Davenport merely smirked. “I do try.”
Lady Carlisle took a sip of her tea, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Perhaps it will turn up in an unexpected place. Things often do.”
Lady Worthington exhaled sharply. “I need it found.”
Lady Worthington, always the epitome of grace and poise, now paced like a woman unraveling. The elegant composure she had worn like a second skin was gone, replaced by clipped words and harried glances. She scoured the breakfast room with restless energy, her hands fluttering over cushions and candelabra alike, as if decorum itself had betrayed her. It was not just a missing bodkin. It was the breach of something deeper, something she could not name but could not tolerate.
The morning had been a flurry of quiet disruptions, muttered rumors, exchanged glances, and the ever-present tension simmering beneath the civility of the house. But no disturbance had been more persistent than Lady Worthington’s frantic search for her missing bodkin.
“Turn the cushions again,” she directed a footman, her usual composed manner fraying at the edges. “It must be here somewhere!”
Across the room, Davenport exchanged an amused glance with Miss Gray, who had long since abandoned any pretense of interest in her needlework.
“If I disappear before luncheon,” he murmured, “tell them I was last seen beneath a pile of misplaced embroidery.”
Miss Gray stifled a laugh while Lady Carlisle attempted to soothe Lady Worthington. “Perhaps you left it in your chambers? Or the morning room?”
Lady Worthington’s sharp exhale made it clear that such a possibility was both absurd and unacceptable. “It was right here,” she insisted, scanning the room once more before turning on her heel. “I shall check the drawing room again.”
As she stormed away, the tension she had stirred remained. The footman hesitated, unsure whether to continue upending cushions, and several guests shared knowing glances, some sympathetic, while others were entertained.
Barrington, who had been standing by the window observing the exchange in silence, finally sighed and moved toward one of the vacant chairs. “Well,” he muttered, “if I’m to witness an unraveling, I may as well be comfortable.”
He started to sit, then abruptly stopped.
Something hard pressed against his palm as he adjusted the cushion.
Frowning, he reached down and pulled a small, ornate silver bodkin from the crevice between the fabric. The cap gleamed in the soft morning light, the embedded sapphire winking at him.
Barrington turned it over between his fingers. An impressive piece of finely worked silver filigree along the slender case, the cap fitted snugly to protect the delicate needle tip. A fine thing to lose, he mused, though he suspected Lady Worthington’s distress was less about the embroidery tool itself and more about the sentimental value attached to it.
“Well, that settles that,” he said to no one in particular, standing again. He glanced toward the doorway through which the woman had disappeared. Should he return it to her now or later?
His fingers absently turned the cap. It was stuck firm.
Probably from being wedged in the chair, he reasoned. With a slight shrug, he slipped the bodkin into his pocket, intending to return it when she was in a more reasonable mood.
For now, there were more pressing concerns. He finished his breakfast, casting one last glance at the room before rising. The library would provide the solitude he needed to think.
He stepped inside, the quiet space a welcome reprieve from the morning’s activity. Crossing to the nearest shelf, he let his fingers drift absently over the spines of the books, his mind already turning over the puzzle before him.
A sharp knock at the door drew his attention. Barrington looked up as Townsend stepped inside, his expression unreadable.
“We need to talk,” Townsend said without preamble, closing the door behind him.
Barrington gestured toward the chair across from him. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”
Townsend’s mouth twitched in amusement, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Not unless you consider the Order’s latest move a lively topic of conversation.”
As the library doors closed behind them, Bridget approached from the corridor, a stack of correspondence balanced in her hands. The soft murmur of voices drifted through the slightly ajar door, drawing her pause.
The deep timbre of Barrington’s voice carried clearly in the quiet corridor, followed by Townsend’s measured response.
“If the information is accurate,” Barrington was saying, his tone thoughtful, “it confirms the Order’s involvement. They’ve been working to destabilize the Highlands for years. Huntington’s actions were just the beginning.”
Bridget froze, her heart hammering in her chest. The name struck her like a thunderclap, dredging up memories she had tried to bury. From the eviction notices to the burned cottages,all the way to the pleading voices of her clansmen as their lives were torn apart. She leaned closer, her breath shallow, and listened.
“It’s a dangerous web,” Townsend replied. “And not one easily unraveled. Huntington’s presence in the Highlands was no coincidence. It’s clear now he wasn’t acting alone. The question is, how much does Grenville know?”
