Chapter Twelve #3
But her composure required effort now. Her mind raced to find the leak.
How had he arrived at the name? Had it been through the press, through the low hum of rumor, or a cold observation of her habits?
She wondered if Mark had inadvertently betrayed her—mentioning her private fondness for old books, the precision of her marginal notes, or her obsessive insistence on the right word.
She glanced at the seal at her waist and the severe, unblinking lines of her mask, searching for a tell.
Or had he simply intuited it?
Elizabeth realized that obscurity was only a shield so long as one remained unread.
To be recognized in a reference so private, so carefully chosen for its silence, disturbed her more than any open admiration ever could have.
It was the realization that the door she had locked was, to him, already standing wide.
Mark raised his glass slightly between them. “Shall I assume this is a private theological debate, or may I remain?”
A curve touched Blackwood’s mouth, too restrained to be amusement. “I would not presume to deprive you of Miss Seton’s presence," he said.
“Good,” Mark replied, amiably. “I should hate to be thought of as inattentive.”
Blackwood turned to Elizabeth, “I had wondered what event might prove compelling enough to tempt you from your duties or perhaps you have overstated your distaste for such affairs.”
His sister laughed lightly. “Alistair, stop being so melodramatic!” She turned to Elizabeth, her manner warm and unguarded. “You must forgive him. He has little talent for politeness.”
Elizabeth returned the smile. “I find it refreshing.” Blackwood’s expression softened almost imperceptibly at the exchange. “And are you enjoying yourself this evening, Miss St. James?”
They fell into polite conversation easily enough, the music swelling around them, the masks lending freedom to small confidences that would otherwise have been withheld.
Elizabeth observed the sister with growing interest in the easy trust, the unexamined confidence with which she deferred to her brother, the faith that he would manage any complexity that arose.
She approached the Season full of promise.
It was that which made what followed so devastating.
“I confess,” the sister said, leaning closer with conspiratorial enthusiasm, “I am relieved this Season is finally underway and I can enjoy myself with all the revelry. The documentation alone has been exhausting.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Documentation?”
“Oh yes. Confirmations, records, you know the like. Alistair insists upon order in all things.” She smiled fondly. “Though in my case, some of it is rather a muddle.”
Elizabeth noticed a subtle tightening in her chest. “A muddle?” she prompted gently.
“Eleanor.” Blackwood warned.
His sister waved a gloved hand dismissively. “Oh, little of consequence. My baptismal record is a mess. Either improperly entered, so we believe, or lost. Alistair says the simplest course is to leave the matter alone for now. The benefits of being the sister of a Duke.” She smiled easily.
The words fell lightly, without hesitation. Elizabeth heard them land. The room gave no sign of disturbance. The music faltered in no way. Eleanor continued smiling, wholly unaware that she had upended everything.
Lost baptismal records were rare. Records left unentered were rarer still.
In families of rank, such omissions were far from accidents; they were openings through which leverage could be applied with devastating efficiency.
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked to Blackwood. He had gone very still.
Only she would have noticed the infinitesimal tightening of his jaw.
Calculation, not panic. Damage control. Mark, for his part, seemed wholly unaware of the shift in the air.
“Eleanor,” Blackwood said, “you have spoken enough of administrative tedium for one evening.” His sister laughed, entirely unperturbed.
“Very well.” She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand warmly.
“I so enjoyed seeing you again. I see Lady Fenton signaling to me. She has promised to introduce me to some of the most eligible bachelors so I must join her. Mark? Do take me over there, I know she wanted to discuss your plans as well.”
Sensing he was unable to refuse, Mark politely bowed, noting “Do excuse us,” as he departed with Miss St. James, signaling to Elizabeth that this was her chance to probe Blackwood.
Elizabeth watched them go, warmth lingering from the contact even as dread took its place. Leverage only needed possibility. Elizabeth saw now how Blackwood could be manipulated through his greatest vulnerability — his sister.
Blackwood turned to her, his voice low. “We should not remain here.”
“I agree,” Elizabeth said.
He offered his arm, this time as an invitation, and she took it without hesitation. As they moved through the crowd, the music swelling behind them, Elizabeth felt more truths settle into place. Blackwood was not the architect of what was unfolding. He was being used just as Mark was.