Page 8

The office was cozy and homey. Briar had put effort into how she portrayed herself in this space.

The perfume of her lavender-based shampoo hung faintly in the air, mixing with the aroma of drying herbs that hung above the plants on the right side of the office.

I scanned the titles on the bookshelves behind her desk—books on plants and holistic healing methods, the kind of knowledge we learned as children but had been lost to modern thinking.

Beyond those sat a section of books on history.

It wasn’t the history I expected Briar to be interested in, but part of my history—Georgian England and the Regency.

I smiled, remembering my last time as the Marquess of Dún Na Farraige.

The door behind me opened. “Lorcan? Your whiskey.” Briar reached out with the amber liquid. “I can go get some ice if you want it. I forgot to ask how you took it.” Her cheeks colored a warm red, and I could smell her blood.

“This is wonderful, thank you.” I took the glass, my fingers brushing against hers. An energy went through my arm that stole my breath.

“You have quite the selection of books there.” I forced the words out to start a conversation.

She curled her fingers around the stem of her wineglass, and her eyes glazed over with a sadness I couldn’t place. “I’m a bit of an amateur historian.”

“The Georgian period—especially the Regency—is fascinating. The art was good, but the literature…”

I relished London’s nightlife in those days, often attending salons and chatting with friends.

Jane’s face would light up whenever she spoke of her inspiration for Fitzwilliam Darcy.

And the last time I saw George was when he introduced me to Ada.

What an underrated, intelligent woman she became, although she was a tiny bundle of swaddling clothes with puffy cheeks and huge brown eyes when I saw her just days before George walked out on his wife.

What would he think of the bay my town sits on being named after him?

“Do you know much about history?” Briar’s voice pulled me back to now. Her eyes had brightened. She sat down at her desk. “Please, sit, be comfortable.” She pointed at the armchair in the corner instead of the green cushioned chairs meant for business by her desk.

The smooth velvet of the chair enveloped me as I accepted her invitation. I nodded an answer, a sense of dread growing in my stomach. “I’ve studied Georgian England extensively. Sometimes it almost feels as though I lived then.”

Briar straightened in her seat, her head cocked. “Did you ever hear about the trial of Lady Isobel Fitzwilliam? Well, she would have been Blackcairn during the trial.”

My grip tightened on my glass, her words stirring memories I would rather leave buried—Lord Edward Ashdowne’s body with a wooden knife protruding from his chest. I had arrived too late to hide the body and could do nothing but watch as an investigation began.

But I couldn’t say the man didn’t deserve it.

I tilted my head, feigning mild curiosity. “Remind me?” I didn’t need reminding. Lady Isobel’s soft brown hair and oval face came to mind. I made a mental note to find her descendants again. It had been far too long since I checked in on them.

Briar leaned back in her chair. “Lady Isobel was convicted of murdering a man she claimed was a vampire. She used a knife fashioned out of a piece of wood to stab him through the heart.”

I blinked. How on earth did she know that?

“That’s an interesting tale. Where did you hear about it?”

I knew it wasn’t in the history books. The royal court buried it about as deeply as they could.

With the king having gone mad, it didn’t look good for the peerage to be killing each other off, with claims of one of them being part of the immortal damned, no matter how in vogue they were at the time.

I studied Briar’s face. A cold hand gripped my spine as I waited for her answer with a modicum of fear—a fear that I would not have to look far to find Isobel’s descendants.

Briar pointed at the leather-bound journal on her desk, confirming my suspicion. She didn’t even need to say it. How many times had I seen that book?

“That’s Lady Isobel’s journal. My mother devoted a great deal of time to researching female convicts. Lady Isobel was always different.” Her fingers traced the edge of the journal as she looked just past me.

I nodded slowly, my nerves jangling, selecting my words with care. “Why Lady Isobel in particular? What drew your mother to her?”

Briar hesitated, her voice softening as if the admission carried more weight than she intended, especially in a country where the convict heritage was cherished.

Although a convict who, in this case, many deemed insane.

“She’s my ancestor,” she said simply. “She’s the reason my family is here.

Her journal has been handed down through generations. ”

“So you’re…” She looked so much like Lady Isobel that I didn’t need the confirmation.

“Yes.” Briar nodded. “My mother dedicated her life to studying female convicts. She identified many of them for her clients, but couldn’t find the history of Lady Isobel. And, truthfully, Lady Isobel didn’t quite fit the mold of the traditional convict.”

“How so?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Well, for one, she survived the journey to Australia. But she wasn’t assigned to a typical work placement when she arrived.

She was assigned to the household of the Colonial Secretary of New South Wales.

He was a recent widower, and she became a governess to his children because of her social standing. ”

I nodded, remembering the people I had to compel and the letters I wrote to place Lady Isobel in the home of Sir Reginald Fitzwilliam. “I could see how that might happen. What about after that?”

Briar hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. “From what we can tell, they married several years later, and she lived her life peacefully. She never spoke of vampires again.”

I couldn’t help but let out a faint chuckle. “Not that you know of.”

She acknowledged the point with a light shrug. “We always thought the vampire story was just an excuse Lady Isobel made up to get away with killing the man—someone she wanted dead for reasons of her own.”

I leaned back in the chair, mulling over her words. “It would be a sensational tale that certainly could create hysteria and sway a trial.” I traced the rim of my glass, the edges of the story we discussed stirring old memories.

Briar nodded. “If it had worked, my life might be completely different. I’d have been born in England.

” She paused, a wistful look crossing her face.

“With all the information I wanted on my ancestors at my fingertips, no matter what kind of minor nobility they were.” She looked at the journal, placing her hand over it.

“Someday,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Someday I’ll find it.”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest at her words.

The details hadn’t faded with time. The rage with which Lady Isobel struck down Lord Ashdowne was born out of her deep love for her husband, Lord Aldric Harrowmont, but the trial twisted her actions into tales of infidelity and jealousy.

Lord Ashdowne’s faction started a misinformation campaign, fearing being hunted.

Their stories destroyed the poor woman’s credibility.

“Minor nobility?” I asked as the words finally sank in. Lady Isobel Lyon Blackcairn Harrowmont Fitzwilliam was anything but minor nobility. She had married a Duke and held a barony of her own. She was a significant figure at court.

Briar smiled, her expression lighting up despite the shadows falling across her face.

“My mother figured that was why she couldn’t find any further information on her.

Isobel Blackcairn was listed as a murderess on the ship the Broxbounebury in 1813, but there is nothing online about her in any of the records.

She checked the National Archives, Old Bailey, and even the Irish National Archives.

” Her voice dropped low. “That’s why my mother always wanted to go to England.

She believed the answers were there, waiting in the trial notes. ”

I watched her for a moment, saying nothing.

The past stretched between us like a gossamer thread connecting her curiosity to truths she couldn’t imagine and memories I could never forget.

Lady Isobel’s story wasn’t just in that journal; it remained etched into my past, a piece of the tangled tapestry I had tried so hard to leave behind.

The distant hum of the party barely reached us here, but it seemed to grow louder in my mind.

The laughter, the music, the relentless beat of human life all pressed against me like an unseen tide.

Yet here, in this quiet space filled with the scent of lavender, old books, and earth, I felt the faintest pull of something I hadn’t expected: the warmth of connection, as fragile and fleeting as the flame of a single candle.

I finally broke the silence, my voice hushed. “Some histories are better left buried.”

Her gaze held mine for a long moment, her eyes crowded with unspoken questions. Then she nodded, her fingers still resting on the journal. “Sometimes, I think the past finds its way to us anyway.”