With a steady hand, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and began drafting a report. Townsend would leave for London soon, and the Home Office would need a full account of the Order’s movements, their failed attempt to recover the journal, and the implications of what remained hidden.
His fingers brushed against his coat pocket absently, and something cool and metallic met his touch.
Frowning, Barrington withdrew the small object, the dim candlelight glinting off the delicate silver filigree. Lady Worthington’s bodkin.
A soft, knowing smile escaped him. He’d meant to return it to her. In all the chaos, it had completely slipped his mind. He turned it over in his palm, studying the fine craftsmanship, the intricate design curling around the slender casing. The sapphire glimmered atop the cap, its deep blue catching the light.
He started to set it aside when a faint, almost undetectable scent reached him. Something sharp. Faintly floral, yet bitter.
He frowned, lifting the bodkin closer. The scent wasn’t embroidery thread, nor was it the mild fragrance of scented gloves or handkerchiefs common among ladies of her station. It was something else. Something… familiar. Belladonna.
The realization sent a slow chill through him. Carefully, he twisted the cap, revealing the gleaming tip of the sharp bodkin. He held it up to the candlelight and saw it, a dark, dried stain nestled in the fine engraving near the base. Blood.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
Townsend entered, brushing off his coat as he crossed the room. “The horses are being readied for dawn. I trust you’ve noted everything that needs to be included in the report?”
Barrington didn’t answer. He held up the bodkin instead.
Townsend paused at the sight of Barrington holding the bodkin up to the light.
“Have you taken up needlework, Barrington? Should we be concerned?”
Barrington gave him a flat look. “I’m considering a new hobby. Poisoned embroidery tools seem quite the statement.”
Townsend let out a low whistle. “Fashionable and deadly. Lady Worthington always did have refined tastes.”
Barrington’s expression turned grim. He crossed to the bellpull and gave it a sharp tug. Moments later, Simmons appeared.
“Have the rest of the houseguests gathered in the library,” Barrington said. “Now, please.”
Simmons bowed. “At once, my lord.”
The library was dimly lit, the late evening glow barely filtering through the heavy drapes. A single lamp burned on Barrington’s desk, casting long shadows against the bookshelves. Tension filled the room.
Barrington stood behind the desk, the bodkin still in hand. Townsend leaned against a nearby chair, his arms crossed.
A soft knock came, followed by Mr. Simmons’s steady voice. “As requested, my lord.”
The door opened. Thomas entered first, his expression wary. Bridget followed, her eyes scanning the room. Behind them came the others, Miss Gray, Lady Carlisle, Lord Davenport, and Miss Hathaway, each wearing a mixture of confusion and unease.
Blackwood strode in behind them, his gaze sharp.
Lady Worthington entered last, composed, though irritation flashed across her face. “This is highly irregular,” she said, smoothing a hand down the front of her gown. “If this is about my bodkin, I would prefer to speak privately. I assume you found it?”
Barrington lifted the delicate silver instrument between his fingers. “Wedged into the seat of one of the chairs in the drawing room.” He turned it slightly, then removed the cap with a deliberate motion.
Bridget inhaled sharply. She recognized that smell. Belladonna.
Lady Worthington’s posture remained steady, but her lips thinned. “Well. I suppose that explains why I couldn’t find it. I trust you have not damaged it?”
Townsend let out a humorless chuckle. “Damaged it? No. But we did examine it rather carefully.”
Barrington set the bodkin on the desk. Its tip bore a near-invisible stain.
Bridget stepped closer. “There’s blood on it.”
Lady Worthington’s fingers twitched before she clasped them in front of her. “Blood? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an embroidery tool.”
