The grave keeper snorted. “You’ve just described half of London, lad.”
“This one’s recently been lingering here near the older stones, not the new plots.”
The man removed his pipe and tapped it against the stone bench. “Now that you mention it… therehasbeen a fellow loitering about. Claims he’s doing research. Asked me about family plots last week but seemed more interested in the back rows, where the names are half worn and no kin visit. Didn’t like the look of him. Had that greasy feel, like someone who carries a knife inside his boot.”
“Did he say whom he worked for?”
“Didn’t need to. I know a paid errand boy when I see one. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s connected to that Norton business. There’s been talk, you know. Once again,Societyhas been gossiping…”
Elias stepped closer. “What kind of talk?”
The man leaned in, lowering his voice. “Some say Norton still sends men looking for Miss Fairfax, even after all these years. Most think he’s mad. Others think she left something behind… something worth chasing. But ghosts don’t stay gone without reason, captain. If she’s still alive—and you’ve seen her, haven’t you?—he’ll come sniffing.”
Elias didn’t confirm it, but the silence between them said enough.
The grave keeper nodded toward the western edge of the cemetery. “You be careful, son. Ghosts may be quiet, but the men chasing them rarely are.”
*
Dread twisted inElias’s chest as he followed the now-familiar path behind the overgrown hedgerow. The sun had dipped behind thick clouds, turning everything a muted blue-gray. A chill rode the wind, curling around the tombstones like skeletal fingers.
When he reached the narrow gate and stepped through the ivy-draped trail, he knew something was wrong. The cottage was dark. The shutters were closed tightly, and no smoke curled from the chimney. The stillness was oppressive.
He knocked on the door. “Isobel?”
No answer.
He slid his hand to the hilt of the knife in his coat. Out of habit, he carried this weapon, though he hadn’t used it in years.
He circled the cottage. Her herb garden had been disturbed—crushed leaves, snapped stalks, and footprints in the soft earth. Someone had been here.
The root cellar door hung slightly ajar, its hinges groaning as he eased it open. Inside, it was empty. No tools. No baskets. Just a single piece of torn fabric caught on a nail… dark-green wool, the same cloak she had worn.
He gripped the cloth in his fist, heart pounding harder than it had on any battlefield. She was gone. Had Norton’s men taken her? Or had she run?
Elias was halfway back toward the cemetery when a movement caught his eye near the Hawthorne tomb—a shadow too fluid to be wind, too human to be chance.
“Isobel!”
She turned sharply at the sound of his voice. Her veil had fallen back from her face, soaked from the mist. Her lips were pale, her eyes wide, but she was safe.
“Captain Blackwood,” she said, relief blooming in her voice.
He reached her in three long strides. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “No. Just shaken. I saw a man near the cottage. He was watching me. I didn’t recognize him, but I could feel he knew who I was, or thought he did. I waited until he moved on and slipped out the back.”
Elias placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, but his own pulse was still thundering. “He’s Norton’s man. I’m certain of it.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before Norton himself comes looking for me,” she said softly, eyes darting toward the trees.
“No.” His voice was firm. “You’re not staying here. I have a safe place. A friend’s flat, not far. It’s in Hampstead. It’s empty. No one will think to look there.”
She looked up at him, rain dripping down her cheeks like tears. “And then what? Do I vanish again? Hide in a different shadow until the next one finds me?”
He shook his head. “You’ll be protected. I’ll see to it.”
“You can’t guard me forever, Elias.”
