Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Friday morning sun filtered through the dining room’s tall windows, casting a warm glow over the silver teapot and neatly arranged toast rack. Mary-Ann stirred her tea, watching the steam curl upward, her thoughts already two steps ahead.
Her father sat at the head of the table, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a newspaper spread open before him. He hadn’t said much. He rarely did the first thing in the morning, but there was a crease between his brows that hadn’t been there last week.
“Father,” she said softly.
He looked up. “Yes, my girl?”
She smiled faintly at the endearment. “I wondered if we might spend some time today reviewing the ledgers together. I know Mr. Wilkinson has been overseeing things, but I… I’d like to see them with you.”
Mr. Seaton folded the paper slowly. “Of course. I’ve missed working beside you.”
The words warmed her more than the tea. A memory surfaced.
She was eleven years old, seated beside him at this very table with a pencil twice her size and ink smudged on her cheek.
She had begged to help with the cargo manifests, only to fall asleep in the middle of the column.
He’d carried her to bed and finished the work by lamplight.
She reached for a slice of toast, gathering her thoughts.
“You used to wrinkle your nose at coffee,” he said suddenly, a small smile touching his mouth. “Now you take it darker than I do.”
She looked at him, surprised. “I’ve had reasons to stay sharp lately.”
He studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Good.”
“Has the Argent Wind reported in yet?” she asked casually, referring to one of their smaller coastal ships.
He blinked, then frowned. “No, not yet. It’s a day or two behind, but nothing unusual—not this early in the spring.”
“Still,” she said gently, “you’ve always told me a good captain sends word ahead.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” He sighed and reached for his coffee. Barrington mentioned it yesterday, as a matter of fact. He said he might have someone look into it, just to be cautious.
Mary-Ann raised her brows slightly. “Who?”
“I didn’t ask. Likely one of his men or Quinton, perhaps. He said someone was heading to Scarborough.”
She nodded, absorbing the information. So Barrington was already investigating.
“I’ll make time this afternoon for the ledgers,” her father said, his voice gentler now. “Just like old times?”
“Just like,” she echoed.
And for the first time in days, the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. The balance was shifting subtly, but real. She could feel it in the air, as surely as the scent of toast and tea.
Mary-Ann was not halfway up the stairs when Lydia appeared at the landing, hands clasped, smile fixed.
“Miss Seaton,” she said brightly, “I thought perhaps a drive to the park this morning? The air is lovely, and Mr. Wilkinson said it would be good for your nerves.”
Mary-Ann paused two steps from the top. “My nerves are quite sound, thank you.”
Lydia’s smile flickered. “Well, a change of scenery—”
“—would interfere with my schedule,” Mary-Ann said pleasantly. “But I’m sure you’ll find something else to occupy yourself.”
A flash of something passed behind Lydia’s eyes, irritation, perhaps, or calculation.
“Very good, miss.”
But she didn’t move. Instead, Lydia offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“You won’t have to worry about managing a house once you’re married,” she added smoothly. “I’ll be there.”
Mary-Ann stopped short, blinking.
Lydia’s expression turned smug. “Mr. Wilkinson has hired me as the housekeeper in his new home. I thought I ought to get accustomed to the rhythm of things.”
Mary-Ann said nothing. Not yet. But her smile returned, calm and unreadable.
So that was the game. Not a companion, but a shadow in silk. A presence that slipped in too easily and watched too closely.
Mary-Ann continued, her steps unhurried. Behind her, she could hear Lydia descending the stairs, the sound just a bit too sharp.
She had nearly reached the hall when the drawing room door flew open.
“There you are!” Mrs. Bainbridge swept in, trailing a bolt of ivory ribbon and a folded invitation. “You must come help me. A baron’s nephew is now refusing to sit beside a viscount’s daughter, and I’ve been told the cake baker is threatening to elope with the florist.”
Mary-Ann blinked. “Is that… figurative?”
“Not even slightly,” Bainbridge said. “They’ve taken a chaise and three bottles of champagne and are nowhere to be found.”
Mary-Ann clapped her hand over her mouth.
