Chapter 6
The wind clawed at the shutters as Elise shut the front door behind her. She had made her usual twilight journey to the wharf to take Blake his food and medicines. His eyes had been sharp with an old fear she had not seen since the year Charles had died, yet he was reticent since Jane was with her.
Blake had waited in the lee of the boat-house, hunched against the first spattering of rain.
“You had best hurry,” he breathed, though his voice carried no impatience—only worry. “Storm’s rising.”
“I came as soon as I could,” she replied, placing the parcel beside him.
But Blake scarcely looked at it. His trembling fingers seized her wrist, and he thrust something into her palm. A small folded scrap, edges smeared with damp and salt.
“Later,” he whispered. “Read it later.”
His gaze flicked quickly toward the harbour-master’s office, the tavern loft, the lantern swinging above the quay. “Someone is asking questions.”
Elise went cold.
“What?”
Blake shook his head, his eyes fierce. “Not here.”
Her heart stumbled. Questions? It had to be related to their past work, but why now?
Charles Larkin’s work had been secret even from most officers—tracing the stolen government arms that Singleton was then smuggling through hidden coastal channels. Charles had chased Singleton for months, following the faintest threads of evidence.
Then, in a cruel twist of fate, someone else had caught Singleton first—he had been exposed, cornered, and killed in the raid.
Charles’ ship had gone down, supposedly sunk by Singleton’s gang, and the Crown declared the smuggling ring extinguished.
The cipher had retired.
The code had been Charles’s—ingenious, layered, impossible to break without the key.
Only Elise and Blake knew it.
Charles had taught Elise ‘to recognize danger’, as he had said with a troubled smile.
‘Someone is asking questions.’ could only mean one thing.
The wind struck the roof hard enough to groan through every beam. Elise flinched.
“Go. Before the storm pulls you into the sea,” he gasped.
She had obeyed.
Now, back at Belair House with the girls’ voices warming the hall and Cook’s bustle a faint comfort, the folded warning burned at her through her pocket.
When thunder cracked, several younger girls shrieked. Elise steadied them with calm efficiency—hands gentle, voice soothing—though her heart beat too fast. She guided them up the stairs, room by room, tucking in blankets, smoothing pillows, offering reassurance she did not feel.
Once the last was settled, Elise slipped away into her chamber, shut the door, and let her hand tremble at last.
The storm howled around the gables like a wounded beast.
Only then did she open Blake’s note.
Someone is using the cipher.
Elise’s breath left her. “How can this be possible?” she whispered. No one else knew about it—and what an infuriating lack of information!
Her thoughts spun.
If someone knew the cipher, they must know Charles had not worked alone. Did they know Blake had survived? Did they know she knew it? She pressed her hand to her mouth. Then, inevitably, her thoughts turned to the newest arrival in town.
Mr. Leigh, who had arrived the day before Blake’s warning.
Mr. Leigh, who walked with the quiet certainty of a military man.
Mr. Leigh, who had known Charles—and Singleton—at school.
Her stomach knotted. She had read the reports when Charles still lived.
She had known Singleton was suspected of betrayal—of selling British arms into foreign hands, jeopardizing British soldiers, trading principles for coin.
Charles had hunted Singleton relentlessly, and yet the man, Mr. Leigh, had spoken Singleton’s name with a casual air.
Was his presence here a coincidence? Had he been one of Singleton’s men?
The shutters banged with furious insistence, shaking the window-pane. Jane’s quick step hurried down the corridor.
“Elise?” she called. “The south gate is gone—and a branch has come down against the garden wall! We must secure the shutters before the next gust takes the windows right out.”
Elise folded Blake’s note with shaking hands and slid it behind the lining of her jewellery box—safer than any drawer.
“I will be there in a moment.”
She stepped into the corridor, gathering her skirts as the storm hammered against the house once more.
But even as she joined Jane at the window, bracing it shut against the howling wind, one thought kept returning, as relentless as the sea: If someone was using the cipher… how long until they discovered she knew of it?
The thought dragged its cold fingers down her spine, but there was no time to dwell on it now.
Wind struck the house with renewed force, rattling shutters in their frames like bones clattering in the dark. Jane gripped the edge of the window-shutter with both hands while Elise leaned her weight against it. The storm’s fury redoubled, as if offended by their interference.
“Pull!” Jane cried.
