Page 39

B arrington sat at the wide mahogany desk in the study, the single candle casting flickering shadows across the neat stacks of parchment.

The house was still, hushed with the weight of everything that had transpired.

The confrontation with the Order had been a victory, but it had cost them.

Thomas and Bridget had not yet returned, and while Barrington suspected their delay had nothing to do with danger, he knew the next few hours would be crucial.

With a steady hand, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and began drafting a report. Townsend would leave for London soon, and the Home Office would need a full account of the Order’s movements, their failed attempt to recover the journal, and the implications of what remained hidden.

His fingers brushed against his coat pocket absently, and something cool and metallic met his touch.

Frowning, Barrington withdrew the small object, the dim candlelight glinting off the delicate silver filigree. Lady Worthington’s bodkin.

A soft, knowing smile escaped him. He’d meant to return it to her.

In all the chaos, it had completely slipped his mind.

He turned it over in his palm, studying the fine craftsmanship, the intricate design curling around the slender casing.

The sapphire glimmered atop the cap, its deep blue catching the light.

He started to set it aside when a faint, almost undetectable scent reached him. Something sharp. Faintly floral, yet bitter.

He frowned, lifting the bodkin closer. The scent wasn’t embroidery thread, nor was it the mild fragrance of scented gloves or handkerchiefs common among ladies of her station. It was something else. Something… familiar. Belladonna.

The realization sent a slow chill through him. Carefully, he twisted the cap, revealing the gleaming tip of the sharp bodkin. He held it up to the candlelight and saw it, a dark, dried stain nestled in the fine engraving near the base. Blood.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

Townsend entered, brushing off his coat as he crossed the room. “The horses are being readied for dawn. I trust you’ve noted everything that needs to be included in the report?”

Barrington didn’t answer. He held up the bodkin instead.

Townsend paused at the sight of Barrington holding the bodkin up to the light.

“Have you taken up needlework, Barrington? Should we be concerned?”

Barrington gave him a flat look. “I’m considering a new hobby. Poisoned embroidery tools seem quite the statement.”

Townsend let out a low whistle. “Fashionable and deadly. Lady Worthington always did have refined tastes.”

Barrington’s expression turned grim. He crossed to the bellpull and gave it a sharp tug. Moments later, Simmons appeared.

“Have the rest of the houseguests gathered in the library,” Barrington said. “Now, please.”

Simmons bowed. “At once, my lord.”

The library was dimly lit, the late evening glow barely filtering through the heavy drapes. A single lamp burned on Barrington’s desk, casting long shadows against the bookshelves. Tension filled the room.

Barrington stood behind the desk, the bodkin still in hand. Townsend leaned against a nearby chair, his arms crossed.

A soft knock came, followed by Mr. Simmons’s steady voice. “As requested, my lord.”

The door opened. Thomas entered first, his expression wary. Bridget followed, her eyes scanning the room. Behind them came the others, Miss Gray, Lady Carlisle, Lord Davenport, and Miss Hathaway, each wearing a mixture of confusion and unease.

Blackwood strode in behind them, his gaze sharp.

Lady Worthington entered last, composed, though irritation flashed across her face. “This is highly irregular,” she said, smoothing a hand down the front of her gown. “If this is about my bodkin, I would prefer to speak privately. I assume you found it?”

Barrington lifted the delicate silver instrument between his fingers. “Wedged into the seat of one of the chairs in the drawing room.” He turned it slightly, then removed the cap with a deliberate motion.

Bridget inhaled sharply. She recognized that smell. Belladonna.

Lady Worthington’s posture remained steady, but her lips thinned. “Well. I suppose that explains why I couldn’t find it. I trust you have not damaged it?”

Townsend let out a humorless chuckle. “Damaged it? No. But we did examine it rather carefully.”

Barrington set the bodkin on the desk. Its tip bore a near-invisible stain.

Bridget stepped closer. “There’s blood on it.”

Lady Worthington’s fingers twitched before she clasped them in front of her. “Blood? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an embroidery tool.”

