Chapter 8
The following afternoon, Nora saw it before she understood it.
The man came from behind the large elm near the edge of the path — the same stocky figure she had seen before, the one whose shape she had committed to memory without knowing why.
He moved with a deliberation that was not haste but something worse: a confidence, a certainty, the ground beneath his feet his own, every person upon it present only by his permission.
Frederica’s back was to him. She was adjusting her bonnet, saying something over her shoulder to her companion — but the companion had fallen behind, stopped to speak with an acquaintance, and Frederica was, for the span of a few seconds, alone.
Nora’s feet were moving before the thought had fully formed.
She gathered her skirt in one hand, not lifting it but pulling it close so it would not catch against her legs, and walked with a steadiness she did not feel — spine straight, chin level, her pace measured enough that it would not draw attention from anyone watching.
Propriety was a cage, but it was also a shield, and she used it now, crossing the gravel path at the angle that would bring her to Frederica’s side in the fewest steps.
She was not fast enough.
The man reached Frederica first. His hand closed around her elbow — not roughly, not in any way that would appear improper to a casual observer — but Nora saw the way Frederica’s body went rigid, the way her chin dipped toward her chest as if she were trying to make herself smaller.
He leaned close and spoke, his lips near to her ear, and whatever he said made the colour drain from Frederica’s face like water running from a basin.
“Miss Longleat.” Nora pitched her voice to carry, modulating it to the bright, social register of a woman greeting an acquaintance in the park — nothing urgent, nothing alarming. “What a pleasure. I was just saying to my sister that I hoped we might encounter you today.”
The man’s head turned. His eyes — dark, quick, assessing — swept over Nora with the efficiency of someone cataloguing a potential obstacle. She met them directly. She did not smile.
He released Frederica’s elbow. The motion was slow, deliberate — a statement rather than a concession. I am releasing her because I choose to, not because you have forced me.
“Thank you, Lady Nora.” Frederica’s voice was a thread, thin and colourless. She stepped toward Nora, and when their arms linked, Nora felt the rigidity of Frederica’s body — a stiffness so complete it spoke of terror held in check by will alone.
The man said nothing. He touched the brim of his hat — a mockery of courtesy — and turned on his heel, walking back the way he had come with that same weighted, unhurried stride.
Nora waited until he was twenty paces distant before she turned her head to look at Frederica. The lady’s eyes were fixed forward, unblinking, and where the man had gripped her elbow, the fabric of her pelisse was creased, the threads disturbed.
“Come,” Nora said, pressing Frederica’s arm against her side. “Walk with me.”
They walked. Frederica said nothing. Her breathing was shallow and quick, and twice she flinched at shadows that were only the branches of the horse chestnuts overhead, their leaves shivering in a breeze that should have been pleasant but felt instead like something watching.
They parted at the edge of the Serpentine, Frederica’s hand slipping from Nora’s arm with a reluctance that spoke of how little she wanted to be alone.
Nora watched her walk toward her waiting carriage, noting the careful way she held herself — spine rigid, chin high, as if daring the world to see how close she was to breaking.
A gentleman stepped forward — tall, sandy-haired, with an open, unhurried manner that was nothing like the stocky man’s predatory calm.
He bowed to Frederica and spoke, and whatever he said made her pause.
The rigidity in her shoulders softened by the smallest degree.
She said something in return — brief, almost certainly a polite dismissal — but when she turned to climb into the carriage, Nora saw her glance back at him once, quickly, as if she could not quite help herself.
Nora filed the observation away. She had more pressing concerns.
“Should I tell Hampshire?” she murmured, beginning to walk back toward her mother and sister.
The question turned in her mind like a key in a difficult lock.
He might already know of the stocky man, might already understand the nature of the threat.
Or he might not — and if he did not, then every hour of silence was an hour Frederica remained unprotected.
Her decision made before she had finished forming the thought, Nora lifted her chin and quickened her pace.
Yes, she would speak with him. Not for her own sake, not for the pleasure of his company — though she could not pretend that did not exist — but because Frederica was in danger, and conscience would not permit her to look away.