Chapter Forty-Six
Morning crept into Hartleigh with a soft-gray light that did nothing to chase away the fatigue beneath Eliza’s eyes.
She had slept, but only in scattered fragments, snatches of rest between images of brass buttons, creaking doors, and the remembered gentle pressure of Thomas’s forehead against hers.
She could still feel the warmth of him.
It steadied her as she sat at the small breakfast table in Eleanor’s private sitting room, hands wrapped around a cup of chocolate, now lukewarm.
Eleanor watched her over the rim of her own cup, with a thoughtful expression.
“You are quieter than usual,” Eleanor observed.
“I am thinking,” Eliza replied.
“Dangerous habit,” Eleanor said mildly. “It leads to making decisions.”
Eliza’s mouth curved, just barely. “I suspect we are past the point of avoiding those.”
Before Eleanor could answer, a knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” she called.
Hollis stepped in, hat in hand, dust on his boots from an early ride. He bowed to Eleanor, then to Eliza.
“My lady. Your Grace. The rider from Thornhaven has returned.”
Every nerve in Eliza’s body sharpened.
“Already?” she asked. “That was quicker than expected.”
“Yes, my lady. The roads were clearer than expected.” The steward hesitated, glancing between them. “He brings a report you will wish to hear at once.”
Eleanor set down her cup. “Then you had better give it.”
Hollis stepped forward, producing a folded, mud-spotted letter sealed with the Thornhaven crest. He held it out not to Eleanor, but to Eliza.
Addressed simply:
To Hartleigh. For the attention of Lady Thornhaven and Mr. Grey.
Eliza’s breath caught at the sight of Thomas’s name written there beside her role, bound together in ink as surely as in circumstance.
She broke the seal with care.
The letter was brief, the hand firm and unadorned. It was from Thornhaven’s steward, beyond doubt.
The supplies you dispatched arrived in full.
Repairs began at once.
There was no delay on Hartleigh’s side.
The collapse of the beam was no fault of timber nor of transport.
Someone tampered with the supports after the materials reached us.
Eliza read the lines twice, then lowered the page.
Eleanor’s voice was quiet. “Well?”
Eliza lifted her gaze. “Hartleigh is cleared. The supplies were delivered. The damage at Thornhaven was deliberate.”
Eleanor absorbed this with a small nod, as though she had expected nothing less.
“And Mr. Grey?” she asked.
“The letter was meant for him as well,” Eliza said, fingers tightening on the page. “He needs to see this.”
As if summoned by the words, the floorboard beyond the sitting-room door gave a soft creak and the familiar sound of a man’s step. The house’s way of announcing him.
Eliza looked toward the door.
“Send him in,” Eleanor said calmly. “We are past the point of pretending he is not at the heart of this.”
Hollis bowed and withdrew.
Eliza’s pulse quickened with something far more dangerous. Relief. Anticipation. The certainty that whatever came next, she would not be facing it alone.
Thomas knocked once on the sitting-room door, then opened it at Eleanor’s quiet, “Come.”
He paused on the threshold, taking in the scene. Eleanor in her chair near the hearth, composed as ever. Eliza standing beside the small breakfast table, a folded letter in her hand, her chocolate untouched.
Her gaze went to him first. Of course it did. It always did now.
“Mr. Grey,” Eleanor said. “We have received word from Thornhaven.”
Thomas closed the door behind him and stepped inside. “My lady. Your Grace.”
His eyes met Eliza’s. The question in them was immediate. Are you all right. What has happened. What does that letter say.
She held the page out to him. “It is addressed to Hartleigh. For Lady Eliza and Mr. Grey.” She nodded toward the seal. “From Thornhaven’s steward.”
That recognition settled between them. Both of their names. Written together in ink. Recognized as the ones who would act.
Thomas took the letter with care, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. A small contact, but it steadied her more than the chocolate ever could.
He read quickly. His eyes were calm at first, then sharpened, then turned thoughtful. When he reached the final line, he read it again, slower, as though testing each word against what he already suspected.
Then he lowered the page.
“So,” he said quietly. “We are cleared.”
Eliza let out a breath she had not known she was holding. “Yes.”
Eleanor folded her hands in her lap. “Say it plainly, Mr. Grey. For all of us.”
Thomas glanced at the dowager duchess, then at Eliza, then back to the letter. When he spoke, his voice was steady.
“The supplies left Hartleigh. They arrived at Thornhaven in full. The beam that failed was tampered with after delivery. Someone wanted that roof to fall. It was not neglect, nor was it chance.” His fingers tightened on the paper. “It was intention.”
Silence settled for a heartbeat.
Outside, a gust of wind pressed lightly against the panes, then faded. The house did not creak in protest this time. It seemed to listen.
