Felix reined in hard, throwing dust as he dismounted. “Report for you, urgent. Direct from Edward.” He handed over a folded packet. “It’s the records. From the auction house. Ledger pages. And…” He broke off, looking around. “Where’s Ash?”
“Gone,” Barrington said. “Minutes ago. He’s headed west. Dunmere Cross.”
Townsend looked stunned. “He went alone?”
Lady Eastbury spoke, her tone even. “Because no one else knew where to look.”
Barrington opened the packet, flipping through the top page. Names. Circled. Erica among them. Two others beneath.
His gaze narrowed.
The seller: Morton Hall Estates.
He passed the page to Mrs. Bainbridge. “It wasn’t just about what they bought. It was about who sold it.”
Lady Eastbury said nothing. Her eyes were closed.
*
The moon brokethrough the cloud cover just long enough to silver the hedgerow and cast pale light across the fields.
Gabriel crouched low in the saddle, his coat snapping in the wind. The gelding moved beneath him like a creature with the same intent as his, fast, relentless, focused.
Each hoofbeat was a heartbeat. Each gust of wind against his face was a warning.
He leaned lower, eyes fixed ahead.
The road forked just beyond the hawthorn rise. One way dipped toward the toll road, the other climbed the incline to the pass above the cliffs.
He didn’t hesitate.
He took the rise.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The lanes metin a shallow dip where the earth looked worn by years of decisions. To the east, the ground fell toward a dark glint of sea. To the west, the track bled into the pale heath and scrub. Straight ahead, a thin path curved between low stone walls and hawthorn. Men once called it Dunmere Cross, like the hinge of the countryside, where every road demanded a decision.
Gabriel drew the gelding to a halt and let the horse blow. He listened first. Wind rustled through the thornbush, a gull cried far off over the water, and the faint scrape of bramble on stone. No wheels. No voices. He slid from the saddle and dropped the reins for the gelding to breathe. The lantern’s circle was small, and the night was honest, so he trusted the ground more than the light.
Fresh ruts cut across the older tracks, their edges still dark and damp. In one place, the near wheel had bitten deeper as if the load had shifted when the driver corrected his direction. A spray of gravel lay thrown across the verge and had not settled into the frost. He crouched. The soil was cold to his fingers and soft beneath the crust. The coach had recently passed.
He moved to the hedgerow and read it as he would read a map. Leaves were bent in the wrong direction. Two twigs snapped close together, too clean for weather, just at shoulder height where a body brushed through. He found a snag of silk on a jagged stone. Silvery green. He pressed it between his thumb and forefinger. A trace of rose clung to the thread. The scent caught in his throat, sharpening into ananger clean and clear.
She had been here.
He crossed the dip again, slower now, and set each small sign into the path in his mind. The northern lane showed bruised leaves where something wide had pushed by. The southern verge held a shallow crescent where a horse had shifted weight. No lantern wax. No crest marks. Whoever drove did not wish to be seen. If he stayed on the road, he would be on their time. If he cut across the fields, he might meet them where the inland lane pinched down.
Hoofbeats came from behind. Barrington rode in at a hard pace. His bay steamed and tossed its head. He lifted one gloved hand in a question and swung down before the horse had settled.
“Anything,” he asked.
“Enough,” Gabriel said. “They came through heavy and fast. North to the fork. They will not risk the storehouses if there are eyes on the bluff.”
Barrington studied the ruts, the hedge, and the open dark beyond them, evaluating what might still be moving unseen. “The inland fork is quieter. Slower, though.”
“They will trade speed for cover if they think we chase wheels,” Gabriel said. “Hawthorn Rise cuts the field. If I cross there, I reach the inland road before they make the turn, whether they choose coast or country. I will not follow them. I will meet them.”
Barrington’s mouth tugged. “You sound sure.”
