Page 32

B ridget said nothing as she and Thomas made their way back toward the manor, the silence between them rich with everything unspoken. The moment on the cliffs still lingered in her thoughts, impossible to set aside. Something between them had shifted, and there was no turning back.

By the time she reached her room, the house was quiet, the echoes of the day settling into stillness.

The following day, the house seemed determined to return to its usual rhythm.

The weekend guests resumed their entertainments, some out of genuine distraction, others out of obligation.

The gravity of the past day was pushed aside, at least on the surface, but a subtle tension still wove itself into the fabric of their gatherings.

Lady Carlisle presided over a lively game of cards in the drawing room, laughing as she playfully accused Lord Davenport of cheating.

Miss Gray and Miss Hathaway, having abandoned their earlier debate over the weather, had taken to the pianoforte, filling the air with the soft strains of a duet.

Lady Worthington, her embroidery hoop in hand, stitched with an intensity that suggested her mind was elsewhere.

Bridget and Thomas observed from the periphery, careful to blend in while remaining alert.

Though the guests entertained themselves, none were truly at ease.

The investigation had delayed their departures, and while no one openly voiced their frustrations, an undercurrent of unease settled over the house.

They were all waiting. Some for answers, some for the moment they could leave without suspicion clinging to their names.

By mid-afternoon, the men had moved to the billiards room, where Barrington and Blackwood engaged in a quiet but pointed match.

Lord Davenport, having lost a game earlier, nursed a glass of brandy while listening to Townsend discuss the latest developments in London.

Outside, a handful of guests ventured onto the damp grounds for a stroll, cloaks drawn tight against the gusts of wind as they wandered the paths leading toward the gardens.

Meanwhile, the ladies busied themselves with less strenuous pursuits.

Lady Carlisle arranged for a small poetry reading in the afternoon parlor, where Miss Hathaway took great pleasure in reciting Lord Byron with a dramatic flourish.

Tea was served, polite conversation resumed, and for a while, the house resembled any other gathering of its kind.

Yet beneath it all, a quiet watchfulness remained.

Bridget’s attention drifted as she watched Thomas, who stood at ease near the mantel but missed nothing. His gaze frequently flicked toward Blackwood, assessing, calculating. She had learned to recognize when his mind was at work, turning over details and seeking patterns in the noise.

“Oh, bother! Where is it?”

Lady Worthington twisted in her seat, patting at the folds of her gown with increasing urgency. “It was right here,” she muttered, her brows knitting together. She shifted her embroidery hoop aside, peering at the space between the cushions.

Lady Carlisle, in the midst of whispering a particularly scandalous theory to Miss Hathaway, frowned. “Evelina, whatever is the matter?”

“My bodkin,” Lady Worthington huffed, her frustration clear as she searched the small table beside her chair. “It was just here not a moment ago!”

Thomas, who had been watching Blackwood’s reaction to a circulating rumor about the missing journal, exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. The timing could not have been worse.

Bridget, standing near the hearth, forced a polite smile. “Would you like some help looking?”

Lady Worthington barely seemed to hear her. “It has a sapphire set in the cap, a family heirloom,” she added, her voice growing more clipped. She cast a glance toward a footman lingering near the doorway. “Did someone move it? Are you certain none of the maids disturbed my chair?”

The footman straightened, clearly uncomfortable. “No, my lady. I haven’t seen anything.”

Lady Worthington’s lips pressed into a thin line. With a frustrated exhale, she upended her work basket onto the table, spilling a small pair of scissors, silk threads, and embroidery floss. But no bodkin.

Miss Gray, attempting to lighten the moment, let out a delicate laugh. “Lady Worthington, I do believe that your bodkin has seen more excitement tonight than any of us.”

Lady Worthington didn’t laugh. Instead, she exhaled sharply and stood, brushing off her skirts with clipped efficiency. “It must be somewhere,” she murmured, as if convincing herself. “I’ll look in the library.”

Before anyone could respond, she swept toward the door.

Thomas leaned toward Bridget, his voice low and dry. “Could this evening be any more chaotic?”

Bridget barely resisted a smirk.

Barrington, who had been quietly observing, rubbed his chin in thought. “Perhaps a little distraction works in our favor,” he murmured.

Across the room, Lord Blackwood had shifted, his fingers tapping against the armrest. He was either bored, or the rumor had reached him.