Barrington’s gaze sharpened. “Then perhaps you can explain why it smells of poison.”

The room stilled.

Lady Worthington let out a soft laugh. “Poison? Surely you jest.”

Townsend shook his head. “Belladonna. A slow but effective toxin when used in small doses. Lethal in larger ones. Mark Alastair was stabbed with a thin, pointed blade, one much like this.”

Lady Worthington’s chin lifted. “You can’t be serious.”

Blackwood stepped forward. “Evelina, if you know something, now is the time to speak.”

She turned to him. “I don’t know anything, Cedric.”

Barrington picked up a square of linen and pressed it against the bodkin’s tip. A faint trace of blood stained the cloth. “You’ve been in distress over this bodkin since it disappeared. You claimed it was a cherished heirloom, yet it’s connected to murder.”

Lady Worthington’s breathing quickened. “It was stolen from me!”

Bridget folded her arms. “By who?”

“How should I know? Someone in this house.”

Townsend stepped closer. “When did you notice it was missing?”

She hesitated. “I—”

Bridget narrowed her eyes. “The morning the rumors started about the journal?”

Lady Worthington swallowed. “Coincidence.”

Thomas finally spoke. “You weren’t worried about the sentimental value. You were worried that someone might look too closely.”

Lady Worthington glanced toward the door. “You cannot truly believe—”

Barrington cut her off. “Mark Alastair was murdered by someone desperate to keep the journal hidden. What did you think he was going to uncover?”

The room fell silent.

Her fists clenched. “This is preposterous.”

Blackwood took a step toward her. “Evelina.”

She looked at him. “I did what was necessary.”

Bridget’s breath caught.

Lady Worthington’s composure cracked. “Alastair was careless. He was going to ruin everything.”

Townsend straightened. “The Order.”

Lady Worthington let out a sharp breath. “This is absurd—”

“You stabbed him,” Barrington interrupted holding up the bodkin.

“I had no choice!”

The room froze.

Blackwood exhaled and stepped back. His face was unreadable.

Bridget stared. The elegant woman was now trembling with fury and desperation.

Barrington’s tone remained level. “You murdered him, and tried to recover the weapon.”

Lady Worthington’s gaze darted between them. “This isn’t over.”

Townsend stepped in. “Oh, I think it is.”

Lady Worthington trembled, realizing she had no escape.

Blackwood turned away from her, silent.

Bridget let out a long breath. It was done. The accusation, the confession, the arrest, yet none of it felt like resolution. Only exhaustion.

The door creaked open.

Professor Tresham entered, his scholarly air strikingly out of place amid the remnants of tension still thick in the room. He carried a folio in his hands and approached the library table with quiet purpose.

Barrington gestured toward the folio. “You have something for us, Tresham?”

“Yes. And I’d like to show it to you.” Professor Tresham carefully smoothed out the worn parchment on the large library table. The edges were curled slightly with age. He adjusted his spectacles.

“This document has been altered multiple times,” he began, running a careful fingertip over the layered script. “It was common practice to scrape ink from parchment and reuse it. I suspected as much the moment I examined the texture.”

Bridget leaned in to see the document. “And what was beneath it?”

Tresham lifted his gaze. “Something far more concerning.”

He reached for a small scraping tool and brushed away the faintest layer of ink. Beneath the writing, a symbol began to emerge. It was faded, but unmistakable, a raven, its wings spread wide over a diamond.

Bridget gasped.

Grenville cursed.

Barrington’s jaw tightened. “The Order of Shadows.”

Tresham nodded. “The mark was hidden beneath more recent entries.”

“What is this parchment?” Bridget asked.

Tresham angled the candlelight, revealing the faint remnants of a title at the top.

“Registry. A Record of Members,” Barrington read aloud.”

Tresham traced his finger down the faded list. “These are the names Alastair was trying to uncover.”

“There are dates next to these names.” Thomas looked up at Tresham.

“Entry dates into the Order.”

“Kerrington,” Blackwood said, tapping one of the names. “It’s dated 1785.” He glanced at Lady Worthington. “That’s your father.”

