stable, hidden away from prying ears. Killian rolled his shoulders, casting a wary glance toward the house.

“If this will help find who murdered his lordship,” he said at last, “I’ll gladly help. How do we make sure they believe it?”

Bridget let out a relieved breath. “Keep it simple. A passing remark, something about how his lordship never went anywhere without his journal. And that if it was lost,” Bridget added, “it would have to be somewhere within the house.”

Killian nodded, his expression settling into one of grim determination. “Aye. I can manage that.”

Catriona leaned in. “And what if they start asking questions?”

Bridget’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll know we’re close.”

Bridget thanked them both, but the unease lingered.

Spreading rumors was one thing, watching them take root was another.

As she and Catriona walked back toward the manor, the impact of what they’d set in motion settled on her shoulders.

It was a dangerous game they were playing, one that required more than clever words.

That thought followed her up the stone steps and through the halls, all the way to Marjory’s door.

When she arrived, she found her friend sitting by the window, gazing out at the fields. The light streaming in caught the shadows beneath her eyes. Bridget was startled to see the deep hollows. Mrs. Simmons stood nearby, a pot of tea in hand, her expression pinched with worry.

“You should eat something, my lady,” the housekeeper urged gently. “You’ll make yourself ill.”

Marjory barely seemed to hear. Her hands rested awkwardly on the armrest of her chair. “It feels like he’s still here,” she murmured. “If I turn around fast enough, he’ll be standing in the doorway, smiling at me.”

Bridget’s heart sank. “That feeling doesn’t fade easily.” Bridget moved closer and sat on the ottoman in front of Marjory. “But you don’t have to face it alone.”

Marjory turned to her then, her gaze sharp despite her grief. “Mark always said secrets had a way of surfacing at the worst times.”

Bridget hesitated. “We’re looking for the truth. Rumors and gossip are already swirling.”

Bridget stilled. The quiet melancholy in Marjory’s eyes shifted, sharpened. There was less grief now, more something else. Marjory gave her a long, unreadable look. “Be careful, Bridget. Whispered secrets have a way of turning into weapons.”

Bridget frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Marjory sighed, her expression pained. “I’ve seen it happen before. Innocent whispers can turn into dangerous rumors, and those with ill-intentions can twist the truth to suit their purposes. Just… tread carefully.”

Bridget felt a chill settle over her. This wasn’t grief speaking, it was experience. Marjory wasn’t hinting. This was a warning. The wrong word in the wrong ear could undo everything.

Bridget didn’t have to wait long. By midday, the first murmurs drifted through the halls, servants exchanging hushed speculation about Lord Alastair’s journal.

A passing footman remarked that his lordship never went anywhere without it.

A chambermaid whispered that perhaps it had been misplaced rather than lost forever.

Marjory’s words lingered, quiet but insistent, even as Bridget went about the day.

By evening, the whispers had found their way to the guests. Over tea, a lady’s maid confided to her mistress that some believed his lordship’s journal still lingered somewhere within Alastair Court. At supper, a guest offhandedly questioned whether anyone had searched properly.

The next morning, the rumor had taken hold. Growing tendrils had reached the right ears.

Bridget overheard Blackwood scoffing at the notion, his tone dismissive. “If such a journal existed, Alastair would have safeguarded it, not left it lying about like a forgotten letter.”

Lady Worthington, however, hummed thoughtfully. “But what if he did? Men grow careless when they believe they have time.”

Bridget met Thomas’s gaze from across the room. The trap was set. The snare had been laid. Now, they would learn just how far the Order would go to retrieve what they believed was theirs.