Chapter 14 #2
Julian let out a warm, booming laugh that filled the room.
“Of course you were. The Ravenswood estate accounts, truly the most romantic and distressing subject in the known world. Save your lies for the Ashwells, Edmund. I know exactly what is keeping you awake, and she is currently downstairs eating toast.”
“Get out,” Edmund growled, pointing at the door.
“Gladly,” Julian said, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Hurry up and dress. Sir Gerald has invited me on a grand tour of the estate, and as my dutiful secretary, you are required to trail behind me and look suitably impressed by the sheep.”
By mid-morning, the household had settled into the easy, unhurried rhythms of a country visit. The air was crisp and smelled of damp earth and blooming hawthorn.
Sir Gerald led them out across the sprawling grounds, walking with the vigorous, energetic stride of a man who loved his land. He pointed out property lines, discussed crop yields, and explained the intricate workings of the tenant farms with pride.
Julian walked beside him, playing the role of the interested peer flawlessly. He nodded at the right intervals and asked polite, superficial questions about soil drainage.
Edmund trailed a respectful three paces behind them, feeling a bitter, twisting irony burning in his throat.
I should be walking beside him, he thought, looking out over the rolling green fields his father’s oldest friend had maintained. I know exactly how to manage crop rotations. I know the cost of repairing a tenant’s roof. I should be the one receiving this knowledge.
Instead, he was forced to walk in silence, a ghost on his own inherited territory, while his best friend received the explanations intended for the Earl of Ravenswood.
They were approaching a large, well-kept stone barn near the edge of the home woods when a man rode out to meet them.
He was mounted on a sturdy bay gelding, riding with the relaxed, effortless posture of a man who spent half his life in the saddle. He brought the horse to a halt, dismounted smoothly, and tossed the reins to a passing stable boy before turning to face the approaching party.
He was tall—nearly as tall as Edmund—and lean, with dark, windswept hair and an intelligent face. He wore practical riding clothes, dusted with the reality of actual work, but he carried himself with an unshakeable, quiet competence.
“Ah, Thomas,” Sir Gerald called out warmly, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Excellent timing. Come and meet our guests.”
Sir Gerald turned to Julian. “My lord, allow me to introduce my estate manager, Mr. Thomas Briggs. He keeps Ashwell Park from falling into total ruin.”
Thomas stepped forward, wiping a smudge of dirt from his leather glove before offering a respectful, measured nod. “My lord. Welcome to Ashwell Park.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Briggs,” Julian said smoothly, offering a polite smile.
“And this is his lordship’s secretary, Mr. Marsh,” Sir Gerald added, gesturing vaguely backward.
Thomas shifted his gaze to Edmund.
The estate manager did not offer a polite smile. His dark eyes swept over Edmund’s plain brown coat, taking in the broad set of his shoulders, the aggressive stance, and the hard line of his jaw.
It was a calm, unhurried assessment. Thomas Briggs had clearly grown up reading people from the margins, observing the nobility from the outside looking in, and he had learned to do it exceptionally well.
“Mr. Marsh,” Thomas said, his voice neutral.
“Mr. Briggs,” Edmund replied. He kept his tone flat, but his muscles tightened instinctively under the man’s scrutinizing stare. “The property is magnificent. It is clearly managed with a very skilled hand.”
“I do my best to maintain what was built before me,” Thomas answered simply.
A crunch of boots on the gravel path drew their attention.
Corinna was walking briskly toward them from the direction of the gardens.
She wore a simple, pale blue muslin day dress that fluttered slightly in the morning breeze.
Her dark hair was partially pinned up, a few loose curls escaping to frame her face.
She looked vibrant, relaxed, and entirely different from the guarded, careful woman she was in London.
“Thomas,” Corinna called out, her voice bright and uncharacteristically loud.
She reached the group and completely bypassed her father, Julian, and Edmund. She stepped directly up to the estate manager, falling instantly into an easy, relaxed posture that spoke of a thousand shared afternoons.
“You received my last letter, I trust,” Corinna said, looking up at Thomas with a wide, genuine smile. “I have been turning over the Queen’s Gambit in my mind for a fortnight. I believe I have finally found the counter-move to that vicious trap you set for me in April.”
Thomas’s stoic, serious face transformed instantly. He smiled, and it crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“I received it,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more familiar register. “I was going to write back, but I thought it better to wait until you arrived. Some defensive positions are better debated over the actual board. Your proposed knight move leaves your flank entirely exposed.”
“It does not!” Corinna laughed, a beautiful, musical sound that made Edmund’s chest physically ache. “You are simply afraid I am going to back you into a corner again, just like I did at Christmas.”
“I let you win at Christmas,” Thomas teased, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You most certainly did not, Thomas Briggs, and you know it.”
Edmund stood perfectly still, his fingernails biting painfully into the palms of his hands.
Thomas, Edmund thought, a cold, irrational fury flooding his veins. She calls him Thomas.
He watched the intimate shorthand passing between them.
They were speaking a private language, built on years of shared history, inside jokes, and comfortable proximity.
Corinna laughed at something Thomas muttered under his breath before the man had even finished the sentence.
Her eyes were bright, her posture entirely relaxed.
Edmund’s face tightened as a dark, ugly emotion clawed its way up his throat.
It was not the panicked, desperate jealousy he had felt over Cecily in Paris.
It was a cold, violent, territorial gripping in his chest. He was watching the woman he wanted standing completely at ease with another man, locked entirely out of their private world, and he found he could barely breathe through the rage of it.
What is this feeling? Edmund thought, forcing himself not to step forward and physically break them apart. I have absolutely no right to be angry. I am a secretary.
Thomas Briggs suddenly stopped smiling.
The estate manager turned his head slowly, looking past Corinna’s shoulder, straight at Edmund.
Thomas’s gaze was entirely calm, completely devoid of intimidation, yet incredibly sharp. He looked at Edmund’s clenched fists, at the rigid set of his jaw, and at the barely suppressed violence burning in the “secretary’s” blue eyes.
Edmund did not look away. He met the estate manager’s stare head-on, refusing to back down, letting the mask of the obedient servant slip just enough to issue a silent, unmistakable warning.
Thomas held the look for one long, heavy second. His expression remained entirely unreadable. There was no fear, no surprise, and no challenge.
Then, with smooth, deliberate control, Thomas broke the eye contact and turned his attention back to Corinna.
“We should play a game this evening,” Thomas said to her, his voice perfectly even. “I will bring the board to the library after dinner. We will see if your new strategy holds up under pressure.”
“I look forward to it.” Corinna beamed.
She turned to walk back toward the house, but as she did, her gray eyes flicked toward Edmund.
She caught the dark, thunderous expression on his face, her steps faltering for a fraction of a second, a look of confusion crossing her features.
But before she could speak, Sir Gerald called out to continue the tour, and the moment was lost.
Edmund watched her walk away, his heart hammered a violent rhythm against his ribs.
He turned his gaze back to the estate manager. Thomas Briggs was already walking back toward the stables, completely unbothered by the interaction.
Edmund understood with absolute clarity that the quiet man in the riding boots had just looked straight through his disguise.
Thomas Briggs had taken his measure in a single glance, recognized the dangerous truth hiding behind the brown coat, and had simply not yet decided what he was going to do with the information.