Had she just laughed? Out loud? She hadn’t expected to find a moment of absurdity tucked between suspicion and worry, but Mrs. Bainbridge always managed it.
“Come,” Bainbridge said, linking their arms. “We’ll rescue the guest list, restore order to the ribbons, and pretend your lady’s maid isn’t sulking like a slighted governess. ”
Mary-Ann allowed herself to be swept along. Tuesday mornings with Mrs. Bainbridge had become a welcome routine, even if they sometimes came with ribbons and minor noble chaos. For now.
They were halfway through arranging seating cards by rank, reputation, and likelihood of political offense when Hollis stepped discreetly into the room.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Seaton,” he said to Mary-Ann. “Mr. Kenworth is in the front hall. He asks for a moment of your time.”
Mrs. Bainbridge immediately perked up. “Barrington’s man? Oh, do ask if he has strong feelings about lavender. These ribbons are destroying my will to live.”
Mary-Ann rose, brushing a smudge of ink from her sleeve. “I’ll return shortly.”
Before she could leave the room, Mrs. Bainbridge stood as well, gathering her scattered papers and bits of ribbon. “Oh, have him help me carry these things, would you? I can’t manage the guest list and my dignity at the same time. My house is close to Barrington’s. I won’t take him out of his way.”
Kenworth stood just inside the door, gloved hands neatly folded behind his back. He bowed when she entered.
“Miss Seaton. His lordship sends his regards. I’ve been asked to deliver a few updates.”
She nodded. “Go on.”
Your father’s vessel, the Argent Wind, has not yet arrived at port in Scarborough. Lord Barrington has dispatched Captain Hollingsworth to investigate more closely. He departed at first light.”
Mary-Ann’s breath caught, not in pain, but with the surprise of a shift in the wind. She imagined saying goodbye at the garden gate, offering caution in place of care. Instead, he had simply gone. It was a reasonable silence. And it stung anyway.
“He’s in Scarborough?”
“Yes, my lady. Lord Barrington believed he was best suited to the task. A discreet hand, loyal eyes.”
She folded her arms, more to keep her balance than to appear unimpressed. “He didn’t think to tell me himself?”
Kenworth’s mouth twitched faintly. “He may have wished to. But dawn does not always allow for courtesies.”
She nodded once. “Thank you.”
She told herself it didn’t matter, that the work came first, that it always had. But her hand tightened slightly against her sleeve. He should have told her.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d been hoping to see him. Just once more, before this all began.
Kenworth inclined his head again. “If there is anything you wish to relay to his lordship or the captain, you need only send word.”
“I will.”
She turned, but Kenworth added quietly, “Captain Hollingsworth left with a purpose. That’s usually when he does his best work.”
Mary-Ann paused, then offered a small smile. “So do I.”
The house was quiet again. Mary-Ann returned to her room without interruption, her mind already stitching together pieces of a plan. She moved with purpose now, not the hesitant caution of days past, but with the calm certainty of someone who had decided which truths to pursue.
She crossed to her writing desk and sat, listening to the hush of the room, the faint creak of floorboards beneath her chair, the whisper of the sea beyond the glass. She didn’t write a letter. She made a list.
· Wilkinson’s control at the docks
· The altered ledger
· The missing Argent Wind
· Lydia’s probing questions
· The recovered letter
She stared at the list, letting the shape of it settle in her mind. It wasn’t just a trail. It was a map. And the more she looked, the more it seemed to point to a single destination: the docks. It was no longer a collection of strange events. It was a pattern.
She folded the page and tucked it behind a dull household note in the journal, then slipped it into the back of a drawer. A record for herself. A thread to follow later when no one else was watching.
She passed the desk on her way to the wardrobe, her gaze brushing the corner where the letter still lay. She hadn’t touched it since the first reading. She didn’t need to. Its words had rooted beneath her skin, steadying her every step since.
She rose and crossed to the wardrobe, choosing a sensible cloak, sturdy boots, and a reticule containing coins and gloves. It was time to return to the docks. But this time, she wouldn’t be following breadcrumbs. She’d be leaving them.