“Come,” he said softly. “It’s late.”
But as they walked back toward the manor, the night air between them crackled with something unfinished, something not yet claimed.
Something that neither of them would be able to deny much longer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bridget said nothingas she and Thomas made their way back toward the manor, the silence between them rich with everything unspoken. The moment on the cliffs still lingered in her thoughts, impossible to set aside. Something between them had shifted, and there was no turning back.
By the time she reached her room, the house was quiet, the echoes of the day settling into stillness.
The following day, the house seemed determined to return to its usual rhythm. The weekend guests resumed their entertainments, some out of genuine distraction, others out of obligation. The gravity of the past day was pushed aside, at least on the surface, but a subtle tension still wove itself into the fabric of their gatherings.
Lady Carlisle presided over a lively game of cards in the drawing room, laughing as she playfully accused Lord Davenport of cheating. Miss Gray and Miss Hathaway, having abandoned their earlier debate over the weather, had taken to the pianoforte, filling the air with the soft strains of a duet. Lady Worthington, her embroidery hoop in hand, stitched with an intensity that suggested her mind was elsewhere.
Bridget and Thomas observed from the periphery, careful to blend in while remaining alert. Though the guests entertained themselves, none were truly at ease. The investigation had delayed their departures, and while no one openly voiced their frustrations, an undercurrent of unease settled over the house.They were all waiting. Some for answers, some for the moment they could leave without suspicion clinging to their names.
By mid-afternoon, the men had moved to the billiards room, where Barrington and Blackwood engaged in a quiet but pointed match. Lord Davenport, having lost a game earlier, nursed a glass of brandy while listening to Townsend discuss the latest developments in London. Outside, a handful of guests ventured onto the damp grounds for a stroll, cloaks drawn tight against the gusts of wind as they wandered the paths leading toward the gardens.
Meanwhile, the ladies busied themselves with less strenuous pursuits. Lady Carlisle arranged for a small poetry reading in the afternoon parlor, where Miss Hathaway took great pleasure in reciting Lord Byron with a dramatic flourish. Tea was served, polite conversation resumed, and for a while, the house resembled any other gathering of its kind.
Yet beneath it all, a quiet watchfulness remained.
Bridget’s attention drifted as she watched Thomas, who stood at ease near the mantel but missed nothing. His gaze frequently flicked toward Blackwood, assessing, calculating. She had learned to recognize when his mind was at work, turning over details and seeking patterns in the noise.
“Oh, bother! Where is it?”
Lady Worthington twisted in her seat, patting at the folds of her gown with increasing urgency. “It was right here,” she muttered, her brows knitting together. She shifted her embroidery hoop aside, peering at the space between the cushions.
Lady Carlisle, in the midst of whispering a particularly scandalous theory to Miss Hathaway, frowned. “Evelina, whatever is the matter?”
“My bodkin,” Lady Worthington huffed, her frustration clear as she searched the small table beside her chair. “It was just here not a moment ago!”
Thomas, who had been watching Blackwood’s reaction to a circulating rumor about the missing journal, exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. The timing could not have been worse.
Bridget, standing near the hearth, forced a polite smile. “Would you like some help looking?”
Lady Worthington barely seemed to hear her. “It has a sapphire set in the cap, a family heirloom,” she added, her voice growing more clipped. She cast a glance toward a footman lingering near the doorway. “Did someone move it? Are you certain none of the maids disturbed my chair?”
The footman straightened, clearly uncomfortable. “No, my lady. I haven’t seen anything.”
Lady Worthington’s lips pressed into a thin line. With a frustrated exhale, she upended her work basket onto the table, spilling a small pair of scissors, silk threads, and embroidery floss. But no bodkin.
Miss Gray, attempting to lighten the moment, let out a delicate laugh. “Lady Worthington, I do believe that your bodkin has seen more excitement tonight than any of us.”
Lady Worthington didn’t laugh. Instead, she exhaled sharply and stood, brushing off her skirts with clipped efficiency. “It must be somewhere,” she murmured, as if convincing herself. “I’ll look in the library.”
Before anyone could respond, she swept toward the door.
Thomas leaned toward Bridget, his voice low and dry. “Could this evening be any more chaotic?”
Bridget barely resisted a smirk.
Barrington, who had been quietly observing, rubbed his chin in thought. “Perhaps a little distraction works in our favor,” he murmured.
Across the room, Lord Blackwood had shifted, his fingers tapping against the armrest. He was either bored, or the rumor had reached him.
A murmur of conversation swelled and receded, the household settling into a deceptively normal rhythm. Footmen moved about the room, offering refreshments, while Lady Carlisle dealt a fresh hand of cards with a flourish.
