Chapter 19
Although Edmund had walked men through gun-smoke, darkness, and the shriek of iron, nothing had ever felt so perilous as walking a woman across a quiet stretch of wharf when her mind was tearing itself in two.
Elise moved beside him with a composure that was not peace, but discipline—her head lifted, her pace measured, her hands kept still by sheer force of will.
If anyone had looked upon her from a distance, they would have seen a lady on an early errand.
Only Edmund, close enough to feel the tremor that occasionally betrayed itself in her sleeve, could tell how near she stood to splintering.
“Do not look back,” he murmured again when Holt’s voice carried after them, cruelly merry.
Elise did not. Her chin lifted a fraction higher, as if pride might hold her upright when strength threatened to fail, but Edmund felt the weight of those words settle upon her all the same. He knew he could not protect her from the knowledge much longer.
They reached the concealed tunnel without incident.
Manners, as poised as ever, had already slipped the ledger to Renforth, as if it were no more than a bill at White’s.
Stuart and Baines shepherded Holt and his men, bound and swearing, away to the waiting Revenue men whilst Fielding watched with a look that suggested he was disappointed the morning had not offered him more sport.
Renforth remained a moment, surveying the scene with the cold satisfaction of a man who had ended the danger. His gaze touched Edmund’s. Later. The message was in the look, though no words were exchanged.
Edmund led Elise into the undergrowth beyond the lane and toward the hidden mouth of the tunnel. The grey light made everything colourless. It should have been tranquil. It was not.
Elise paused just at the entrance, fingers clutching her cloak as if she were bracing herself against the dark.
“You are shaking,” Edmund said softly.
“I am well enough,” she replied at once, and if her voice had been firmer, he might have believed her.
He should not have touched her. It would only complicate what was already dangerously tangled. Yet he could not bear the sight of her standing there, proud and pale, as if she meant to keep herself upright through force alone until she collapsed in secret.
He reached out and took her hand—briefly, firmly—like a man offering support across a slippery stone.
The contact ran through him like heat. It was absurd that such a small thing should undo him so, but absurdity had never been a reliable deterrent.
Elise’s fingers grasped his for a heartbeat. She did not look at him. She did not soften either—but she did not pull away.
“Come,” he said quietly. “We must return before the town is fully awake.”
She followed without protest.
He guided her down into the tunnel. Darkness swallowed them, the damp stone closing in.
He shielded their progress by holding the lantern low, as if light itself might betray them.
Elise moved as if she had walked these passages a hundred times.
When they emerged into Belair’s cellar, the familiar smell of bread, ash, and domestic industry struck Edmund like a kindness.
Cook, of course, was there at once—with arms folded, mouth set, and eyes sharp enough to peel a man.
“Well?” she demanded, as if they had merely been gone to market and returned late.
Elise swallowed. “It is done.”
Cook’s gaze swept Elise from head to toe. “You are not harmed?”
“No,” Elise said.
Cook’s gaze then cut through Edmund.
“I am not hurt either, thank you for your concern,” Edmund replied, because to humour Cook’s scrutiny was often the surest path to peace.
Cook sniffed. “Pity. You both look half-dead with nerves. Sit.” She jabbed a finger toward the kitchen table, where a pot still steamed faintly. “Tea will revive you.”
Elise began to protest out of habit, but the habit faltered. She turned instead, as if seeking a reason to escape the room before she did something unwise—such as shake, or weep, or look too long at Edmund’s face.
“I must check how Blake does,” she said quickly.
Cook nodded with understanding. Cook had the remarkable talent of seeing the truth without demanding its confession.
“Aye. Sophie is with him,” she said gruffly. “Go, then. If he wakes, tell him I shall have him on his feet again whether he likes it or not.”
Elise nodded once and fled from the kitchen with the pretence of purpose. Edmund watched her go, and the room seemed colder for her absence.
Cook clattered about with exaggerated noise, as if she could drive away the morning’s violence with a ladle and indignation. She shoved a bowl toward Edmund.
“Eat,” she ordered. “You will be no use to anyone with an empty stomach.”
Edmund obeyed, because Cook’s authority was the only one in the house that did not require explanation. He forced down a few mouthfuls of porridge, though his mind was elsewhere and his pulse still carried the rhythm of Holt’s hand on Elise’s arm. He finished the bowl without tasting much.
A quiet step sounded in the doorway. Sophie hovered there, pale and wide-eyed, as if she had been holding her breath since dawn.
