Page 50 of A Legacy of Lies

Nathaniel turned.

Matthew Fletcher stood just beyond the tack room, his cap crushed between his rough hands. He shifted, uneasy. But he didn’t bolt.

“Yes.”

Fletcher swallowed. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Didn’t seem my place. But… it’s been bothering me.”

Nathaniel stepped closer. “What has?”

“The night before last.” The groom shifted his weight as he dropped his gaze. “I was seeing to the gray mare, she was lame again, and I noticed someone by the east paddock. Cloaked. Tall, I think. Didn’t get a proper look.”

Nathaniel’s breath slowed. “Doing what?”

“Lurking. Watching.” Fletcher paused. “When I called out, he ran. Towards the old orchard path and the folly beyond.”

Nathaniel’s pulse thudded once. The mist. The storm. Her torn sleeve. Clara in the lightning. He hadn’t imagined it. And she hadn’t lied.

Fletcher hesitated. “Didn’t seem important until I heard about the jewels. And…Miss Whitmore. I didn’t know if it mattered.”

It mattered. More than he could say.

“Where is she?”

“I think,” Fletcher glanced toward the house. “Parlor corridor. I saw her go up that way.”

Nathaniel was already moving. “You have my thanks, Fletcher.”

*

In Eleanor’s private sitting room, Clara sat at the writing desk, her hand trembling as she folded the half-written letter.

The ink had dried smudged in places. A few tears had fallen, not enough to ruin it, but enough to mark it.

Lady Eleanor, I cannot in good conscience remain—

She had not finished the sentence. Her fingers hovered above the page. The truth would not move, yet her heart would not release it.

She folded the page carefully, each crease as sharp as a held breath. She slid it into its envelope, sealed it with wax, and stared at it for a long time. Then she stood. Crossed to the hearth.

The fire crackled low. Coals whispered beneath the ash, enough glow to tempt flame. She didn’t drop the letter. Not yet.

The door creaked. Clara turned.

Eleanor stood in the threshold, her cane in one hand, her expression unreadable.

“I thought,” Clara began, “that I might go. Before things worsen. Before I cause more trouble.”

Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the letter, then to the fire.

“Running solves nothing,” she said, stepping forward. “It only teaches you how to vanish.”

“I don’t want to vanish,” Clara said softly. “But I am not the only one who will pay if I remain here.” Her hand clenched around the wax seal, as if even the paper had turned against her.

Eleanor reached out, not to take the letter, but to open the fire screen. She held her cane steady, then nodded once.

Clara understood. Her fingers loosened, and the letter fell.

It curled. Blackened. Disappeared.