Page 34

T he house stirred early the following morning, the soft clatter of trays and murmured voices signaling the start of another day.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the breakfast room, dappling the crisp linens with warm golden hues.

Guests filtered in at their leisure, some bleary-eyed from the late evening’s conversations, others keenly alert.

Bridget had barely taken a seat before a sharp huff of frustration cut through the room.

“This is intolerable,” Lady Worthington snapped, pressing her napkin against the table with far more force than necessary.

Bridget glanced up in mild surprise as the woman sat stiff-backed, her gaze darting over the breakfast spread as if she expected to find something hiding among the tea services.

Lady Carlisle, delicately spooning jam onto her toast, arched a brow. “Evelina, must you look as though you intend to wage war against the morning rolls?”

Lady Worthington barely heard her. “I still haven’t found my bodkin,” she declared, looking pointedly toward the nearest footman. “Hasn’t it turned up anywhere?”

The footman stiffened under her scrutiny. “I’m afraid not, my lady. The maids searched the drawing room again this morning.”

She pursed her lips, clearly unimpressed. “Well, they must not have looked thoroughly enough. A sapphire set in silver does not simply vanish.”

Davenport, who had been buttering his toast with meticulous care, let out a chuckle. “A needle lost in a grand estate. What a tragedy. We should all abandon our breakfast at once and form a search party.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Lady Worthington’s face. “Very amusing, my lord.”

Davenport merely smirked. “I do try.”

Lady Carlisle took a sip of her tea, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Perhaps it will turn up in an unexpected place. Things often do.”

Lady Worthington exhaled sharply. “I need it found.”

Lady Worthington, always the epitome of grace and poise, now paced like a woman unraveling.

The elegant composure she had worn like a second skin was gone, replaced by clipped words and harried glances.

She scoured the breakfast room with restless energy, her hands fluttering over cushions and candelabra alike, as if decorum itself had betrayed her.

It was not just a missing bodkin. It was the breach of something deeper, something she could not name but could not tolerate.

The morning had been a flurry of quiet disruptions, muttered rumors, exchanged glances, and the ever-present tension simmering beneath the civility of the house. But no disturbance had been more persistent than Lady Worthington’s frantic search for her missing bodkin.

“Turn the cushions again,” she directed a footman, her usual composed manner fraying at the edges. “It must be here somewhere!”

Across the room, Davenport exchanged an amused glance with Miss Gray, who had long since abandoned any pretense of interest in her needlework.

“If I disappear before luncheon,” he murmured, “tell them I was last seen beneath a pile of misplaced embroidery.”

Miss Gray stifled a laugh while Lady Carlisle attempted to soothe Lady Worthington. “Perhaps you left it in your chambers? Or the morning room?”

Lady Worthington’s sharp exhale made it clear that such a possibility was both absurd and unacceptable. “It was right here,” she insisted, scanning the room once more before turning on her heel. “I shall check the drawing room again.”

As she stormed away, the tension she had stirred remained. The footman hesitated, unsure whether to continue upending cushions, and several guests shared knowing glances, some sympathetic, while others were entertained.

Barrington, who had been standing by the window observing the exchange in silence, finally sighed and moved toward one of the vacant chairs. “Well,” he muttered, “if I’m to witness an unraveling, I may as well be comfortable.”

He started to sit, then abruptly stopped.

Something hard pressed against his palm as he adjusted the cushion.

Frowning, he reached down and pulled a small, ornate silver bodkin from the crevice between the fabric. The cap gleamed in the soft morning light, the embedded sapphire winking at him.

Barrington turned it over between his fingers.

An impressive piece of finely worked silver filigree along the slender case, the cap fitted snugly to protect the delicate needle tip.

A fine thing to lose, he mused, though he suspected Lady Worthington’s distress was less about the embroidery tool itself and more about the sentimental value attached to it.

“Well, that settles that,” he said to no one in particular, standing again. He glanced toward the doorway through which the woman had disappeared. Should he return it to her now or later?

His fingers absently turned the cap. It was stuck firm.

Probably from being wedged in the chair, he reasoned. With a slight shrug, he slipped the bodkin into his pocket, intending to return it when she was in a more reasonable mood.

For now, there were more pressing concerns. He finished his breakfast, casting one last glance at the room before rising. The library would provide the solitude he needed to think.

He stepped inside, the quiet space a welcome reprieve from the morning’s activity. Crossing to the nearest shelf, he let his fingers drift absently over the spines of the books, his mind already turning over the puzzle before him.

A sharp knock at the door drew his attention. Barrington looked up as Townsend stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

“We need to talk,” Townsend said without preamble, closing the door behind him.

Barrington gestured toward the chair across from him. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”

Townsend’s mouth twitched in amusement, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Not unless you consider the Order’s latest move a lively topic of conversation.”

As the library doors closed behind them, Bridget approached from the corridor, a stack of correspondence balanced in her hands. The soft murmur of voices drifted through the slightly ajar door, drawing her pause.

The deep timbre of Barrington’s voice carried clearly in the quiet corridor, followed by Townsend’s measured response.

“If the information is accurate,” Barrington was saying, his tone thoughtful, “it confirms the Order’s involvement. They’ve been working to destabilize the Highlands for years. Huntington’s actions were just the beginning.”

Bridget froze, her heart hammering in her chest. The name struck her like a thunderclap, dredging up memories she had tried to bury.

From the eviction notices to the burned cottages, all the way to the pleading voices of her clansmen as their lives were torn apart.

She leaned closer, her breath shallow, and listened.

“It’s a dangerous web,” Townsend replied. “And not one easily unraveled. Huntington’s presence in the Highlands was no coincidence. It’s clear now he wasn’t acting alone. The question is, how much does Grenville know?”

