Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
The first thing Jane noticed was the silence that wasn’t supposed to be there.
Wynten House was never truly quiet during the day. Even in its current strained state, it still held the steady rhythm of servants moving through corridors, doors opening and closing, distant footsteps on polished floors. But today there was an odd hollowness to it.
There was an absence where sound should have been. Jane stepped out of the morning room and immediately saw why.
Two footmen were moving down the corridor ahead of her, carrying a large, framed portrait between them. It was carefully wrapped, but she knew the shape of it instantly, even though it was half-covered and tilted at an angle in which she wasn’t used to seeing it.
Her father.
Jane stopped so abruptly her skirts barely settled. “Put that down,” she said.
The men froze. Neither turned at first, as though hoping the voice had been directed at someone else.
Jane’s tone sharpened. “I said put it down.”
One of them shifted uncomfortably. “My lady—”
“Now.” The word cracked clean through the corridor.
They hesitated another second before lowering the portrait carefully against the wall, still wrapped, still half-hidden. Jane crossed the distance in a few quick steps, her heart already tightening for reasons she couldn’t yet define.
“What are you doing with this?” she demanded.
Before either man could answer, a new voice drifted from behind her.
“Oh, there you are.”
Jane turned sharply.
Her uncle Zachary stood at the far end of the corridor as though he belonged there. As though he had always belonged there. Hands loosely clasped behind his back, expression composed in that infuriating way he had begun wearing more often lately.
Behind him, another footman appeared carrying a small side table, one Jane recognized from the sitting room immediately. Her father’s sitting room.
Jane’s stomach dropped. “What is going on?” she asked, though she already feared the answer.
Zachary walked forward unhurriedly. “Morning, Lady Jane.”
“This is not a social call,” she said.
“No,” he agreed pleasantly. “It is not.”
Her gaze flicked to the portrait again. “Why is that being taken out of the house?”
Zachary followed her line of sight and sighed as though she were being deliberately difficult. “Because the estate requires funds.”
Jane blinked once. “What?”
He gestured vaguely toward the corridor. “There are debts. Expenses. Maintenance costs. Your brother left things… less than organized.”
Jane’s hands curled at her sides. “Colin did not leave things unorganized. He is missing.”
“Yes,” Zachary said lightly. “And in his absence, someone must ensure the estate does not collapse entirely.”
Jane stepped closer to him. “By selling our belongings?”
“By liquidating non-essential assets,” he corrected.
A second footman passed behind them carrying a silver candelabra, one Jane remembered from the dining room during her father’s lifetime. She felt something sharp twist in her chest.
“That belonged to my father,” she said quietly.
Zachary glanced at it without emotion. “And now it belongs to the estate.”
“It is the estate,” Jane snapped.
Zachary exhaled as though indulging a child. “Jane. Do try to understand. Sentiment does not pay debts.”
Her voice rose. “You are not ‘the estate.’”
“I am its steward,” he said smoothly.
“That is temporary.”
“Not if the finances continue as they are.”
Jane stared at him, disbelief hardening into anger. “You cannot just take things from this house.”
“I am not taking them,” Lord Zachary replied. “I am ensuring they are used wisely.”
A third item passed. This one was much heavier and slower to move. A writing desk. Jane’s breath caught.
She knew that desk. She had watched her father write at it when she was a child, leaning over the edge while he signed letters and pretended she wasn’t deliberately distracting him. He had let her “help” by handing him seals and ink blotters she inevitably misplaced.
Something about seeing it carried away made her throat tighten.
“No,” she said sharply.
Lord Zachary raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“That does not leave this house.”
“It is already leaving,” he said.
Jane moved forward instinctively, but Zachary lifted a hand. Not touching her, but stopping her all the same.
“Do not make this difficult,” he said.
“This is difficult,” she shot back. “You are dismantling my home.”
“It’s not yours, Jane. It’s mine,” he corrected.
Jane let out a short, humorless laugh. “You have lived here for what, days? Weeks? And you already think you can decide what happens to it?”
“I am saving it from ruin,” he said calmly.
Footsteps echoed behind them. Jane turned again. Another servant appeared, this one carrying a small locked box. Her father’s study box. The one she had seen him use for important correspondence. The one he had never allowed anyone else to open.
Something in Jane snapped into sharper focus.
“Stop,” she said again, her voice lower now. She had regained control and sounded dangerous in a different way.
