Bridget glanced toward the house staff, still searching beneath tables and along shelves, and felt a small pang of amusement. The woman’s bodkin truly had become the most sought-after object in the manor.
But at least, for now, it was only a distraction.
That evening, over brandy and conversation, Lord Blackwood scoffed at the speculation.
“A lost journal, is it?” He leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “It’s fascinating how easily people are led by whispers. If such a thing existed, it would have been found already. The dead do not hide secrets.”
Across from him, Lord Davenport chuckled, shaking his head. “At this rate, I’m not sure which has caused more disruption, the journal or Lady Worthington’s missing bodkin. If you ask me, the latter seems to be winning.”
Blackwood’s expression didn’t change, but he tilted his glass slightly, watching the amber liquid swirl. “That depends,” he said, his voice calm, measured. “Value is determined by the one who wants it most.”
Bridget held her glass steady, keeping her expression neutral as the conversation shifted around them. The air inside the drawing room had grown thick with speculation and glances traded like silent wagers. She had spent the better part of the evening listening, watching, and waiting. Yet now, she found herself restless.
Thomas leaned slightly toward her, his voice pitched low enough for only her to hear. “Would you care for some air?”
She set her glass aside. “I think that would be wise.”
They slipped from the drawing room unnoticed and she took his offered arm as they stepped into the quiet hush of the night. The summer air was cooler than expected, the lingering warmth of the day tempered by the whisper of an evening breeze. The scent of damp earth and fading blooms clung to the air, a stark contrast to the tension simmering inside the house.
Thomas’s expression was unreadable. “Do you think Blackwood knows more than he lets on?”
Bridget exhaled, considering. “He’s too controlled to reveal anything outright. But he didn’t dismiss it entirely. That tells me he’s listening.”
Thomas hummed in agreement, his gaze flicking toward the shadowed estate grounds. “And if he’s listening, others are as well.”
As they rounded the corner of the house, faint movement near the tree line caught Bridget’s eye. The flicker of a lantern, a quiet shift of shadow, subtle but intentional. Her breath hitched, her fingers squeezing his arm.
He didn’t miss the touch or the slight panic in her eyes.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Barrington positioned his men along the perimeter. If the Order plans to make a move, they won’t get far.”
Bridget exhaled, some of the unease coiled in her chest loosening. “Then we’re not the only ones waiting to see what happens next.”
Thomas’s lips quirked, though his gaze remained sharp. “No. We’re not.”
The tension in the air hadn’t faded. It had merely increased. Whatever came next, the night was far from over.
He turned to her then, his face partially illuminated by the distant glow of candlelight from the manor. “Are you ready for this?”
Bridget met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “You should know by now that I do not shrink from what must be done.”
A slow smile tugged at his lips before he turned back toward the house. “Then let’s see who comes looking next.”
Bridget swallowed, pulse thrumming. “Either way, we make sure they don’t escape.”
Thomas didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on her, searching, as if seeing something in her he hadn’t allowedhimself to before. The distant glow of candlelight from the house flickered across his features, casting deep shadows and making his expression unreadable.
“Bridget—” He stopped himself. The sound of her name on his lips sent an unfamiliar thrill through her.
She tilted her head, curiosity stirring beneath the tension that stretched between them. “Yes?”
His jaw tightened slightly as if evaluating the risk of his next words. Then, softer, almost as if the words weren’t meant to leave his lips, he murmured, “Sometimes, with you, it’s too easy to forget there are things I haven’t said… things I can’t say. Not yet.”
The admission sent a shiver down her spine, though the evening air was still. “Careful?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of what?”
He let out a breath, but it wasn’t exasperation. It was something else, something quieter, more dangerous. “Of this.”
His fingers moved deliberately, brushing against hers, then lingering. A single touch, but it might as well have been a spark in dry kindling. It would have been so easy to pull away, to let the moment slip into nothing. But she didn’t. And neither did he.
