Gabriel’s mouth eased. “Practical.”
“Plain sense,” Lady Eastbury said, looking toward the turn into town.
“We’re off to speak to Barrington,” Leticia said.
“Very well,” her aunt said, pulling on her gloves. “I will be home within the hour.”
The carriage drew up before Beckett’s shop, the windows bright with glass trays. Warm spice and sugar drifted into the street. Lady Eastbury accepted Gabriel’s hand, stepped down, and crossed the threshold with the calm assurance of a woman who did not beg favors and did not need to. She gave them a brief nod that meant she had everything in hand.
They set off toward Barrington’s.
The square had taken on its late morning order. A delivery cart rattled toward the hotel. A pair of navy officers walked in conversation without lowering their voices. An elderly gentleman moved at a dignified pace, leaning on a cane polished by use rather than vanity. Shops wore their best faces. The baker’s boy darted out with a paper twist for a waiting girl and received a grin that would set him up for the day.
They turned up the path to Barrington’s house. Before Gabriel could lift the knocker, the door opened.
Kenworth stood as if expecting them at that very moment. “Welcome, my lady. Lord Ashcombe.”
“Good morning, Kenworth,” Leticia said. “Is Colonel Barrington at home?”
“Not just now. He left an hour ago with Mrs. Bainbridge. A short ride along the cliffs. They will return by the afternoon.” Kenworth’s tone shifted slightly, lowering the way one might when offering a morsel meant for the right ears. “Professor Tresham sent word this morning for the Colonel. Something about having found a document of interest.”
“Would you give him a message?” Gabriel asked. “We wish to meet him tomorrow at Lady Eastbury’s home at nine.”
Kenworth inclined his head. “I will see to it.”
“Thank you,” Leticia said.
They left their card and turned back toward the square.
At the corner, a vendor called above the rattle of a dray. The warm smell of buns reached them. Gabriel paused, paid for two, and handed one to Leticia.
“You are very good at small rescues,” she said.
“I like buns,” he answered, trying not to smile.
They walked beneath the beech trees, where the air always carried a light scent of drying leaves and the faint sweetness of fallen onescrushed underfoot. She ate in small bites, more from habit than hunger, the sugar and spice steadying in their ordinary way.
Halfway down the lane, she sensed a faint pull at the back of her neck that meant attention. Not fear, just a prickle of notice. A boot scraped behind them. Another set of steps shifted, as if testing its pace. She glanced toward a bow-front window where a woman was polishing a glass. The reflection gave a narrow view of the street of a gentleman standing a little too still near the edge of the pavement. His hat set at a careful angle. Not close. Not far.
Gabriel did not change stride. He reached across without comment and brushed away the sugar at the corner of her mouth. The gesture was unhurried enough to look like affection and ordinary enough to be exactly that. The man near the window studied a sign he could not possibly read from where he stood, drifted on.
“Eat,” Gabriel said.
She ate. When she was two bites from finished, he took the rest from her hand and finished it in one clean bite.
“That was mine,” she said.
“I am uncommonly daring,” he said.
“You are insufferable.”
“Only when it saves time.”
She laughed in spite of herself, the sound easing the tension and leaving space for her thoughts. One thought took hold. People were searching for the sixth gem, speaking of it now in low voices at the edges of rooms, as if it were a matter of record and not a story. What if it was hers? What if the brooch in the drawer was not only a memory? What if her mother had known? Not by accident, by choice. The idea did not fit with the woman who had tied a ribbon in her daughter’s braid and told her she would grow into herself at her own pace. Yet the mind held two things well. It could love and doubt without losing either.
“You have gone quiet,” Gabriel said. He did not press, onlymarked it as he marked so many things, with silence.
“Thinking,” she said.
