Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mr. Carter found Eliza just before noon, his expression tight with urgency.
“My lady… Mr. Hollis requests your presence in the West Wing receiving room. It concerns the Thornhaven supplies.”
The Thornhaven supplies.
Her pulse jumped. Her expression did not.
“Very well,” she said. “Lead the way.”
The West Wing was seldom used. Its corridors were colder, the windows drafty, the furniture shrouded beneath sheets. This wing never seemed entirely at ease within the house. The air there felt unsettled.
The receiving room held only three people: Hollis, an under-clerk, and a footman posted near the shuttered windows. A fire had been lit, though it offered more reassurance than warmth.
Eliza entered without haste. “Good morning.”
Hollis bowed. “My lady, the supply records from Thornhaven have returned incomplete.”
“Incomplete?” Her tone was mild. “In what way?”
He offered a ledger, familiar and well-kept. Not tampered with. One line left blank between dates.
Eliza read quickly.
“These quantities… timber, nails, pitch oil… are marked as dispatched with no confirmation of receipt at Thornhaven?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She turned another page. Same pattern. Dispatched. Not received.
Not sabotage. Not yet. But something was misaligned.
Before she could ask, footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Ashwood.
He entered with a polite bow, as though he had merely wandered in.
“My apologies for the delay,” he said smoothly. “I was told you summoned me.”
She had not. She did not correct him. “Mr. Ashwood,” she greeted evenly. “We were reviewing supply inconsistencies. Mr. Hollis brought this to my attention.”
Ashwood’s eyes flicked to the ledger, then to her face.
“Troubling.”
Eliza offered it to him. “You see the missing confirmation?”
Ashwood scanned the page. “Indeed. This suggests a miscommunication.”
Not wrongdoing. Not accusations. A reasonable answer. The steward nodded. “That was my thought as well, sir.”
“Then,” Eliza said calmly, “we will request a rider to Thornhaven at once. The weather has delayed communications for days.”
Ashwood tilted his head slightly. “Do you suspect sabotage?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
And his eyes did not leave her.
Eliza closed the ledger carefully. “I suspect careless bookkeeping. Nothing more.”
A floorboard creaked sharply beneath Ashwood’s feet, a sound the house did not make without reason.
Ashwood shifted. “This wing is insufferably cold.”
“It reacts poorly to unnecessary tension,” Eliza replied, as though remarking about the draft.
Hollis blinked. The under-clerk swallowed.
Ashwood studied her for a long moment.
“Lady Thornhaven,” he said at last, “you seem remarkably composed today.”
“Do I?” she replied lightly. “I believe composure is part of my responsibilities.”
His eyes narrowed. Her pulse remained steady. Though she felt the strain of vigilance along her spine, sharp enough that she resisted the urge to glance back toward the fire.
“Shall I oversee the dispatch of the rider?” Ashwood asked.
“No.” She smiled politely. “Mr. Hollis will manage it. You have other concerns. Do you not?”
Ashwood bowed. “Of course.”
He lingered a moment, head tilted. “It never ceases to impress,” he murmured, “how you keep your balance.”
“Hartleigh teaches one to stand steady,” she said.
The fire crackled sharply. Ashwood flinched at the sudden sound.
Eliza did not.
“Gentlemen,” she said, rising, “we are done here. Send word when the rider returns.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hollis said quickly.
Ashwood held her gaze a heartbeat longer, calculating, searching, finding nothing, before he stepped aside and let her pass.
As she walked back into the corridor, the fire behind her guttered, not from wind but from certainty.
The house approved.
Hartleigh would not let her fall.