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Jackson toyed with his soup, picking it up, tipping the spoon, and letting the thin liquid dribble back into the bowl. He felt… stuck. Thanks to his father’s rather good—and likely oversuspicious protection of his manuscripts—they’d seen not a hair of it.

Not all was cloaked in despair, though. Gwendolyn had gifted yet another bit of herself to him. Not a pretty little memory, but he’d always known her secrets would be bleak.

What had happened for her to unfurl a tentative tendril of trust, an open palm he’d been waiting years for. He snuck a glance at her. She seemed locked up just as tight as usual, each dip of her spoon into her bowl precise, each press of that spoon against her lips more evocative for Jackson than it should be.

“Uncle,” Thomas said, “Jack is playing with his food.”

Sarah chuckled. “Thomas, do not tattle. Jackson, do not play with your food.”

He managed a grin for the dear woman and swallowed a healthy portion to appease her before placing the spoon carefully beside the bowl. “My appetite is not what it could be.

“Is something amiss?” Sarah asked.

“’Tis only the missing manuscript that plagues me, Aunt. We’ve searched all the usual places. It seems to have”—he fluttered his hand in the air—“disappeared, and I cannot fathom where it may be.” He knew his father had not had it with him in the end, during the crash that had killed them. And he would not have given it to anyone. It must be here. But where?

“Perhaps someone stole it,” Sarah offered.

“Hmm.” Uncle Henry scratched his jaw, considered his wife. “But why would they wish to do that? The book is destined for a very small niche of readers, and not a particularly lucrative one. “But I’ll write to my old friend Hopkins to see if any books on the subject have been published in the last six or so years.”

Sarah pointed her fork at her husband. “Do be nice in your correspondence with him. You are asking a favor.”

Uncle Henry grinned. “If I don’t tease him a little bit, he won’t believe it’s me.”

His wife rolled her eyes and took a sip of soup then turned her gaze toward Gwendolyn. “How is your portion of this project coming along?”

Gwendolyn sat straighter, wiped her mouth—pink and lush and damn, he wanted to kiss it—with a serviette. “As well as can be while here. Though, Lord Eaden, when you speak with Mr. Hopkins, could you request he send us any recent books published on the subject? It will help our efforts to complete the book, should that be necessary. We will surely wish to update it with the most current material.”

Uncle Henry chewed thoughtfully. “Excellent idea.”

It was an excellent idea, and Jackson wanted to kiss her for that just as much as for her ridiculously seductive method of eating soup.

Pansy peered at Gwendolyn. “Will you be here when the books arrive? Or will you be gone by then? You’ll have to leave your notes for Papa, or he’ll be lost.”

All sound ceased. The table was a symphony of clatters and sips one moment and a howling void of silence the next.

Jackson lowered his wine goblet to the table with the speed of a turtle, his muscles just as confused as his mind. “Why would you leave your notes? Gone… where?”

“Zeus,” Uncle Henry hissed. “Pansy—”

The little girl turned pink. “Did I do something wrong? I heard you talking in the music room, Papa.”

Gwendolyn’s cheeks turned a bright read. Her ears too. Despite the heat rushing clear and angry across her skin, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if cold and studied her plate like it held the answers to the questions of the universe.

“Gwendolyn?” Jackson reached across the table. He needed to touch her. Gwendolyn… gone?

She pulled both arms off the table and hid them in her lap, looking up at everyone with an air of defiance. “I suppose everyone should know.”

A shiver of dread crept up Jackson’s spine, spread across his skin like a thousand spiders skittering there. “Know what?”

Silence bound them all together tight.

Jackson lifted his spoon, but tapped it on the rim of his bowl, counting out the length of their wordlessness as his dread crept higher, soaked deeper.

Then Pansy, thank God, spilled her drink, and several footmen jumped to right the wrong, clean up the flood of liquid as the silence could not contain the group’s discomfort and curiosity any longer.

“My apologies,” Pansy muttered.

Uncle Henry granted his youngest daughter a warm smile. “Thank you for the apology, Pansy, but—”