The murmurs stilled.
Barrington’s gaze swept the room, landing on each guest in turn. When he spoke again, his voice was clear and authoritative.
“Dr. Manning has confirmed what was previously surmised. He determined that Lord Alastair’s death was no accident.”
The reaction was immediate. Several guests stiffened, and others exchanged nervous glances. Lady Worthington inhaled sharply. Lord Davenport’s brows knit together in concern. Even Blackwood’s grip on his glass tightened, his expression unreadable.
“Make no mistake, this was a crime. And until the person responsible is identified, this house remains under investigation.” He paused. “For that reason, no one may leave Alastair Court until further notice.”
The room erupted. Protests burst forth in overlapping waves, voices rising in disbelief, outrage, and fear. Chairs scraped against the floor. The refined calm of the drawing room dissolved into a cacophony of objections.
Lord Davenport exhaled sharply. “Surely that is unnecessary?”
Barrington’s gaze did not waver. “So is murder, Lord Davenport.”
A tense silence followed. Barrington let it settle before delivering the next blow.
“To ensure order is maintained,” Barrington continued. “Judge Scofield has gone to Bamburgh Castle to make arrangements for the militia. Until he returns, your full cooperation is expected. The magistrate’s office will oversee proceedings here, and I strongly advise against interfering with this investigation.”
Lady Worthington visibly blanched. “The militia?” she repeated, her voice strained.
“You mean to bring soldiers into a house of nobility?” Lady Carlisle muttered.
Barrington’s expression hardened. “A man was murdered. I will not risk another.”
Another pause. Some of the guests looked away, others stared at Scofield in open discomfort.
Only one man seemed wholly unbothered by the declaration.
Lord Blackwood tilted his head, his voice laced with mild curiosity.
“I assume, Barrington, that you are overseeing things in Scofield’s absence.”
The question hung in the air, drawing every gaze to Barrington.
Instead of answering directly, Barrington let the question remain unanswered.
“I expect this house to conduct itself accordingly,” he said instead.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Blackwood’s gaze flickered toward Barrington, suspicion sparking in his eyes. He let out a quiet exhale, a smirk just ghosting his lips.
“Convenient,” he murmured, barely loud enough for those nearest to hear.
“Until Scofield returns, I suggest you all make yourselves comfortable.”
With that, Barrington turned and left the room, leaving behind an even more unsettled household.
As the guests began to murmur among themselves, Barrington’s words settled over them like a shroud. No one moved to leave the house, but there was an unspoken restlessness, a lingering unease that made them hesitant to remain where they stood.
Bridget knew this was her opportunity. While others remained distracted, she quietly made her way from the drawing room, slipping through the dimly lit corridor toward the library.
She found Grenville standing by a window, his face set in a determined expression.
Approaching him, she spoke in a hushed yet firm tone, “Captain, we must act quickly. The scraps, Alastair wasn’t merely writing notes. He was leaving us clues. If what Barrington told us about the Order is true, they will stop at nothing to keep their secrets hidden.”
He turned at the sound of her voice, the tightness around his eyes easing slightly. “We’ve come too far to falter now.”