“Who would wish to harm Thornhaven,” Eleanor asked, “in a way that could so easily be laid at Hartleigh’s door.”
Her gaze went to Eliza with unspoken meaning. The estate, the title, the tangled succession. All of it still too unsettled to ignore.
“Someone who believes confusion serves them,” Thomas said. “If Thornhaven appeared neglected, if Hartleigh appeared careless. It would raise questions. About your management. About Nathaniel’s right to hold both.”
Eliza’s stomach tightened. “About whether he deserves them.”
Thomas’s eyes met hers. “He does.”
There was no hesitation. No softening. Just certainty.
Eleanor watched them both with a keen, assessing gaze. “This is about more than old grudges,” she murmured. “Someone is willing to risk lives. That is not a minor spite. That is desperation.”
“Or greed,” Thomas said.
“Or both,” Eliza added.
She moved closer to him without thinking, so they stood almost side by side, both looking at the same sheet of paper. Her shoulder brushed his sleeve. He did not step away.
“What do you see,” she asked quietly.
He looked back down at the letter. “I see a steward who chose his words with care. He confirms Hartleigh’s innocence without naming a suspect. That is deliberate. He trusts us enough to tell the truth, but not the page.”
“So he expects more of us,” Eliza said.
“Yes.” Thomas raised his head. “He is asking us to come and see for ourselves. Without writing it outright.”
Eleanor nodded slowly. “Can Hartleigh spare you both?”
Eliza’s heart gave a sharp jolt. “Both.”
“You are mistress here,” Eleanor said. “If there is a question of your stewardship, your presence at Thornhaven will speak more clearly than a dozen letters. And Mr. Grey knows the beams and supports better than any man alive.” Her mouth curved in the faintest hint of a smile.
“And Ashwood is less likely to meddle if you are not under his direct gaze.”
“He will meddle from a distance,” Eliza said.
“Then we must give him too many threads to follow,” Eleanor replied calmly. “Let him pull at one while we reinforce another.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment, considering. “If we both go, he will notice our absence.”
“He already watches you,” Eliza said. “He already suspects. Our staying will not lessen that.”
Their eyes met again.
“Do you wish to go,” Thomas asked her.
It would have been easy to say she needed time. That the journey was too much. That Thornhaven, with its memories of Adrian and the accident, was still too raw.
Instead she heard herself answer with a steadiness that surprised even her.
“Yes. I have avoided Thornhaven long enough.” Saying the words aloud tightened something briefly in her chest, grief and resolve tangled too closely to separate cleanly. “I will not have people believe I neglect them. Not for grief. Not for fear. Not for Ashwood.”
Something like pride flickered in Thomas’s eyes.
“Then we will go,” he said.
He looked back at Eleanor. “Quietly. No announcement. I will speak to the steward about a route that keeps us clear of the main road. It will look like a routine inspection.”
“And Ashwood,” Eleanor asked.
“Will be told,” Eliza said, “that I am spending the day with Clara, working on household accounts and visiting tenants in the closer cottages. Which is not wholly untrue.”
“The best lies never are,” Eleanor said.
The house creaked then, a slow sound from the rafters above, as if marking a decision made.
Thomas refolded the letter with care. “I will make the arrangements,” he said. “Two horses only. No large entourage. A groom to ride ahead and wait at the halfway point. If we are followed, we will know.”
“You have done this before,” Eleanor observed.
He met her eyes with polite gravity. “I have seen it done, Your Grace.”
Eliza thought of his past then. The parts he never spoke of in full. The skills that did not belong solely to a gardener or estate man.
“Go and prepare,” Eleanor said. “Leave within the hour. The less time Ashwood has to sense movement, the better.”
Thomas inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned to Eliza. For a moment, formal words seemed to war with something more personal on his tongue.
“We will ride together,” was what he chose. Simple. Practical. Laden with a hundred unspoken things.
She nodded. “I will be ready.”
He left with the letter in hand, the door closing quietly behind him.
For a moment, Eliza stood in the little sitting room, feeling the echo of his presence, the sense of the day already reshaping itself.
“You trust him,” Eleanor said.
Eliza turned back to her. “Yes.”
Eleanor studied her face. “And you know that trust is not a small thing to offer. Not after everything.”
“I know,” Eliza said quietly.
“Then take care,” Eleanor replied. “With Ashwood. With this journey. With your own heart.”
Eliza drew in a breath. “I will.”
The house gave a low, patient creak above them, as if to say it would be watching.
She went to dress for the ride, feeling for the first time that she was not merely reacting to the danger pressing in on Hartleigh, but moving toward the heart of it with Thomas at her side.
Not as a shield. Not as a servant.
But as something far more dangerous. And far more necessary.