Together they forced the shutter closed. The latch caught with a metallic snap, and the window stilled—though the gale screamed its displeasure past the glass.
Jane exhaled, her breath unsteady. “The weather behaves as if determined to blow us off the cliff.”
Elise forced a calmness she did not feel. “It may yet accomplish it.”
They hurried down the corridor to the next window. The house creaked under the pressure—old beams shifting, floorboards protesting, the gale seeking every weakness. The hall candles guttered violently whenever a draught blew under a door.
Another crash rocked the south lawn.
“Lord preserve us,” Jane muttered, running to the next shutter.
Elise followed. “What was that?”
“A branch—perhaps half a tree,” Jane guessed, bracing her shoulder against the wood. “This storm is tearing up more than the cliffs tonight.”
They made their way, window by window, around the rooms until the worst of the storm was shut out, but the house still trembled beneath each gust like a ship straining at anchor.
At last, Jane leaned against the wall, panting. “If this continues, we shall lose part of the roof by morning.”
“That will not happen,” Elise said—too quickly, too sharply.
Jane tilted her head, studying her. “It is not only the storm that troubles you, is it?”
Elise forced her shoulders to relax. “I was thinking about Blake, being out in this.”
Jane’s gaze held hers a moment longer—knowing, steady—but she only nodded. “I will check the lamps in the lower hall.”
When Jane stepped away, Elise allowed her knees to weaken for the briefest breath, pressing a hand to the cool stone of the corridor wall.
Someone is using the cipher.
The storm outside roared like an echo of her thoughts, relentless and wild.
Elise made her rounds again, room by room, calming the children in gentle tones. No one slept. The older girls pretended bravery for the younger ones; the younger ones clung to each other like ivy to stone.
“Will the roof come off, ma’am?” whispered little Lucy Sims, her eyes as wide as saucers.
“No, my dear.” Elise smoothed the girl’s hair. “This house was built to withstand much more. It will not be undone by a storm.” She prayed that was true.
Then Clara tugged Elise’s hand. “Mrs. Larkin… will you stay upstairs tonight?”
Elise hesitated. “I shall be nearby,” she promised, brushing Clara’s cheek. “Close your eyes now. Storms always sound more fierce than they are.”
When all the girls were at last quietened—some only by exhaustion from fright—Elise slipped into her own room once more.
Her chamber was cold. The storm blew through its walls like an unwelcome guest. The candle flame strained sideways, nearly extinguished by a draught. She crossed to the jewellery box and drew out Blake’s note again.
Someone is using the cipher.
She pressed her fingers against the ink until they tingled. “Who?” she whispered to the empty room. “And why now?”
Her mind threw her backward into memories she had tried to bury.
She saw Charles bent over the small desk by candlelight, drawing elaborate patterns—lines within lines, rotating alphabets, symbols shifting as the hours wore on.
“You need not understand it fully,” he had said to her, exhaustion and grim determination warring in his eyes, “only enough to recognize danger if it comes looking.”
She had laughed softly. “I hope never to recognize it, then.”
The candlelight had caught the tension in his features—tension he had tried to hide.
“You will,” he had murmured, “if Singleton keeps slipping through the net.”
Singleton.
A man Charles had respected once… before evidence began to mount, too damning to ignore. A man who had used coastal channels Elise herself had walked, turning them into conduits for stolen munitions.
Singleton had gone down. Then had Charles’ ship.
The Crown had announced the matter concluded, but Blake had survived the wreck—barely.
She read the message again, slowly, as if it would say something different if she read it enough.
Her mind supplied unwelcome questions: Did this someone know the cipher belonged to Charles? Did they know Blake had lived? Did they know Elise knew it?
Outside, the wind screamed around the chimney. The walls shuddered. Somewhere downstairs, a shutter tore free and banged like a pistol shot, causing Elise to startle violently.
Her breath became ragged for a moment before she forced it to calm.
She tucked the note back into its hiding place, covered the box again, and paced the length of her room, skirts whispering in the candlelit dark.
There was another thought—one she disliked even admitting to herself. Mr. Leigh.
If someone was using the cipher… was it him?
His presence lingered in her mind. He had appeared the very day Blake whispered his warning. He had spoken Singleton’s name with familiarity. He had known Charles at school.
She halted by the window, gripping the sill.
“No,” she whispered. “It would be too much of a coincidence.”
Nevertheless, fear already prowled the edges of her thoughts, as restless as the gale.