Chapter 28
Tobias’s voice carried easily enough over the noise as he remarked, “I believe the musicians plan another set before supper.” It was the sort of comment any host might offer without thought, a simple courtesy meant to keep the conversation moving.
But even as he said it, his attention slipped away from the words.
His reply to the guest beside him faded, and he managed only a polite smile.
He forced the corners of his mouth upward, aware that anything less would draw questions he did not have the patience to answer.
The room felt too warm, the voices too loud, and every polite exchange only sharpened the sense that he was wasting precious minutes.
He shifted his weight, trying to appear at ease, though his thoughts were already upstairs.
He threaded through the crowd with the same steady manner he had used at countless gatherings, yet the motion felt increasingly hollow.
Laughter rose and fell in bright waves around him, the chandeliers cast warm light across the polished floors, and guests drifted past with cheerful greetings, but none of it eased his tension.
His mind refused to stay where his body was.
He shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, accepted compliments about the estate, and answered questions he barely heard. Each time someone stopped him, he offered a courteous response, but his gaze kept drifting upward, drawn again and again toward the staircase.
She should have returned by now.
He tried to focus on a remark about the gardens, nodding as though he had heard it clearly, but the words blurred. His thoughts circled the same quiet worry. He excused himself from one group only to be caught by another.
He forced himself to smile at a baroness recounting some trivial story, although the words barely reached him.
He nodded at the appropriate moments, though he could not recall a single detail of what she said.
His attention kept drifting toward the staircase, each glance tightening the knot in his stomach.
He told himself he was imagining things, that she would appear at any moment, but the reassurance rang hollow.
Viola stood at his side as he moved, speaking with bright animation, her voice carrying just enough to draw the attention of those nearby.
He had enjoyed a brief respite when she stepped away to have her hem fixed.
At first, he had been alarmed when Viola left the room, but he knew Cecily was far too clever to be discovered.
Viola had returned far too quickly, and now she touched his arm lightly as she talked, as though they were the natural pair everyone assumed them to be. In the company of others, he had no choice but to humor her, to nod at the right moments, and to appear engaged in what was happening.
Inside, his unease deepened.
He caught only fragments of what Viola was saying, bits about the guest list and how fortunate it was that he had agreed to host the event. Her smile stayed fixed in place. She leaned closer, lowering her voice in a way meant to seem private, but Tobias’s attention had already slipped elsewhere.
The staircase remained empty.
He felt the first true flicker of fear. It was small, but it cut through the noise around him. He shifted his stance, pretending to adjust his cuff so he could look again without drawing attention. Still nothing.
He scanned the room again, searching for any sign of Cecily.
His gaze switched from the clusters of guests near the refreshment table to the small groups forming near the windows, then to the far corner where several ladies had gathered to admire the floral arrangements.
He checked the doorway, the edges of the crowd, even the shadows near the musicians’ platform, telling himself he might simply have overlooked her.
But she was nowhere.
The musicians were tuning their instruments, the soft adjustments of strings and reeds blending into a restless hum that filled the space with a sense of anticipation. Guests began settling into their seats, their conversations dipping into polite whispers as the moment drew near.
She should be here. She promised the children she would stand with them, he thought as he looked toward the staircase, willing her to appear.
The recital would begin soon, her recital, the moment she had shaped with weeks of patient work.
She should have been gathering the children, steadying their nerves, and taking her place at the front of the room.
Instead, there was only silence from upstairs.
A cold chill crept up his spine.
Viola laughed at something she had just said, expecting him to join her. He managed a thin smile, but his gaze flicked once more toward the stairs. Each passing minute pressed heavier on his heart, the noise of the party blurring into a distant hum.
Something is wrong.
He could feel it, an instinct cutting through the forced civility of the evening. The children were waiting, the guests were settling, and the recital drew near.
She would never leave them at a moment like this.
Tobias excused himself from a cluster of guests with a polite nod, but the moment he stepped away from the crowd, the mask slipped. He quickly wove his way through the crowd and took the stairs two at a time.
Then he heard it.
A thud. A muffled cry. Wood scraping against the floor.
Tobias’s blood surged hot.
The sound of the struggle ahead tore through him. He did not think, did not hesitate. Every instinct he possessed narrowed to a single point: reach her. His vision sharpened, his breath quickened, and he felt a cold, focused resolve.
He broke into a run, moving fast down the hall. His steps quickened when he reached the right corridor, the familiar doorway coming into view. Viola’s room stood with the door half open, the gap just wide enough to show a sliver of lamplight inside.
He reached it in a few long strides and shoved it wide.
Creed had Cecily pinned against the wall, his body pressed close enough to trap her, his hands clawing frantically at her pocket.
His face was twisted with panic, his breath coming in harsh bursts, his movements jerking and wild.
The lamplight caught the sweat on his brow, the strain in his jaw, the desperate way he fought to get at whatever she held.
Cecily struggled beneath him, breathless and fighting for space.
Her hair had fallen loose around her face, strands sticking to her cheek as she twisted away from his grip.
She pushed hard against him, her fingers digging into his wrists with enough force to whiten her knuckles, trying to wrench his hands back, trying to keep him from reaching her pocket.
Tobias didn’t think.
He rushed forward and struck Creed hard across the jaw, the force of the blow snapping the man’s head to the side and sending him stumbling into the edge of the bed.
Creed caught himself on the post, breath hissing through his teeth, and pushed off with a sudden burst of strength.
He recovered far quicker than Tobias expected and came at him with a wild, desperate swing.
