Chapter 7 #3
"I will do what I can." He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering. "That night, something strange occurred. One of my men went missing from his post for a time. I did not think much of it at first, but now—" He paused. "Now I wonder."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "Missing? For how long?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe a bit more. I spoke with Oliver, my second-in-command, who noticed the absence. At the time things were hectic. The party was in full swing, and there was not a rigid rotation that night. But the post that was left empty — it was one of the routes overlooking the east wing."
"The direction of the balcony," Elizabeth murmured.
Devlin nodded grimly. "Exactly. I started to trace the schedule, to see who should have been there, but things had been organized hastily. There was not even a clear log that night. By the time I had narrowed it down, the case was already closed."
"I will say it under oath, if need be," Devlin offered. Then his expression darkened. "But whether it will matter — that is another story."
"What do you mean?"
Devlin rose and looked through the slatted window, watching the other guards file about in routine patrol. "The men here are loyal — to a point. Most have families, depend on this work, and do not fancy stepping out of line if it might upset the wrong names."
Elizabeth understood instantly. "You fear retaliation."
He did not answer, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.
"I will not pressure you," she said. "But if we want justice, we need truth — and truth needs courage."
"You speak with conviction," he said after a long pause. "Rare for someone in your position."
Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Rare for a woman, you mean."
Devlin offered a half-smile in return. "Perhaps."
"So — will you speak, should we proceed with witness statements?"
He looked at her a long moment. Then, with a subtle nod: "I will do what I can."
Relief warmed her chest. "Thank you. Do you have any inkling of who the missing guard might have been?"
"I asked around, but the others gave me nothing. Either they did not know, or they were told to keep quiet. I fear someone has been coached."
"Then we must find out who, and why."
"I will help you as best I can, Miss Whitaker," Devlin said. "I have no love for cowards who poison justice."
"And I am fortunate to have your help," she replied sincerely, rising to her feet.
They exchanged parting courtesies, and Elizabeth stepped out into the warm afternoon. The wind had picked up again, brushing against her shawl as she returned to the carriage.
She had come here hoping for a crack in the silence.
And she had found one.
Not a confession. Not a name.
But something even more powerful.
A crack in the wall of fear.
And where there was one, there would be more.
◆◆◆
As the countryside blurred past the carriage windows, Elizabeth clutched her notes with both hands. A missing post. A nameless guard. A crack in the fa?ade — and finally, something to chase.
The door to the safe house swung open with more energy than usual, and Elizabeth stepped inside, her expression alight with quiet triumph.
Damon, lounging in the armchair with a book in hand, looked up in surprise. "You have returned rather quickly," he said. "I expected you no sooner than dusk."
She closed the door behind her, cheeks flushed with the heat and something far warmer. "There is a lead," she said, striding toward him, eyes gleaming. "A guard was missing from his post the night of the incident. Ten full minutes, possibly more."
Damon sat upright, the book forgotten. "Truly?"
Before he could say another word, Elizabeth crossed the room and, carried by the thrill of discovery, threw her arms around him in a warm embrace. It lasted but a moment — just long enough for Damon to murmur in her ear, "All that talk about boundaries."
Elizabeth pulled away at once, crimson blooming in her face. "I am sorry," she said, stepping back with a flustered breath. "That was inappropriate."
It had happened so naturally, so impulsively, that it startled her more than it did him.
Damon offered a gentle, amused smile. "You found something worth celebrating. I shall not hold the moment against you."
Before she could compose a proper reply, the door behind her opened, and Charles Whitaker entered, the scent of the street still clinging to his coat.
"Celebration?" he asked, raising a brow. "For what?"
Elizabeth turned toward him, tone steady despite her lingering embarrassment. "The guard posted on the east wing that evening was unaccounted for. Devlin Harris, the head of security, confirmed it. No logs. No witnesses who recall seeing him. It is our first solid gap in the narrative."
Charles's expression shifted to one of cautious interest. "That is indeed promising."
She took a breath. "And you? What came of your meeting with Constable Clark?"
Charles removed his gloves. "He was surprisingly forthcoming. Rather fond of His Grace, in fact."
Damon raised a brow. "That is unexpected."
Charles gestured toward him with a half-smile. "You have made a few friends along the way, Your Grace. Unfortunately, you made rather more enemies."
Elizabeth stepped closer. "Did he say anything useful?"
"Nothing new," Charles admitted. "But he did permit me to review the evidence files tomorrow. That, at the very least, gives us ground to press forward."
Damon rose from his chair. "Then we have two victories in one afternoon. A toast, I think, is in order." He crossed to the sideboard and retrieved a bottle of brandy and three glasses.
Charles raised a hand in amused surrender. "I am inclined to agree with you, Your Grace."
"I will not drink," Elizabeth said, folding her arms with feigned severity. "But I will allow it this once. Uncle, do not make me regret it."
Damon poured with practiced ease. "I am glad to know you are not strict only with me."
Charles chuckled, taking his glass. "You have no idea."
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at Damon. "I am actually quite kind to you."
Damon smiled as he handed her a glass of water instead. "If that is your kindness, I shudder to imagine your severity."
"Test me," she said with a smirk. "Keep this behavior, and you will find out soon enough."
Damon lifted his glass with a subtle tilt of his head. "If it is because you care about my well-being, I shall endure it gladly."
Charles raised his brandy in return. "You are quite the diplomat, Your Grace. Salute."
Damon's glass met his with a soft clink. "Years of practice, Mr. Whitaker."
They drank, and for a brief moment, the room softened. The tension ebbed. They were no longer client, counsel, and accused, but simply three people aligned by circumstance and by choice.
And in that fragile calm, something like camaraderie took root.