Chapter Thirty-Three
The air shattered with a scream, a high, ragged wail that split the music and froze conversation mid-word.
A bowstring snapped against a violin, releasing a discordant screech that hung in the air. Someone gasped. A chair scraped backward. Silver clattered against porcelain. A delicate chime of crystal hitting marble rang out, followed by a glass that toppled and broke.
Silence followed for a single heartbeat.
Murmurs rose, soft at first, scattered across the room. “Did you hear that?” “Who screamed?” “Did someone fall?”
The musicians faltered, fingers hovering just above their strings.
The conductor turned, searching for guidance.
Near the head of the room, the hostess was already on her feet.
Somewhere near the card tables, a servant dropped a tray.
The second crash was louder, clumsier. The scent of spilled wine joined the perfume-laced air as liquid spread like blood across the polished floor.
Chairs scraped. Fans snapped shut. Every sound after struck too loud.
Leticia’s fingers gripped Gabriel’s arm more tightly. Beneath her hand, his muscles had gone taut. He scanned the room, surveying exits, gauging expressions, estimating distance. He was not alarmed, but alert.
At the far end of the ballroom, another gasp rippled through the guests. A footman hurried past, calling for fresh linens. Someone sobbed, the sound too raw for theatrics.
From the open terrace doors, a draft swept in, sharp with night air. One candle flickered. Followed by another. Half the room shifted their attention toward the source of the cold, toward the open doors and the garden beyond.
Gabriel leaned down, his voice low against her ear. “Stay close.”
She nodded once. Her lips pressed into a line, but her jaw did not tremble. The weight of the brooch at her throat was suddenly heavier and warmer, as though it knew what it had drawn. She had agreed to this. To be the spark. To lure the Order into the open. She had accepted the risk.
But she hadn’t expected it to be like this, as though the rules had shifted before the first move had been made.
They moved with the crowd, edging toward the terrace.
The surge of guests pressed in from all sides.
Shoulders jostled her, perfume mixed with cologne, and the air grew thick with murmurs and heat.
A heel caught the toe of her slipper. Her breath caught.
Her balance tipped for a moment before Gabriel steadied her.
Ahead, the garden flickered with lantern lights, but shadows stretched long between them. Too many lanterns remained unlit. The night was uneven, too quiet in places, too loud in others.
She didn’t look away. Not from the garden. Not from the press of shadows beyond the terrace. Something in the air had turned.
It wasn’t fear. Not yet. But her skin prickled with awareness, and the back of her neck tightened in warning.
“Leticia!”
A hand brushed hers.
Erica.
Her voice trembled with urgency. She looked flushed, breathless, dark strands of hair loosened from their twist, clinging to her cheeks.
“Your aunt, Lady Eastbury, she’s in the garden. She slipped.”
Leticia blinked. “What? Where?”
“Near the arbor. Come quickly.” Erica’s eyes shone with insistence. “No one can lift her.”
“I didn’t see her go out.”
“She didn’t want to make a scene. Please, she’s asking for you.”
It sounded exactly like her aunt. Avoid disruption. Avoid attention. The words struck a note of truth.
Leticia turned, expecting to find Gabriel beside her. He was gone. She looked again, searching the crowd, her pulse rising. The crowd closed in. Her view was gone. She could see no broad shoulders, no dark hair.
Her heart lodged in her throat.
Erica’s grip found her hand. “Hurry.”
Leticia hesitated before she stepped onto the terrace.
*
Night air struck her cheeks, cool and damp, heavy with the scent of trampled grass and woodsmoke.
Somewhere closer, a sharp note of something sweeter, roses, bruised and fading, twined through the breeze.
The terrace stones gave way to the path, where gravel crunched beneath each step, loud in the hush.
Behind them, the faint strains of music still drifted from the ballroom. It sounded warped now. Slower. Disconnected. Like a melody out of time.
Ahead, the gardens opened into soft pools of lamplight and long swathes of shadow. A couple strolled past in awkward silence, arms linked, eyes darting. Lanterns bobbed above their heads. Their nervous laughter faded as quickly as it had sparked.
Leticia followed Erica, drawn past the edge of the terrace into darker paths. Her slipper slid slightly on loose stone, and her balance wavered again. She lifted her skirts just enough to walk faster.
Here, there was no cluster of guests. No flash of lilac silk. No cry for assistance. And no sign of Gabriel.
Her heart slowed, not with calm, but with stillness. Dangerous stillness settled. The kind that warned of something lying in wait.
She stopped walking.
