Chapter Thirty-One
Gabriel stood at his desk at Ashcombe Hall, dressed for the soiree, but unmoving. The polished surface beneath his palms was scattered with records and sketches, his uncle’s notes folded and unfolded so many times the paper had grown soft. A decanter of brandy stood untouched.
The brooch. He could not get it out of his mind since she had walked away. Since she’d chosen not to look back.
But it wasn’t Leticia who haunted him now. It was the burden she carried, and the knowledge that she did not yet understand it.
Six pieces, his uncle had written. Six. Each with diamonds arranged to mimic the symbol the Order held sacred, angles cut so precisely they formed a diamond within a diamond. At its heart, the dark gem. Always the dark one.
He turned toward the painting propped against the armchair.
His uncle’s hand, rendered in oil and shadow, had captured more than just likeness.
The woman’s gaze held that same luminous clarity Leticia wore when she was determined not to cry.
And there, at her shoulder, glimmered the brooch.
Too precise to be a coincidence. Too familiar to be anything but fact.
He leaned in. Even in oils, the jewel sparkled, as though it would not be subdued. And it matched the sketches exactly.
He drew a breath, slow and sharp, his fingers curling against the desk. Leticia’s brooch hadn’t just been a keepsake. It was a relic tied to the Order, tied to danger. And someone would come to reclaim it.
He carefully wrapped the painting with linen, slipping it under one arm. He folded the notes into a folio and secured it with twine. He didn’t call for his butler, nor wait for the carriage, nor pause to explain. He walked out the door with purpose in every stride.
Because there were answers now. And someone needed to hear them.
*
The lamps inside Barrington’s house burned low, the kind of light that invited secrets.
Sanderson showed Gabriel to the study without delay.
Mrs. Bainbridge sat curled on the fainting couch, a porcelain cup of chocolate balanced on her knee.
Barrington stood by the hearth, the flicker of firelight sharpening the furrow between his brows.
“I didn’t expect you until later,” he said. But his gaze had already landed on the bundle in Gabriel’s arm. “What is it?”
Gabriel set the portrait carefully against the chair and passed the folio to him. “The last piece of the Morton estate. It was never missing. It was here. With Leticia.”
Barrington’s brow furrowed deeper as he flipped through the pages. Mrs. Bainbridge leaned over his shoulder, taking each page as he passed it. With each sheet, her expression shifted further into disbelief.
Gabriel loosened the linen slowly, as though even this required care. He set it upright, and the brooch gleamed back at him, painted, and yet too real.
“Leticia’s mother,” he said quietly. “The brooch. It’s there. Same as in the sketches. Same as in the Morton records. My uncle Robbie purchased it for her mother. She passed it to Leticia.”
His gaze didn’t leave the canvas.
“That,” he said, pointing to the glint at the woman’s shoulder, “is the sixth piece.”
Barrington muttered a low curse. “So it wasn’t missing.”
Gabriel shook his head once, but his jaw had tightened. He moved to the mantel, bracing himself with one hand.
“She told me her mother always wore it. I went back through the ledgers. The sketches. I had hoped it wouldn’t be true.”
Barrington looked up. “So you’ll tell her tonight?”
A shadow crossed Gabriel’s eyes. “She’s gone. To Alnwick. I don’t think she’s coming back.”
A silence settled, heavy and unforgiving.
Mrs. Bainbridge spoke, low, but steady. “You know why you have to be there. Not just for answers. For her.”
He stared at the brooch in the painting. The light no longer touched it.
“Let them come,” he said.
*
The air in the salon held the perfume of lilacs and burning beeswax. Champagne shimmered on silver trays. Candles reflected in mirrored sconces. Every surface glowed, but none of it reached Gabriel’s mind.
He stood inside the entrance, scanning the room as though assessing a field of engagement. He had told Barrington she wouldn’t come.
Leticia’s silence hadn’t been a test. It was a verdict. One he hadn’t wanted to hear. Even so, he could not stop watching the door.
He murmured greetings. Accepted a flute of champagne, he would not drink. Colonel Rutherford passed with a nod, mentioning something about the ledgers, the auction house, the pattern emerging from beneath the surface.