Tobias lifted his arm in time, catching the blow on his forearm.
A sharp jolt shot up to his elbow, numbing his fingers for a moment, but he drove through it and slammed his fist into Creed’s ribs with all the force he could gather.
The impact landed solidly. Creed folded with a grunt, his breath knocked out of him, his body curling inward for a heartbeat.
But he straightened almost at once, fueled by panic rather than strength, and struck back with a vicious hit that caught Tobias across the cheekbone. The crack of it rang in his ears.
White heat flashed behind Tobias’s eyes as the taste of iron filled his mouth.
He didn’t stop.
He grabbed Creed by the collar and drove him hard against the wall.
The man hit the paneling with a thud and thrashed in Tobias’s grip, fighting with the frantic strength of someone cornered.
His hands clawed Tobias’s arm, his boots scraping against the floor as he tried to wrench himself free, but Tobias’s anger carried its own force and held him fast.
Tobias struck again, his fist connecting with a sharp crack that echoed in the small room.
Creed’s head jerked back from the impact, his eyes unfocused for a moment as the strength went out of him.
His body sagged, the fight draining from his limbs.
His legs folded beneath him, and he slid down the wall in a slow, helpless collapse until he dropped to the floor in a limp, unconscious heap.
Silence crashed into the room.
Tobias stood over Creed’s unconscious form, chest heaving, a warm line of blood sliding down his cheek.
His knuckles throbbed with each pulse, the skin raw and tender, and his vision tightened at the edges, making the room feel slightly off balance.
His breath came hard, the effort of the fight still working through his body.
Then Cecily was in his arms.
She reached him quickly, pressing herself against him with a force that showed how shaken she was. Her hands gripped his coat, and her body trembled against his.
He held her tightly, one arm steadying her, the other drawing her closer. He breathed in slowly, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude that she was safe.
“Tobias,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her voice was unsteady. “I found letters.”
He eased his hold on her and nodded once. “Show me.”
She placed the folded pages in his hand. He opened the first one, his eyes sweeping quickly over the lines.
“They are from her father,” she said.
He glanced up at her. “From the earl.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “They are working together.”
He shifted to the second page, scanning the dates and the short instructions written in the earl’s hand. “How far does it go?”
“Far,” she said. “The mine. The sabotage. Every part of it.”
A slow, grim smile tugged at his mouth, the blood on his cheek warm as it traced the curve of it.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Then it’s time.”
He glanced down at Creed’s motionless body, then back to Cecily.
“Time to unmask the Stanhopes.”
Tobias wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand; any pain he might have felt dulled by the rush of adrenaline. He pulled Cecily close again and kept one arm around her as he reached for the bellpull beside Viola’s door and yanked it hard.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs almost at once. Weatherby appeared in the doorway, breathless, his eyes widening when he saw Creed sprawled unconscious on the floor and Cecily pressed against Tobias’s side.
“Sir,” he said, his voice tight. “I saw you run from the ballroom. I have been waiting to hear from you. What happened here?”
Tobias straightened slightly, keeping one arm around Cecily. “Creed forced his way into the room. He attacked her.”
Weatherby stepped farther inside, his gaze shifting from Tobias to the unconscious man. “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” Tobias said. “He will wake soon enough.”
“Miss Marwood,” Weatherby said, stepping forward. “Are you alright?”
“I am,” she said.
He looked to Tobias. “And you, sir?”
“I am,” Tobias answered. He nodded toward Creed. “Restrain him.”
Weatherby did not hesitate. He crossed the room in three long strides, pulling a length of cord from his coat with the quiet readiness Tobias had come to rely on.
He dropped to one knee beside Creed and set to binding the man’s wrists behind his back.
The man let out a low groan, his head rolling to the side, but Weatherby tightened each knot with steady, precise movements, his expression unchanged.
Weatherby looked up, taking in the scene again before speaking. “Were your suspicions confirmed, sir?”
Tobias gave a short nod. “They were.”
Cecily stepped forward, her voice still shaking. “They planned everything. The mine. The sabotage. All of it. Creed has been working with Viola and her father to force Tobias into financial ruin.”
Weatherby’s jaw tightened. “I knew that man was trouble.”
Tobias passed the letters to Weatherby. “These are proof enough to bring the Stanhopes down.”
Weatherby took the pages carefully and read the first lines. His expression darkened. “My Lord, this is treachery.”
“It is,” Tobias said. “And it ends tonight.”
Weatherby nodded once, sharply. “What would you have me do?”
“Send for the Bow Street Runners,” Tobias said. “Immediately. Tell them we have a man who attempted assault and conspiracy to commit sabotage on the Fairbourne estate.”
Weatherby’s eyes flicked to Cecily, then back to Tobias. “At once, sir.”
He hauled Creed upright, the man’s head hanging limp, and dragged him from the room.
The moment they were alone again, Cecily turned to Tobias. Her hands rose to his face, her thumb brushing the blood at his cheekbone. “You’re hurt.”
He caught her wrist gently. “I’ve had worse.”
Her eyes softened, but the fear in them hadn’t fully faded. “I thought … when he came at me … I thought I wouldn’t get out.”
“You are safe now,” Tobias said tenderly. “And you found exactly what we needed.”
He allowed himself a small smile, the cut on his cheek pulling slightly. “It’s time to unmask them, Cecily. All of them.”
Downstairs, the music was beginning. Guests were settling, and Viola would be expecting him at her side.
But the truth was in his hands now.
And the Stanhopes’ night was about to end.