“Mr. Leigh,” she whispered.
Cook turned on her at once. “Don’t you say ‘Mr. Leigh’ like he’s a parish curate. He can hear you well enough. Speak up, girl.”
Sophie swallowed and managed to say, “Colonel Renforth asks if you will come to the drawing room, sir. All the gentlemen are gathered there.”
Edmund set his spoon down.
Cook leaned closer, lowering her voice in a rare concession to secrecy. “What can you tell of Mrs. Larkin?”
“She went up the back stairs,” Sophie said. “She said she needed a few moments of reflection.”
Cook snorted softly.
Edmund stood up. He smoothed his coat as if he were about to enter a salon rather than a war council in a country house.
Before he could move, Cook caught his sleeve with quick, strong fingers.
“You mind how you speak to her,” Cook said in a low voice, as fierce as any soldier’s warning. “She has carried this place on her shoulders through storms and worse. Don’t you be going and dropping more weight on her now that you have done your brave work.”
Edmund met Cook’s eyes. He could not remember the last time anyone had spoken to him with such blunt protectiveness on someone else’s behalf.
“I will not harm her,” he said quietly.
Cook’s grip firmed for a moment, as if measuring whether or not he meant it. Then she released him.
“You had best not,” she muttered. “Now go. They will be a-wanting to congratulate one another.”
Edmund walked through the hall toward the drawing room. Belair House was quieter than he had ever known it, stripped of its usual life.
He paused with his hand on the drawing-room latch, hearing the faint murmur of men’s voices behind the closed door. He had been trained to face enemy fire without hesitation, yet this—this gathering of friends, this inevitable reckoning—pulsed in his chest in a way that felt almost like fear.
Tall and composed, Renforth stood near the hearth.
Nearby, with one shoulder against the mantel, Manners lounged with deceptive ease, his eyes bright.
Stuart sat in a chair, bearing the calm patience of a man accustomed to waiting.
Fielding was pouring himself a drink. Baines prowled near the window, looking faintly disappointed.
They all looked up at Edmund’s entrance.
Fielding lifted his glass. Baines grunted. Manners’ mouth curved. “You look as if you have swallowed a cannonball. Sit down before you topple.”
Edmund did not sit. “Holt is secured?”
“Well secured,” Renforth said. “His men too. They are on their way to London. The ledger is with me.”
Renforth briefly held up the leather packet and then tucked it away again as if it might burst into flame from being looked at for too long.
Edmund drew a slow breath. The objective was achieved. Holt was contained; the ledger was recovered. Despite this success, his mind would not settle.
Renforth studied him. “Where is Mrs. Larkin?”
“She went to visit Blake.”
A flicker crossed Renforth’s eyes—approval, perhaps, or something like relief.
“She held herself well,” Stuart said quietly. “I have seen officers with less bearing.”
“She was fortunate you were close, Chum,” Fielding sympathized.
Baines scoffed. “If Holt had tried that with me, I would have broken his arm.”
Renforth lifted a hand, and they fell silent.
“The immediate danger is ended. Now we decide what comes next.”
Edmund felt his stomach clench. “What comes next,” he said carefully, “is that Mrs. Larkin is not left to drown in the aftermath.” He looked at Renforth. “You promised me clarity.”
“You shall have it,” Renforth replied.
Renforth moved toward the window and looked out—not at the sea, but towards the grey strip of lane where Holt had been taken away. He spoke without turning.
“Your inquiry about Blake has been answered.”
Edmund’s pulse thrummed.
“He is known to us,” Renforth said. “He is one of the men Larkin used when he was tracing Singleton’s routes. He was meant to be dead.”
Edmund exhaled slowly. It explained too much: the beating, the secrecy, Elise’s immediate competence.
“Holt is a disgraced officer,” Renforth said, his voice turning colder.
“He was tried by court martial some years ago for theft and corruption. He escaped the consequences by vanishing into the hidden spaces where men like him thrive. After that he attached himself to Singleton’s operations because Singleton paid well and asked few questions. ”
Manners’ tone was sardonic. “A man of principle, then.”
Fielding snorted. “A man of ambition.”
Renforth turned back to Edmund, and the weight in his gaze was no longer only professional.
“There is more,” Renforth said.
“There is always more,” Edmund quipped sardonically.
“Yes,” Renforth replied, “and this—unfortunately—is your portion.”
The room seemed to draw in upon itself. Even Baines stopped prowling.