Chapter Forty-Four
Thomas had barely stepped into the main stable aisle when the heavy exterior door swung open with a force that suggested neither wind nor chance at work. The lanterns along the wall guttered violently, shadows jumping like startled birds. The horses shifted, their hooves scraping.
Ashwood entered with the easy stride of a man who believed every threshold already belonged to him.
“Grey,” he said, his voice smooth, almost pleasant. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Thomas inclined his head. “My lord.”
Ashwood’s gaze flicked around the space, assessing, calculating, searching for any sign of Eliza’s presence. Thomas kept his expression neutral.
“You seem to be everywhere but where I expect you,” Ashwood mused, though his smile held no warmth. “The West Wing. The stables. The cottage. You’re becoming… elusive.”
Thomas kept his voice steady. “I go where my duties take me.”
“Ah,” Ashwood replied, strolling farther into the aisle, fingertips grazing the grain bins as if inspecting for dust. “Duties. Yes. Curious how often those duties place you near Lady Thornhaven.”
A muscle jumped in Thomas’s jaw, but he controlled it before it could betray him.
“Lady Thornhaven requested my presence earlier. I complied.”
Ashwood laughed softly. “Requested. Of course she did.”
He stepped closer, invading Thomas’s space with calculated ease, the smell of bergamot and expensive wool accompanying him. Thomas held perfectly still.
“Tell me, Grey,” Ashwood said, voice dropping, “have you noticed anything unusual at Hartleigh lately?”
A test. A baited hook.
Thomas answered carefully. “There has been damage from the storm, and some doors have been—”
“Yes,” Ashwood cut in. “Ah, the doors. They do seem unruly, don’t they?”
The lantern beside them sputtered, flaring and dimming in quick succession. Thomas didn’t look at it. Ashwood did, briefly, and frowned as if the house itself had offended him.
“Lady Thornhaven,” Ashwood resumed, “received a letter this morning. Odd ledger discrepancies. Concerning deliveries. One might think someone is tampering with records.”
Thomas did not react outwardly. Inside, everything drew taut.
“If someone is questioning the accuracy of the ledgers,” he said evenly, “I will review them.”
If Ashwood expected defensiveness, he didn’t get it.
Ashwood’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You seem remarkably calm.”
“I prefer facts,” Thomas said. “Not speculation.”
Ashwood stepped even closer. “Do you.”
The air chilled suddenly, sharp enough to raise the hair along Thomas’s arms.
A gust swept the lanterns again, sending shadows slashing across the rafters.
Ashwood paused, unsettled. Just briefly.
Thomas saw it. And something inside him shifted—an advantage he hadn’t expected. The awareness settled through him slowly, steady as the lantern glow, until even the cold in the stable no longer felt entirely hostile.
Ashwood recovered quickly, smoothing his coat. “There’s been unrest, you see. Accusations. Missing children. Loose tongues.”
“Missing persons,” Thomas repeated.
“Yes,” Ashwood said casually, as though commenting on the weather. “A child from Thornhaven. Disappeared. Terrible business. Rumor suggests he might have been seen near Hartleigh.” He tilted his head almost sympathetically. “Strange, isn’t it?”
Thomas felt the accusation beneath the softness. He met Ashwood’s gaze directly.
“Very strange,” Thomas said. “Especially since you seem well informed of Thornhaven matters that occurred only last night.”
Ashwood’s smile faltered.
A hairline crack. A silent fissure.
Thomas held the gaze one beat longer, letting the implication settle. Not spoken, not provable, but unmistakably understood.
Ashwood stepped back, smile too tight now. “See that you remain available, Grey. I may have tasks for you.”
“I am always available for matters concerning Hartleigh,” Thomas replied. “And those in its care.”
A subtle emphasis. Not lost on either of them.
Ashwood’s eyes hardened. “Of course.”
He turned to leave—
—and the stable door slammed shut before he reached it.
Not wind. Not chance.
Ashwood jerked, startled, then quickly masked it with irritation. He reached for the latch, struggled a beat too long, then wrenched it open with more force than necessary and strode into the yard without looking back.
The door thudded behind him. Firm. Final.
Thomas exhaled only when the hoofbeats of Ashwood’s retreating horse faded into the distance.
The house had chosen sides.
Thomas did not hesitate to do the same.