Bridget exhaled, pulling her into a quiet alcove. “It’s about Lord Alastair’s journal.” At Catriona’s sharp intake of breath, she pressed on. “We need people to believe it’s still here, hidden, misplaced, waiting to be found.”
Catriona’s brows pulled together, her expression cautious. “But it’s not, is it, Lady Bridget?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Bridget waited. Catriona was a clever woman. She would get Bridget’s meaning quick enough. “What matters is that the people responsible for his lordship’s murder think it is. We need to draw them out.”
Catriona hesitated, her loyalty to Bridget warring with her instinct for caution. “And you need someone to spread the whispers?”
Bridget allowed a small smile. “You and Killian. You’re trusted. You move about the estate without raising questions. If you mention a missing journal in passing, it won’t look like a contrived piece of hearsay, but like a discovery.”
Catriona nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “A bit of Scottish mischief, is it?”
Bridget’s lips twitched. “Something like that.”
“We need to speak to Killian,” Catriona said. “He’ll want to hear this.” She took off her apron. They both left for the stable.
A short while later, Bridget, Catriona, and Killian stood behind the stable, hidden away from prying ears. Killian rolled his shoulders, casting a wary glance toward the house.
“If this will help find who murdered his lordship,” he said at last, “I’ll gladly help. How do we make sure they believe it?”
Bridget let out a relieved breath. “Keep it simple. A passing remark, something about how his lordship never went anywhere without his journal. And that if it was lost,” Bridget added, “it would have to be somewhere within the house.”
Killian nodded, his expression settling into one of grim determination. “Aye. I can manage that.”
Catriona leaned in. “And what if they start asking questions?”
Bridget’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll know we’re close.”
Bridget thanked them both, but the unease lingered. Spreading rumors was one thing, watching them take root was another. As she and Catriona walked back toward the manor, the impact of what they’d set in motion settled on her shoulders. It was a dangerous game they were playing, one that required more than clever words.
That thought followed her up the stone steps and through the halls, all the way to Marjory’s door.
When she arrived, she found her friend sitting by the window, gazing out at the fields. The light streaming in caught the shadows beneath her eyes. Bridget was startled to see the deep hollows. Mrs. Simmons stood nearby, a pot of tea in hand, her expression pinched with worry.
“You should eat something, my lady,” the housekeeper urged gently. “You’ll make yourself ill.”
Marjory barely seemed to hear. Her hands rested awkwardly on the armrest of her chair. “It feels like he’s still here,” she murmured. “If I turn around fast enough, he’ll be standing in the doorway, smiling at me.”
Bridget’s heart sank. “That feeling doesn’t fade easily.” Bridget moved closer and sat on the ottoman in front of Marjory. “But you don’t have to face it alone.”
Marjory turned to her then, her gaze sharp despite her grief. “Mark always said secrets had a way of surfacing at the worst times.”
Bridget hesitated. “We’re looking for the truth. Rumors and gossip are already swirling.”
Bridget stilled. The quiet melancholy in Marjory’s eyes shifted, sharpened. There was less grief now, more somethingelse. Marjory gave her a long, unreadable look. “Be careful, Bridget. Whispered secrets have a way of turning into weapons.”
Bridget frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
Marjory sighed, her expression pained. “I’ve seen it happen before. Innocent whispers can turn into dangerous rumors, and those with ill-intentions can twist the truth to suit their purposes. Just… tread carefully.”
Bridget felt a chill settle over her. This wasn’t grief speaking, it was experience. Marjory wasn’t hinting. This was a warning. The wrong word in the wrong ear could undo everything.
Bridget didn’t have to wait long. By midday, the first murmurs drifted through the halls, servants exchanging hushed speculation about Lord Alastair’s journal. A passing footman remarked that his lordship never went anywhere without it. A chambermaid whispered that perhaps it had been misplaced rather than lost forever.
Marjory’s words lingered, quiet but insistent, even as Bridget went about the day.
By evening, the whispers had found their way to the guests. Over tea, a lady’s maid confided to her mistress that some believed his lordship’s journal still lingered somewhere within Alastair Court. At supper, a guest offhandedly questioned whether anyone had searched properly.
The next morning, the rumor had taken hold. Growing tendrils had reached the right ears.