A murmur of conversation swelled and receded, the household settling into a deceptively normal rhythm. Footmen moved about the room, offering refreshments, while Lady Carlisle dealt a fresh hand of cards with a flourish.

Then came the steady clatter of hooves up the drive.

The rhythmic sound cut through the noise, drawing only the briefest flickers of interest from those nearest the windows.

A lone rider approached Alastair Court. His livery bore no crest, but his posture was upright, his manner purposeful.

A proper messenger, then, not a tradesman.

Mr. Simmons answered the door, his usual composed expression never wavering as the man extended a letter. “A note of condolence from Lord Seaton,” the messenger announced.

Simmons took the missive with a nod. “Her ladyship will receive it in due course.”

The messenger hesitated for a moment, glancing around the entrance hall before shifting his stance. “Busy house,” he observed conversationally.

Simmons remained impassive. “Naturally. Her ladyship has many guests.”

The man adjusted his gloves and turned slightly as if about to leave, but then paused mid-step. He hesitated, then glanced back at Simmons.

“Forgive the inquiry,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “but I overheard something on the road here. A gentleman at the coaching inn mentioned a missing journal belonging to the late Lord Alastair. He seemed rather insistent that it was important. Would there be any truth to that?”

Simmons’s posture remained impeccable, but his tone cooled. “Idle speculation is hardly fitting at a time of mourning.”

The courier held up his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to offend, sir. Just found it curious, is all.”

He tipped his hat and strode back toward his horse.

Simmons stood in the doorway, watching him mount and ride off. His grip on the letter tightened slightly before he turned back into the house.

Bridget and Thomas watched from the drawing room. As they walked down the corridor, Thomas exhaled sharply, hands settling on his hips. “We wanted whispers, but we need to be certain they don’t spiral beyond our control.”

Bridget nodded. “If we guide the gossip properly, we can keep attention focused where we want it.”

Thomas glanced toward the butler’s study. “Mr. Simmons already knows every bit of talk in this house before it reaches the guests. If anyone can steer the rumor, it’s him.”

Bridget hesitated for a moment before nodding. “He won’t like meddling in gossip.”

Thomas’s mouth quirked slightly. “No, but he’ll do what’s best for the household. If we explain what’s at stake, he’ll manage it.”

Bridget squared her shoulders. “Then we should speak with him now.”

Thomas rapped his knuckles against the door. There was a pause, and then the butler’s steady voice called. “Enter.”

Bridget stepped inside first, followed by Thomas. Mr. Simmons was already rising from behind his desk, smoothing the front of his coat. “Captain. Lady Bridget.”

Bridget inclined her head. “Mr. Simmons, we appreciate you seeing us.”

The butler dipped his head slightly. “How may I assist you?”

Bridget hesitated only a moment. “You must have heard the rumors circulating. About Lord Alastair’s missing journal.”

Simmons clasped his hands behind his back. “I make it a point not to entertain gossip, Lady Bridget.”

Thomas stepped forward, his voice even. “We need you to do more than ignore it. We need you to guide it.”

Simmons’s brows lifted just slightly. “Guide it?”

Bridget nodded. “Not to stop the rumors. But to direct them.”

The room was silent. Simmons dropped his arms to his side. “You wish for me to let them believe it was merely misplaced. That there is nothing of consequence left to find.”

Thomas crossed his arms. “Would that be possible?”

Simmons considered them both for a long moment before inclining his head. “Quite.”

Bridget exhaled, relief easing the tightness in her chest. “That would be most helpful, Mr. Simmons. We appreciate your discretion.”

Thomas gave a nod of approval, his voice measured. “You’ll be doing Lady Marjory and his lordship a great service, guiding the conversation. It won’t go unnoticed.”

Simmons’s lips twitched with something akin to satisfaction. “A well-placed word at the right moment can often achieve more than outright declaration. If the goal is to keep curiosity alive, subtly, of course, then I shall see to it.”

Bridget met his gaze, understanding the delicate balance of suggestion and silence. “Then perhaps an offhand remark about how misplaced things have a way of turning up in unexpected places?”

Simmons’s expression brightened, as if pleased by the challenge. “Ah, yes. A lingering question left unanswered is far more tantalizing than a blatant search. A discovery just out of reach.”

Thomas smirked, arms still crossed. “As long as it keeps the right people searching and the wrong ones second-guessing.”