The servant hesitated, glancing to Lord Zachary for instruction. Lord Zachary gave a slight nod.
Jane stepped forward and physically placed herself in their path. “You will not take that.”
Zachary sighed. “Jane, move.”
“No.”
Then Lord Zachary’s tone shifted and became slightly colder. “You are making a spectacle.”
“I do not care.”
“You will,” he said. “When creditors begin knocking.”
Jane’s eyes flashed. “You are creating those problems.”
“I am resolving them.”
“This is not a resolution,” she said. “This is theft dressed up as administration.”
Zachary’s jaw tightened slightly, the first crack in his patience showing. “Careful.”
Jane stepped closer to him. “Or what?”
“You forget your position.”
Jane gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. “My position? I am the daughter of this house.”
“And I am acting in its interest,” Zachary said, “while you argue over sentiment.”
Behind them, another item passed; this one was a small, framed sketch.
Jane froze. She knew that one instantly.
It was her father’s favorite drawing of the estate grounds, created years before illness ever touched him. He had kept it in his study. It had always been on the corner of his desk.
She turned sharply back to Zachary. “Where are you taking everything?”
“To storage,” he said.
“That is not storage,” she said, her voice rising again. “That is removal.”
“It is safeguarding value.”
“You are stripping this house bare.”
Zachary’s gaze hardened slightly. “Enough.”
The tone landed like a command. Jane did not move.
Zachary stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that the servants wouldn’t hear. “You are making this harder than it needs to be.”
“I am stopping you from destroying it,” she replied.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “You are not in control here, Lady Jane.”
Her chest tightened. “This is my home.”
“It is an estate under stewardship,” he said. “There is a difference.”
Jane’s voice dropped. “You are enjoying this.”
Zachary blinked once. “Excuse me?”
“You are enjoying it,” she repeated. “Standing here. Ordering people around. Taking things that have never been yours.”
For a moment, something like anger crossed his face. Then it smoothed out again.
“I am doing what your brother failed to do,” he said quietly.
That was the wrong thing to say. Jane stepped forward so quickly that the servants behind her shifted nervously. “Do not speak about Colin that way,” she said.
Lord Zachary tilted his head slightly. “Why? It is the truth. He left the estate vulnerable, and now I am repairing it.”
“He is missing,” Jane said through clenched teeth. “He did not abandon it.”
“Functionally,” Zachary said, “there is no difference at present.”
Jane stared at him, something hot and shaking rising beneath her control. “You do not get to rewrite my family history,” she said.
Zachary held her gaze for a long moment.
Then he gave a small, almost amused exhale. “You are very emotional about objects.”
“They are not objects,” Jane snapped. “They are memories.”
“That is precisely what makes them saleable,” he said.
Jane went still. A colder anger settled over her now. “You are removing pieces of my father from this house,” she said slowly.
Zachary did not answer immediately. “I am stabilizing your future.”
Jane looked at him for a long moment, something steadying inside her despite the heat of her emotions.
When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “When Colin returns,” she said, “he will remove you.”
Zachary’s hand closed around Jane’s wrist before she could step away. It was not a casual grab. Not a warning touch, but a firm, controlling grip that stopped her mid-motion and pulled her back half a step as though she weighed nothing at all.
Jane stiffened instantly. “Uncle—” she began, her tone sharp with disbelief, but the word caught when he tightened his hold just enough to make his message clear without saying anything at all.
The corridor felt suddenly too narrow. Too quiet. Even the footsteps of the servants down the hall seemed distant, as though they belonged to another house entirely.
Zachary leaned in slightly, his voice low. “You will stop making a spectacle of yourself.”
Jane’s jaw tightened. “A spectacle?” she echoed. “Men are walking out of this house with my father’s things.”
His expression didn’t change. That was what made it worse—the calmness, the certainty, as if he had already decided what reality was and everyone else was simply reacting too slowly to accept it.
“I am managing what your brother failed to manage,” he said. “He did a very poor job of this, as it turns out.”
Jane’s eyes flashed. “Do not speak about Colin that way.”
Zachary gave a quiet exhale that sounded almost amused. “And yet, here we are. You are defending a man who left a crumbling estate, a missing title, and a house full of liabilities. Sentimentality is not governance, Jane.”
She tried to pull her wrist free. His grip didn’t loosen. “Please just leave my father’s things here. I am asking you, please, just to let this go.”
“And I am asking you,” he replied, “to remember your place.”