It lasted only a second. Then the moment shifted, and the room came back into focus with the books, the torn pages, and the truth still waiting in the shadows.
But Grenville would remember that second. The way her hand felt in his. The fire behind her eyes. The kiss that had stopped time.
*
Mrs. Bainbridge walkedbriskly alongside Townsend, their steps echoing softly against the polished floors. The air in the corridor was cool, the scent of aged wood and wax lingering from the morning’s tidying. She kept her voice low as she glanced up at her companion.
“Barrington wants us to speak to Dr. Manning and have him come here immediately,” she murmured, urgency tightening her tone.
Townsend gave a crisp nod. The esteemed physician was known not only for his medical expertise but for his unflinching manner when dealing with matters of an unsettling nature. He would know what to make of the situation.
“I’ll speak to Judge Scofield,” Townsend added. “He, too, must be informed.”
Mrs. Bainbridge agreed, though a chill of apprehension crept into her spine. A death under mysterious circumstances, especially that of a respected gentleman, was no small matter. How swiftly would the law intervene?
As they disappeared down the corridor on their errand, the manor remained charged with uncertainty.
In the quiet of the drawing room, hushed voices and subdued conversation wove through the area, the guests restless but unwilling to break the fragile calm.
Near the mantel, Davenport and Tresham stood locked in discussion, their low voices a murmur of speculation. Their brows were drawn, their expressions grave, piecing together the morning’s grim discovery.
Across the room, Blackwood kept himself occupied with theSommer Sentinel, though his occasional scoff at the thinly written columns betrayed his disdain. “Not quiteThe London Gazette,” he had grumbled earlier, “but I suppose it will suffice.”
A few feet away, Miss Hathaway and Miss Gray exchanged a fleeting glance, subtle but telling. They had not spoken much, yet their eyes carried an understanding, a quiet acknowledgement of the morning’s turn.
By the window, Lady Worthington sat with the poise of a woman unaffected by such grim affairs. Her embroidery hoop rested in her hands, the rhythmic whisper of her needle piercingthe fabric the only consistent sound in the room. The sapphire on the top of her bodkin case caught the fading light, a glint of steel against her measured composure.
No one spoke loudly. No one dared shatter the stillness.
The manor had settled into an uneasy calm, each guest lost in their own thoughts, the gravity of the morning lingering like a storm on the horizon.
Chapter Fourteen
The steady clipof hooves on gravel announced their arrival before the footman had even reached the door. Dr. Manning and Judge Scofield stepped down from the carriage, their expressions already set with grim understanding. Townsend and Mrs. Bainbridge, having secured their assistance, led them through the entrance hall, where the hush of the household had thickened into something near suffocating.
Dr. Manning, a man of precise movements and keen observation, wasted no time. “Where is he?” he asked, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.
“This way,” Barrington said, his tone clipped, leading them toward the icehouse.
The scent of damp stone and lingering cold met them as they stepped inside. Alastair’s still form lay undisturbed, death turning his once-vibrant features into something unfamiliar. Dr. Manning efficiently moved beside the body while the others watched in tense silence.
Judge Scofield, normally a man of unwavering authority, stood near the entrance, his face drawn. He had known Alastair since he was a babe. He had watched him grow into a man of standing and respect. Now, he was tasked with ensuring justice for him.
Dr. Manning placed his hands on Alastair’s limbs, pressing along the joints, feeling for fractures. He lifted one of Alastair’s eyelids, studying the dull, clouded iris before pausing.
His brow furrowed. He leaned in slightly, adjusting his spectacles, then examined the other eye.
“What is it?” Barrington asked, watching the doctor’s sharp focus.
Dr. Manning didn’t immediately answer. He pressed two fingers against Alastair’s jaw, tilting his head slightly before exhaling.
“His pupils,” he murmured, “They are…unnaturally dilated.”
Bridget, standing just behind Grenville, felt a prickle of unease. “What does that mean?”
Dr. Manning glanced at her, then returned his focus to the body. “The eyes do not respond to light after death, but such pronounced dilation suggests something more.” He hesitated, then sniffed the air subtly before lowering his nose toward the wound near Alastair’s ribs. His face hardened.
A slow tension rippled through the gathered onlookers.
