But it wasn’t Leticia who haunted him now. It was the burden she carried, and the knowledge that she did not yet understand it.
Six pieces, his uncle had written. Six. Each with diamonds arranged to mimic the symbol the Order held sacred, angles cut so precisely they formed a diamond within a diamond. At its heart, the dark gem. Always the dark one.
He turned toward the painting propped against the armchair. His uncle’s hand, rendered in oil and shadow, had captured more than just likeness. The woman’s gaze held that same luminous clarity Leticia wore when she was determined not to cry. And there, at her shoulder, glimmered the brooch. Too precise to be a coincidence. Too familiar to be anything but fact.
He leaned in. Even in oils, the jewel sparkled, as though it would not be subdued. And it matched the sketches exactly.
He drew a breath, slow and sharp, his fingers curling against the desk. Leticia’s brooch hadn’t just been a keepsake. It was a relic tied to the Order, tied to danger. And someone would come to reclaim it.
He carefully wrapped the painting with linen, slipping it under one arm. He folded the notes into a folio and secured it with twine. He didn’t call for his butler, nor wait for the carriage, nor pause to explain. He walked out the door with purpose in every stride.
Because there were answers now. And someone needed to hear them.
*
The lamps insideBarrington’s house burned low, the kind of light that invited secrets. Sanderson showed Gabriel to the study without delay. Mrs. Bainbridge sat curled on the fainting couch, a porcelain cup of chocolate balanced on her knee. Barrington stood by the hearth, the flicker of firelight sharpening the furrow between his brows.
“I didn’t expect you until later,” he said. But his gaze had already landed on the bundle in Gabriel’s arm. “What is it?”
Gabriel set the portrait carefully against the chair and passed the folio to him. “The last piece of the Morton estate. It was never missing. It was here. With Leticia.”
Barrington’s brow furrowed deeper as he flipped through the pages. Mrs. Bainbridge leaned over his shoulder, taking each page as he passed it. With each sheet, her expression shifted further into disbelief.
Gabriel loosened the linen slowly, as though even this required care. He set it upright, and the brooch gleamed back at him, painted, and yet too real.
“Leticia’s mother,” he said quietly. “The brooch. It’s there. Same as in the sketches. Same as in the Morton records. My uncle Robbie purchased it for her mother. She passed it to Leticia.”
His gaze didn’t leave the canvas.
“That,” he said, pointing to the glint at the woman’s shoulder, “is the sixth piece.”
Barrington muttered a low curse. “So it wasn’t missing.”
Gabriel shook his head once, but his jaw had tightened. He moved to the mantel, bracing himself with one hand.
“She told me her mother always wore it. I went back through the ledgers. The sketches. I had hoped it wouldn’t be true.”
Barrington looked up. “So you’ll tell her tonight?”
A shadow crossed Gabriel’s eyes. “She’s gone. To Alnwick. I don’t think she’s coming back.”
A silence settled, heavy and unforgiving.
Mrs. Bainbridge spoke, low, but steady. “You know why you have to be there. Not just for answers. For her.”
He stared at the brooch in the painting. The light no longer touched it.
“Let them come,” he said.
*
The air inthe salon held the perfume of lilacs and burning beeswax. Champagne shimmered on silver trays. Candles reflected in mirrored sconces. Every surface glowed, but none of it reached Gabriel’s mind.
He stood inside the entrance, scanning the room as though assessing a field of engagement. He had told Barrington she wouldn’t come.
Leticia’s silence hadn’t been a test. It was a verdict. One he hadn’t wanted to hear. Even so, he could not stop watching the door.
He murmured greetings. Accepted a flute of champagne, he would not drink. Colonel Rutherford passed with a nod, mentioning something about the ledgers, the auction house, the pattern emerging from beneath the surface.
