“I must go to her,” she said as the realization settled deep, undeniable in its urgency. “Immediately.”
Clutching the letter tightly, she rose abruptly, murmuring apologies to Sophia as she turned away.
She needed to speak with Gabriel the moment he returned. She needed to arrange travel to London without delay.
There was no question. She had to go.
***
The sun had begun to descend when Gabriel and James returned to Mountwood, the weight of the day hanging on them both. The ride back had been quiet, their conversation sparse, worn down by hours spent navigating tenant frustrations, diffusing tempers, and reinforcing Mountwood’s position amid the murmurs of unrest. Gabriel was weary, his muscles taut with residual tension, his patience stretched thin. He did not expect Genevieve to intercept him before he reached the study.
She stood at the foot of the grand staircase, the rich hues of sunset casting a pale glow upon her face, highlighting the visible strain tightening her expression. Her usual composure was absent. In its place was an urgency that made his pulse sharpen. She moved forward swiftly, her hand gripping a letter, her movements edged with distress.
“I need to speak with you,” she said.
Gabriel halted, his gaze dropping briefly to the parchment in her grasp before rising to meet the fierce worry in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked, trying to remain impersonal despite his rapidly rising concern.
She took a breath, words spilling quickly, thick with genuine concern.
“Richard has sent me a letter informing me that Aunt Victoria is terribly ill,” she said.
“The physicians fear she may not recover. She is asking for me.”
Gabriel stiffened; his mind was working swiftly even as his stomach twisted with suspicion. He took the letter from her, scanning its contents, his expression hardening rather than softening. There was no sympathy or reassurance. There was only deep, unrelenting doubt.
Richard Harrington.
The memory of his name alongside Charles Ravencroft’s resurfaced with jarring clarity. The clandestine meeting between them had already planted unease within Gabriel’s mind, and now, here was an urgent summons, perfectly timed, luring Genevieve away from Mountwood.
Immediately, his voice sharpened.
“You cannot go,” he said.
Genevieve’s breath hitched, shock flashing across her features.
“I must,” she said. “She may be dying, Gabriel,”
Gabriel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his jaw locked with tension.
“Traveling to London now is reckless,” he said. “Both Charles and Richard operate there, and the threats against Mountwood have only escalated. You may very well be walking into a calculated trap.”
Genevieve’s frustration flared, her voice rising in defiance.
“You assume a trap without evidence,” she said. “You expect me to abandon my aunt based on suspicion? She is on her deathbed, and you expect me to ignore my duty?”
The argument escalated swiftly, fueled by unspoken wounds, festering resentment, and Gabriel’s looming fear.
Genevieve’s expression hardened further, pain flashing in her eyes.
“You do not trust me,” she said. “You suffocate me with your fear, believing control is the only solution. But I do not need control. I need your understanding. I need your support, not this.”
Gabriel clenched his fists.
“I am protecting you,” he said, grumbling. He did not know how to make her understand without frightening her. There was something sinister at work, he was sure of it. But she was right. He had no proof. By what means could he persuade her to cultivate a clearer understanding?
“You are imprisoning me,” she said. Her voice dropped, quiet but unwavering. “I shall go. You do not have the right to forbid me from answering my duty.”