But without her, the answers were thin. He was tracing a shadow that refused to resolve into form.
He drifted toward the edge of the room, where the candlelight pooled thickest and conversation slowed to murmurs.
A few women wore unusual pieces of jewelry, chokers with antique clasps, brooches glinting with stones that caught the light wrong.
Pieces like those had already been stolen, worn now by women who didn’t know they might be next.
Two women who’d worn similar jewels had already been attacked. One refused to leave her home after dusk. The other now traveled with a manservant trained in defense, under the pretense of needing assistance on the stairs.
Only one remained. Leticia. His fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. She was the next target, and he still didn’t know who the thief was.
The air changed. Not the music. Not the lighting. The atmosphere shifted as the far doors opened.
She stood in the doorway. Leticia.
Every inch of her was poised, each step deliberate. She wore the same green gown from the masquerade. Silk with silver threads. But this time, no mask. No anonymity. Only resolve.
And at her shoulder, glistening like a mark of fate, rested the brooch.
The room exhaled, murmurs rising through the room. Not about the party. Not about the ball. About her. About it.
Gabriel did not move. He couldn’t.
She greeted her aunt, turned toward the heart of the room, drawing every eye with her. The crowd parted for her like the tide.
Not with bravado, but with certainty. She hadn’t come to be bait. She had come to set the terms.
Gabriel’s pulse pounded in his ears. He handed his champagne to the nearest footman and crossed the room.
*
She stood beneath the candlelight near the pianoforte, her chin lifted, her shoulders relaxed, the brooch catching the flicker of flame like it had a mind of its own. She held a glass of champagne, which she had no intention of drinking.
Gabriel approached without haste. He had imagined what he might say, what he might do if she were here. He had not expected to find himself silent.
“You wore it,” he said, though the words carried to the room as much as to her.
Leticia turned, slowly, as if judging the moment. “It was the only way to test a theory.”
She stood composed, unyielding. Radiant, untouchable. And his. Except she wasn’t.
“I wasn’t certain you’d return,” he admitted.
“I didn’t,” she said. Her gaze scanned the crowd. “I came for this.”
Gabriel moved closer, close enough that his next words would not carry. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve compared the sketches. The flaw in the center stone. The engraving.” Her eyes lifted to his. “It’s the sixth piece. And it’s mine.”
His throat worked. “You’re making yourself a target.”
“I know.” Her voice didn’t waver, the words carrying the conviction of someone who had already accepted the consequence.
“Let them look,” she said. “Let them wonder. Let them try.”
His mouth twitched. “You sound like Barrington.”
“I sound like myself.” She paused. “This isn’t about my safety. It’s about my mother’s name. My aunt’s. And yes, yours.”
He studied her. She had always been like this. It simply took him too long to see it.
“I’ve spoken with Barrington,” he said. “And Mrs. Bainbridge. The house is secure.”
Leticia nodded. “Then we play the part they expect. Until they show their hand.”
He offered her his arm. He imagined this was when he’d step in, the moment she would need him. But she had never needed him to stand in front of her. Only beside.
She rested her hand against his sleeve, not as a plea, but a choice.
She wasn’t alone. Not in that salon. Not in danger. Not now. She had her aunt at her back. Barrington and Mrs. Bainbridge holding the line. And Gabriel, even though he hadn’t yet known how to stand with her.
He took her arm, gently. Their steps matched in perfect rhythm. They crossed the floor together, past whispers, glances, and candlelight.
And behind them, the soiree swirled on.
But ahead, somewhere in the circle of polite conversation and too-sweet champagne, was the one who believed the brooch still belonged to the Order.
Leticia scanned the crowd.
There was Erica, chin dipped, smile too practiced. Professor Tresham, at ease, unreadable. Townsend, near the window, sipping his drink with the careless grace of a man watching everything. Maybe it was none of them.
Gabriel’s hand rested lightly at her back. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. They stood together in the hum of music and polished civility.
And if the Order meant to take her brooch, they would have to go through both of them.