Her foot ground deliberately against the gravel, once again, dragging a rough sound from the stones. A warning. A marker.
She didn’t know if anyone would hear. She didn’t know if it mattered.
The brooch at her throat was like a stone fresh from the hearth, too hot, too solid. Her chest ached beneath it.
Gabriel had asked, but she had said yes. Even now, even with Erica’s fingers tightening just slightly around her wrist, she didn’t regret it.
But her fear had shape now. Weight. Teeth.
Would her mother have called her brave? Or foolhardy?
She could almost hear the voice, dry and fond. My brave, darling, choosing not to let fear drive your decisions.
The breeze stirred her hem and carried the imagined voice away.
Leticia turned slightly, meaning to look back toward the ballroom, toward Gabriel. No familiar figure met her gaze.
Behind her, Erica’s voice changed. “Come. She’s behind the arbor.” Not pleading. Not rushed. Flat.
Leticia’s spine stiffened. “I should get Gabriel.”
Erica’s grip clamped down. “No time.”
The shift was subtle, but she felt it. Too late. Not a mistake. Not an accident. She had stepped into it.
The words struck clean. The shadows near the hedges stirred. Two men stepped forward. They didn’t wear evening coats. One wore boots crusted with road-dust. The other had a scar running from his temple into the collar of his shirt. Neither looked like they had been invited.
She stilled, measuring, not yielding but not resisting. Rough palms. Smoke on their sleeves. Hands seized her arms. Not violent, but certain.
“You’re making a scene,” Erica said.
Leticia turned toward her. The other woman’s face was calm, too calm. Her tone lacked all urgency now, all pretense.
“I had hoped you would come quietly.”
Leticia held her gaze.
The garden drew in around them, the lantern light thinning, the path narrowing to a line she had already crossed.
She did not speak again.
*
Gabriel searched the ballroom. The terrace. The garden. No Leticia. No Erica.
He pushed through the guests, faster now. Elbows brushed him. Voices murmured. Nervous, oblivious laughter sprang up in pockets. Some guests had already begun returning to their seats. The scream had already turned to curiosity, a tale to be embellished by morning.
But not for him.
His jaw locked. “Leticia?” The word was low. Controlled. No answer. He strode across the threshold into the garden. Cool air closed around him like a glove.
His boots hit the terrace stone, gravel, loud, deliberate, unmistakable. The sound grated, deliberate, meant to be heard.
He paused. Turned his head. Had someone else walked this path? There, drag marks. Disruption. A scattering of stone that hadn’t settled yet. The faintest scrape across the gravel where someone had moved sideways, not forward. Gabriel followed it.
“Ashcombe.”
He turned at the voice. Professor Tresham stood near the edge of the terrace, wineglass in hand, his silhouette framed in soft lanternlight. Impeccably calm. Not a wrinkle in his coat. No sweat on his brow. No breath visible in the cool night air. And no dirt on his boots.
Gabriel froze. A beat too long.
Tresham lifted his hand. “I need a word.”
Gabriel didn’t break stride. “Not now.”
“I believe you’ll want to hear.”
“I said not now.”
He passed him without another glance. But the timing lingered. The direction. Tresham had come from the hedgerow. The same direction as the hoofbeats. The same path that led to the back gate.
A fraction too precise. Too well placed to be chance.
Gabriel’s pace quickened.
The farther he moved from the lanterns, the more his instincts took over. His eyes swept the edges of the hedge line. He searched for silver silk. For a pale ribbon. For anything that did not belong.
He passed the arbor. Nothing. A chill coiled in his gut.
The scent of roses lingered faintly, but it was mingled now with something else. Horse sweat. Damp leather. Earth, freshly gouged.
He broke into a run.
The gravel roared beneath his boots. A part of his mind registered the sound, not just loud, but uneven. Disturbed.
At the curve of the garden path, he found it.
The edge of the hedge bore two wide arcs, grass pressed flat. Ruts cut deep into the ground. Mud clung to the rim of the path.
A carriage had been here. And recently. He crouched. Reached. Something pale caught the light.
A ribbon. Green. Frayed at one end, where it had caught on a branch or buckle. His fingers curled around it.
Leticia’s.
His breath caught. She had trusted him. He had promised she wouldn’t face this danger alone. And they had taken her. He stood slowly, the ribbon still clutched in his hand. His grip tightened until his knuckles blanched.
He turned sharply toward the house. “Barrington’s men, to the garden gate!” His voice rang out like a shot, cutting across the garden.
He didn’t wait.
And then he ran.