Page 33

Simmons tipped his head. “Consider it done.”

Bridget offered a grateful smile. “Then we are in your debt.”

Simmons gave a small bow. “Think nothing of it, my lady. Some stories beg to be buried. Others, well… sometimes it is far more interesting to leave them just beneath the surface.”

With that, they took their leave, knowing they had left things in Mr. Simmons’s capable hands.

*

By midday, the first hints of unease rippled through the house.

Not everyone seemed concerned about rumors of a missing journal, but those who were had grown increasingly restless.

Bridget and Thomas watched as subtle shifts took place, whispers exchanged in the halls, lingering glances toward the study, and the unmistakable tension among those who thought no one was looking.

Yet, it was not only the journal that stirred commotion. Lady Worthington’s bodkin was still missing.

Bridget and Thomas had just left Mr. Simmons’s study when they passed a pair of footmen searching beneath the sideboard in the hall.

A maid stood nearby, carefully lifting the cushions from a settee while another straightened the drapes as if expecting the bodkin to appear tangled in the folds of fabric.

Bridget arched a brow. “The entire house is searching now?”

One of the footmen, a young man with an earnest face, straightened. “Lady Worthington insists it was misplaced here in the drawing room, but we’ve yet to find it there.”

“Or anywhere else,” the maid added with a slight huff. “It’s as if it vanished into thin air.”

Before Bridget could reply, Lady Worthington herself swept into the hall, her usual poise slipping beneath the clear agitation in her expression. “You’ve checked the writing desk?”

“Yes, my lady,” the footman replied promptly. “And beneath the rugs.”

Lady Worthington turned, her fingers pressed to her temple. “It cannot simply be lost.” Her tone sharpened, frustration clear. “It is a family heirloom, irreplaceable. The sapphire on the cap alone—” She broke off, shaking her head. “It must be here somewhere.”

Bridget softened her voice. “Perhaps you set it aside somewhere unexpected. Have you checked your reticule?”

“I did. Twice.” She exhaled sharply. “I’ve looked everywhere I can think of.”

A housemaid hesitated before speaking. “Might you have left it in the library, my lady? You were there yesterday morning with Miss Gray.”

Lady Worthington’s lips parted as if to dismiss the idea, but then she stilled. “Perhaps.” Her expression remained troubled.

Bridget caught Thomas’s slight smirk, and she nudged him lightly.

“Shall I continue searching here, my lady?” the maid asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” She said, waving a hand. “And send someone to check the library thoroughly. If it is not found soon, I will have to assume one of the maids put it away.”

She turned on her heel, her gown rustling as she strode off.

Thomas leaned in slightly. “That woman is determined.”

Bridget let out a small laugh under her breath. “You would be too if it were something important to you.”

Thomas hummed. “If she keeps this up, she may have the entire household in an uproar by supper.”

Bridget glanced toward the house staff, still searching beneath tables and along shelves, and felt a small pang of amusement. The woman’s bodkin truly had become the most sought-after object in the manor.

But at least, for now, it was only a distraction.

That evening, over brandy and conversation, Lord Blackwood scoffed at the speculation.

“A lost journal, is it?” He leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “It’s fascinating how easily people are led by whispers. If such a thing existed, it would have been found already. The dead do not hide secrets.”

Across from him, Lord Davenport chuckled, shaking his head. “At this rate, I’m not sure which has caused more disruption, the journal or Lady Worthington’s missing bodkin. If you ask me, the latter seems to be winning.”

Blackwood’s expression didn’t change, but he tilted his glass slightly, watching the amber liquid swirl. “That depends,” he said, his voice calm, measured. “Value is determined by the one who wants it most.”

Bridget held her glass steady, keeping her expression neutral as the conversation shifted around them.

The air inside the drawing room had grown thick with speculation and glances traded like silent wagers.

She had spent the better part of the evening listening, watching, and waiting. Yet now, she found herself restless.

Thomas leaned slightly toward her, his voice pitched low enough for only her to hear. “Would you care for some air?”

She set her glass aside. “I think that would be wise.”

They slipped from the drawing room unnoticed and she took his offered arm as they stepped into the quiet hush of the night.

The summer air was cooler than expected, the lingering warmth of the day tempered by the whisper of an evening breeze.

