There was another knock. Gabriel returned alone, hair slightly tousled by the wind. His expression was pleasant, but his eyes settled on Leticia.
“She’s off, isn’t she?” he said after a moment.
Leticia tilted her head. “Erica?”
He nodded. “She talks in circles. I never noticed before.”
“Because you trusted her?”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” he said instead. “If you’re free.”
Leticia hesitated, gave a faint nod. “I’ll be here.” The words cost her more than she expected.
He took her hand and bowed over it. A kiss to her knuckles, warm and brief, left her heart unsettled. She watched him go, as though the air he displaced lingered in the room long after.
When the door closed, Lady Eastbury crossed the room and sat beside her.
“You’re sharper than you let on.”
Leticia leaned back in her chair, pulse still unsteady. “I didn’t know what I saw. I only knew I didn’t like it.”
“A good instinct. Will you see him tomorrow?” her aunt asked.
“Yes.” She paused. “I want to believe in him. In us.”
Lady Eastbury was quiet for a moment. “And if you change your mind?”
Leticia smiled. “I’ll know better than to wear borrowed hope.”
Her aunt reached over, took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Your hope isn’t borrowed. You’re simply learning where to plant it.”
The firelight threw shadows across the carpet. Curtains shifted with the night breeze, whispering against the casement. The house seemed to listen.
Leticia went to her room after she and Mrs. Bainbridge left. She walked to her writing desk and opened the small drawer where she kept letters and small treasures. The sight of them stole her breath. Silvered edges glimmered in the lamplight, and the air was heavier, as though memory itself pressed close.
Some things didn’t glitter. Some things didn’t need to. That, she realized, was what made them dangerous. Especially when they were hers.
Chapter Fifteen
The wind offthe North Sea rattled the panes in Barrington’s study, carrying a tang of salt that sharpened his focus. He scanned the morning’s correspondence, pausing at the echo of boot heels in the hall. At first steady, uneven, as though the visitor carried weight or favored one leg.
Kenworth stood in the doorway. “A caller for you, Colonel. An old friend, I’m sure you’ll be glad to see.”
Barrington rose, brows lifting as a tall man stepped inside, road dust dulling his coat, the hitch in his stride telling its own story.
“Townsend?”
“Colonel.” Felix Townsend’s grin was quick and warm. “I could hardly ride past without calling.”
Barrington chuckled. “If by ‘riding past’ you mean three days’ hard ride from London.”
“Closer to four with this leg,” Townsend admitted. “Your brother sends his regards and this.” He produced a leather packet from inside his coat.
Barrington ran his thumb over the Whitehall seal before breaking it, his gaze narrowing on Townsend.