Lady Worthington’s breath hitched. “My father was a historian… he advised powerful men, but he never spoke of such things.”

Tresham read aloud. “The notation next to his name reads ‘Senior Advisor.’”

Thomas’s voice was cold. “Your family has served the Order for generations.”

She met his gaze, something proud in her eyes. “It was never a choice. It was my duty.”

Barrington’s voice dropped. “Your duty? Was it your duty to murder Mark Alastair?”

Lady Worthington smiled. “He lost his conviction. That made him a liability. I did what had to be done.”

Bridget inhaled sharply. There was no remorse. No doubt. Only certainty.

Lady Worthington glanced at the bodkin. “It’s rather poetic, isn’t it? An instrument of creation… and death.”

Thomas said quietly, “You poisoned him.”

Lady Worthington didn’t answer. But she didn’t deny it, either.

Barrington turned to Townsend. “Lock her in the east guest room. Post a guard. Search her belongings. Remove anything that looks suspicious.”

Townsend inclined his head. “Consider it done.”

Lady Worthington lifted her chin. “I did what was necessary.”

“So will we,” Bridget said softly.

Townsend led Lady Worthington away, and the door clicked shut behind them.

Tresham returned his attention to the document. “I saved one name for last.” He took the torn corner that Bridget had found in Alastair’s hand and carefully aligned it with the torn edge of the parchment.

Bridget froze.

“Baron Lucius Ellington.”

“Ellington?” Blackwood took a slow step forward. “That’s Marjory’s maiden name.”

Bridget’s pulse roared in her ears.

Barrington muttered a curse. “Alastair must have suspected his wife’s family had ties to the Order.”

Blackwood laughed bitterly. “That sounds familiar.”

Grenville asked the professor. “Did Alastair ask you to research the Ellington line?”

Tresham exhaled. “Yes. But I never delivered my full findings. This Lucius Ellington is not part of Marjory’s family line.”

Bridget’s fingers gripped the edge of the desk. “Then who is he?”

Tresham met her gaze. “That is the question we must answer.”

*

The library had fallen into a hush. Grenville stood near the edge of the table, watching Blackwood.

Blackwood’s gaze lingered on the parchment. Once. Twice. A third time.

Grenville watched him closely, waiting for a true reaction, not the man’s usual charm. What he saw was a flicker of disbelief.

“Something wrong, Blackwood?” Barrington’s voice was smooth, but Grenville recognized the deliberate probe.

“I was given a name, a false one, it seems.” He let out a bitter laugh. “All this time, I thought I was chasing truth.”

His mouth curled into a smile, but Grenville saw the pain. “Turns out I was just like Alastair. Another fool, discarded.”

“They used you.” Bridget’s voice was quiet, but firm.

Blackwood’s head snapped up. The fury in his eyes was raw. “That they did.”

“And what will you do with that knowledge?” Grenville asked quietly.

Blackwood glanced at the parchment one more time. Then his voice turned cold. “I suppose that depends.”

“On?” Barrington asked.

Blackwood’s fists unclenched. “On whether or not they come calling again. And if they do… I’ll be ready.”

Grenville studied him. There was no bluster, no dramatics, just certainty.

Townsend asked. “And if they don’t?”

Blackwood shrugged. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate and be on my way.”

He turned for the door. “Just don’t mistake absence for inaction,” he said over his shoulder. “The shadows have long memories. But should you ever need another blade against the Order… If you’re willing to look in the shadows.”

Grenville let out a breath. If the Order ever sought Blackwood again… they’d regret it.

As Blackwood exited, a tense silence lingered. The others remained frozen, caught between the shock of what had unfolded and what had yet to come.

Lady Carlisle shifted uneasily, dabbing at her brow with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Lord Davenport muttered something about brandy and made for the drinks cabinet, while Miss Gray stood very still, eyes fixed on the parchment. Miss Hathaway whispered a prayer, fingers clenched tight.

Grenville remained still, the names echoing in his mind. The Order was wounded, but far from finished, and so were they.