Barrington’s voice hardened. “Grenville would never involve himself in his father’s dealings. He’s spent years distancing himself from that legacy.”

Townsend hesitated before speaking again. “That may be true, but the Order isn’t interested in his innocence. They’ve sent a message requesting a meeting at the clearing by the river, and not with Grenville, but with me.”

Barrington’s sharp intake of breath was audible even through the door. “Do you think it’s wise to go? They’re not asking for you by chance.”

Townsend’s tone grew resolute. “It doesn’t matter. If this is the only way to get closer to what they’re planning, I’ll take the risk. As soon as I have my things together, I’ll leave.”

Barrington’s reply was clipped. “Then we’ll be ready for what comes next. But Townsend… be careful.”

Bridget was shaken by the truth she’d just learned. The name alone had knocked the air from her lungs. But it was the truth beneath it, the unbearable collision of past and present, that left her unmoored.

Bridget’s grip tightened on the letters, her knuckles whitening.

Her vision blurred for a moment, the corridor tilting at the edges.

It was as if she had been thrust back into the past, standing among the ruins of her home, smoke thick in the air, her father’s grim silence cutting deeper than any words.

Grenville’s father. The man whose orders had turned her world to ash. The architect of the Clearances. Of her clan’s ruin. And now his legacy stood in the room beside her.

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she forced herself upright, retreating a step before the men inside could notice her presence. Her mind raced, conflicting emotions warring within her: betrayal, anger, and a confusing pang of sorrow.

She stumbled back a step, her fingers numbing around the forgotten letters. She had to leave before her presence was noticed and before her legs gave out beneath her. But moving felt impossible, as if the years-old grief had suddenly turned to iron around her chest.

The moment Barrington’s and Townsend’s voices faded behind her, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly through the house, the words she had just overheard burning through her like fire. Each step fueled the storm rising inside her. She didn’t need time to think, to process, she needed answers.

She found him in the sitting room, standing near the hearth, flipping absently through a book as if this were just another day. As if nothing had changed.

“Bridget,” he said softly, rising from his chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her eyes were blazing.

“Tell you what?” The words left him more cautiously than he intended. His shoulders squared, but his stance remained rooted, as if bracing for a blow he knew was coming.

“How long were you going to let me stand beside you and not know?” Thomas froze, his chest tightening. The accusation in her voice was a blade’s edge poised to cut deep. He took a careful step forward.

“Huntington,” she said, at last. The name left her lips like a curse. “Viscount Everard Huntington.”

Realization flickered in his eyes, and with it, something close to anguish. “Bridget—”

“Do you have any idea what that name means to me? To my people?” She cut in, her voice as sharp as glass, honed by years of unspoken grief.

“You bear his name. The same name that sent Catriona’s family fleeing for their lives.

That left my people scattered and broken.

And you—” She inhaled quickly steadying herself against the wave of emotion rising in her chest. “You said nothing,” her voice breaking.

His jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his gaze steady, unyielding.

Bridget stepped forward, fury burning beneath her skin. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, but it was nothing compared to the tightness in her chest. “You’ve stood beside me, knowing what your father did. Knowing exactly what his name would mean to me. And still, you held your tongue.”

Her breath came in shallow bursts, anger and something dangerously close to betrayal twisting inside her like a vice. “What was your plan, Thomas? To let me care for you, to let me trust you, while you kept this hidden?”

He exhaled slowly, his voice steady but something raw slipped through. “It’s not what you think.”

“Don’t,” she snapped, holding up a hand. “There is nothing you can say. Nothing that will erase what your father has done. Nothing that will make me forget the lives destroyed under his orders.”

Bridget searched his face, willing him to fight back, to defend himself, to give her something, anything, that could make this betrayal sting less. But he simply stood there, the pain in his eyes a mirror of her own.

“Say something,” she demanded, her voice breaking against all she was trying to hold back. “I dare you to defend yourself.”

His mouth parted as if he had words, explanations, defenses, but none came. Instead, his fingers curled at his sides, knuckles white.

The quiet was worse than any denial, worse than any excuse. His silence confirmed everything he had known, and he had chosen to keep it from her.

Bridget turned away, her hands shaking as she pressed them against the window frame.

A memory surged. Smoke rose over the glen, a child’s cry cut short, her father’s shoulders still with defeat.

The past suddenly felt too near, too real, and the grief she’d fought so long to master roared back with sharp, aching teeth.

“There is nothing you can say,” she whispered, her voice hollow now, empty of all the fire it had burned with moments before.

A long beat passed before she heard him shift behind her.

He wanted to speak. The words pressed behind his teeth like a rising tide, but none felt worthy. Not when the truth had already torn through her so violently.

Still, he said nothing.

Bridget’s breath caught at his silence. The quiet felt like a blow, knocking the wind from her chest. She had expected resistance, anger, anything but this.

She turned slightly, just enough to glimpse the conflict etched into his features.

For the first time, uncertainty crept in, whispering that she had miscalculated, that the man standing before her was not as simple as the sins of his father.

But before she could speak, Thomas turned sharply, moving toward the door.

He paused, just for a breath, as if considering some last words.

He paused, his breath catching, his hand lingering on the doorframe as if words teetered on the edge, but none came.

He chose silence instead. Without a sound, he left, the door shutting behind him with quiet finality.

As the door clicked closed, her shoulders sagged, and her composure cracked. A single breath shuddered out of her, unsteady and raw. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, as if to hold the pieces together, but they scattered like ash in the wind.

Bridget pressed her forehead to the cool glass, hoping for relief, for clarity, anything but the hollow ache creeping through her chest. But the room was empty now, and Thomas had left her with nothing but silence.