The scent of damp earth and fading blooms clung to the air, a stark contrast to the tension simmering inside the house.

Thomas’s expression was unreadable. “Do you think Blackwood knows more than he lets on?”

Bridget exhaled, considering. “He’s too controlled to reveal anything outright. But he didn’t dismiss it entirely. That tells me he’s listening.”

Thomas hummed in agreement, his gaze flicking toward the shadowed estate grounds. “And if he’s listening, others are as well.”

As they rounded the corner of the house, faint movement near the tree line caught Bridget’s eye. The flicker of a lantern, a quiet shift of shadow, subtle but intentional. Her breath hitched, her fingers squeezing his arm.

He didn’t miss the touch or the slight panic in her eyes.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Barrington positioned his men along the perimeter. If the Order plans to make a move, they won’t get far.”

Bridget exhaled, some of the unease coiled in her chest loosening. “Then we’re not the only ones waiting to see what happens next.”

Thomas’s lips quirked, though his gaze remained sharp. “No. We’re not.”

The tension in the air hadn’t faded. It had merely increased. Whatever came next, the night was far from over.

He turned to her then, his face partially illuminated by the distant glow of candlelight from the manor. “Are you ready for this?”

Bridget met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “You should know by now that I do not shrink from what must be done.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips before he turned back toward the house. “Then let’s see who comes looking next.”

Bridget swallowed, pulse thrumming. “Either way, we make sure they don’t escape.”

Thomas didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on her, searching, as if seeing something in her he hadn’t allowed himself to before. The distant glow of candlelight from the house flickered across his features, casting deep shadows and making his expression unreadable.

“Bridget—” He stopped himself. The sound of her name on his lips sent an unfamiliar thrill through her.

She tilted her head, curiosity stirring beneath the tension that stretched between them. “Yes?”

His jaw tightened slightly as if evaluating the risk of his next words. Then, softer, almost as if the words weren’t meant to leave his lips, he murmured, “Sometimes, with you, it’s too easy to forget there are things I haven’t said… things I can’t say. Not yet.”

The admission sent a shiver down her spine, though the evening air was still. “Careful?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of what?”

He let out a breath, but it wasn’t exasperation. It was something else, something quieter, more dangerous. “Of this.”

His fingers moved deliberately, brushing against hers, then lingering. A single touch, but it might as well have been a spark in dry kindling. It would have been so easy to pull away, to let the moment slip into nothing. But she didn’t. And neither did he.

Her heart pounded. “You think too much, Thomas.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, though his eyes still held that unreadable depth. “And you don’t think enough.”

“Then stop thinking,” she whispered.

It was all the invitation he needed.

His hand came up, brushing along the side of her face, his fingers trailing the curve of her jaw before tangling in the loose strands of her hair.

His touch was careful, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to be there, but when she didn’t pull away when her breath hitched, and she leaned just slightly toward him, his hesitation vanished.

His lips met hers.

Warmth surged through her, unexpected yet entirely right. There was no fleeting hesitation in his kiss, no uncertainty. He kissed her like a man who had spent too long resisting what he wanted and had finally decided to stop fighting it.

Bridget’s hands slid up, gripping the lapels of his coat as she deepened the kiss as if grounding herself in the reality of it. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, something between restraint and surrender, but he didn’t pull away.

The night, the danger, the mission, all of it blurred. For a breath, for a moment, nothing else mattered.

Then reality surged back.

The truth of what they risked crept in, cooling passion with the chill of consequence. Thomas broke the kiss, his forehead resting lightly against hers as his breath came uneven. His hands remained on her waist as if reluctant to let go.

“That—” His voice was hoarse, filled with something she couldn’t quite name. “That should not have happened.”

Bridget’s lips parted, her pulse still pounding in her ears. “I disagree.”

His laugh was quiet, but the warmth in his eyes had shifted. “Of course you do.”

She reached up, brushing her fingers lightly along his jaw. “We can discuss it later.”

A flicker of something passed through his gaze, something raw, something unspoken. Instead, he exhaled, stepping back just slightly, though his fingers lingered at her waist before finally falling away.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice steadier now, though not quite neutral. “We set the trap.”

Bridget swallowed the words that threatened to rise, her thoughts still tangled in the feel of his mouth against hers. She only nodded.

“Tomorrow.”