Chapter Three
Elias Blackwood had spent the better part of his adult life deciphering hidden motives.
In war, one learned to read between the lines, to study shadows, to understand when a man’s silence spoke louder than words.
And in the drawing rooms of London, the battlefield was no different, only quieter, perfumed, and far more polished.
He hadn’t intended to return to Society so soon, but desperate circumstances required swift action. So, dressed in his old regimental coat—freshly brushed and still bearing the faint scent of gunpowder and Turkish tobacco—he entered the Harrington Club as if he belonged there. Because once, he had.
The smoking room was thick with cigar haze and conversation, the air heavy with the scent of overindulgence and entitlement. Elias moved to a quiet corner near the chessboard and waited for an opening.
“A shame about Fairfax’s ward,” a corpulent man in a burgundy waistcoat was saying, swirling cognac in a crystal glass. “Beautiful girl, wasn’t she? Shame what happened to her. The fire, I mean.”
“Tragic,” another murmured. “Though I always found that business a bit too convenient. Didn’t she have some sort of falling out with her guardian? What was his name… Norton?”
“Lord Norton,” the first man confirmed with a slight grimace. “A powerful figure, to be sure. He invests in railways. I’ve heard even cemeteries are under his thumb now.”
Elias tilted his head. “Cemeteries? That is an odd thing to invest in, do you not agree?” he asked, his voice calm and measured.
The man glanced at him, blinking as if surprised he’d been overheard.
“You must be new back in London,” he said, sizing Elias up. “Norton’s been acquiring land. Speculation, they say. And there’s profit in the dead, apparently. Highgate’s the new fascination. Everyone wants a family plot there. Gothic is fashionable.”
“Was Norton ever investigated after the fire?” Elias asked.
A few chuckles followed.
“Investigated? You must not know the man,” said the second fellow. “He owns the constables in his district. The only thing Norton’s afraid of is scandal, and even that’s short-lived when you have the Crown’s ear.”
Elias gritted his teeth. So, Norton hadn’t just escaped scrutiny—he’d prospered. The death of Isobel Fairfax had freed the bloke of responsibility and likely secured him further wealth and influence. And now, he was expanding his reach into the very earth itself.
Excusing himself from the conversation before his temper betrayed him, Elias left the club with clenched fists and a tighter jaw.
The afternoon was gray and damp as Elias made his way toward the edges of Highgate. He stopped at the cemetery’s south gate, where the old grave keeper sat beneath the crooked archway, a pipe dangling from his lips.
The man looked up as Elias approached, squinting through the mist. “Back again, captain?”
“I’m looking for a man,” Elias said. “Slick hair. Dark coat. Watches more than he speaks.”
The grave keeper snorted. “You’ve just described half of London, lad.”
“This one’s recently been lingering here near the older stones, not the new plots.”
The man removed his pipe and tapped it against the stone bench.
“Now that you mention it… there has been a fellow loitering about. Claims he’s doing research.
Asked me about family plots last week but seemed more interested in the back rows, where the names are half worn and no kin visit.
Didn’t like the look of him. Had that greasy feel, like someone who carries a knife inside his boot. ”
“Did he say whom he worked for?”
“Didn’t need to. I know a paid errand boy when I see one. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s connected to that Norton business. There’s been talk, you know. Once again, Society has been gossiping…”
Elias stepped closer. “What kind of talk?”
The man leaned in, lowering his voice. “Some say Norton still sends men looking for Miss Fairfax, even after all these years. Most think he’s mad.
Others think she left something behind… something worth chasing.
But ghosts don’t stay gone without reason, captain.
If she’s still alive—and you’ve seen her, haven’t you? —he’ll come sniffing.”
Elias didn’t confirm it, but the silence between them said enough.
The grave keeper nodded toward the western edge of the cemetery. “You be careful, son. Ghosts may be quiet, but the men chasing them rarely are.”
*
Dread twisted in Elias’s chest as he followed the now-familiar path behind the overgrown hedgerow. The sun had dipped behind thick clouds, turning everything a muted blue-gray. A chill rode the wind, curling around the tombstones like skeletal fingers.
When he reached the narrow gate and stepped through the ivy-draped trail, he knew something was wrong. The cottage was dark. The shutters were closed tightly, and no smoke curled from the chimney. The stillness was oppressive.
He knocked on the door. “Isobel?”
No answer.
He slid his hand to the hilt of the knife in his coat. Out of habit, he carried this weapon, though he hadn’t used it in years.
He circled the cottage. Her herb garden had been disturbed—crushed leaves, snapped stalks, and footprints in the soft earth. Someone had been here.
The root cellar door hung slightly ajar, its hinges groaning as he eased it open. Inside, it was empty. No tools. No baskets. Just a single piece of torn fabric caught on a nail… dark-green wool, the same cloak she had worn.
He gripped the cloth in his fist, heart pounding harder than it had on any battlefield. She was gone. Had Norton’s men taken her? Or had she run?
Elias was halfway back toward the cemetery when a movement caught his eye near the Hawthorne tomb—a shadow too fluid to be wind, too human to be chance.
“Isobel!”
She turned sharply at the sound of his voice. Her veil had fallen back from her face, soaked from the mist. Her lips were pale, her eyes wide, but she was safe.
“Captain Blackwood,” she said, relief blooming in her voice.
He reached her in three long strides. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “No. Just shaken. I saw a man near the cottage. He was watching me. I didn’t recognize him, but I could feel he knew who I was, or thought he did. I waited until he moved on and slipped out the back.”
Elias placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, but his own pulse was still thundering. “He’s Norton’s man. I’m certain of it.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before Norton himself comes looking for me,” she said softly, eyes darting toward the trees.
“No.” His voice was firm. “You’re not staying here. I have a safe place. A friend’s flat, not far. It’s in Hampstead. It’s empty. No one will think to look there.”
She looked up at him, rain dripping down her cheeks like tears. “And then what? Do I vanish again? Hide in a different shadow until the next one finds me?”
He shook his head. “You’ll be protected. I’ll see to it.”
“You can’t guard me forever, Elias.”
He stepped closer. “I don’t want to guard you. I want to help you. Whatever happens next, you won’t face it alone.”
She hesitated. The weight of the last five years, the fear, the solitude, the heartbreak, pressed against her features like a mask she was growing tired of wearing.
Finally, she nodded. And though the fog clung to the ground and the gravestones loomed around them, something in her gaze flickered with life for the first time.
They left Highgate together, walking through the mist not as ghost and soldier, but as two people who had been broken by the world and, somehow, were finding the will to stand again.