Page 62 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Eleanor’s eyes sharpened. “You see why it cannot be you who confronts him.”

Thomas nodded, though his pulse resisted the restraint. “He will try to hurt her.”

“No.” Eleanor rose, leaning lightly on her cane. “He will try to weaken her position. But Eliza is not as breakable as he believes.”

Thomas exhaled. Not relief. Acceptance.

Eleanor stepped closer, lowering her voice. “What she needs from you now is steadiness. Not confrontation. Stand where you always have. Let her know she is not alone. That is enough, for the moment.”

Thomas absorbed this, shoulders settling.

“Then that is what I will do.”

Eleanor’s expression softened. “Good. And Thomas.”

He paused at the door.

“Do not let Ashwood see what you feel,” she said. “A man like him cannot weaponize what he does not perceive.”

Thomas inclined his head once. Respect. Understanding. Promise.

*

Outside, the air carried the scent of rain though the sky remained clear.

Hartleigh was warning him, in its way.

He lifted his gaze to the upper windows and found Eliza still at her desk, intent, unyielding, the ledgers spread before her like pieces on a board she already knew how to play.

She was fighting. Quietly. Precisely. He would match her measure for measure.

No declarations. No grand gestures. Only presence. Steady. Certain. Hers.

And Ashwood, whether he knew it or not, had just made the first mistake of a man who underestimated the wrong two people.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The carriage appeared at the far turn of the drive just as the afternoon light thinned to a softer gray. Hartleigh’s façade seemed to draw itself upright at the sound of unfamiliar wheels, as though the house itself knew when something unanticipated approached.

Eleanor stood beneath the arch of the front steps, Eliza on her right, Clara on her left, Nathaniel a step behind. No one spoke. The tension was not dramatic. Simply a stillness. The kind that arrived when the air held its breath.

Thomas waited a short distance away with two footmen, ready to assist if required. His presence was steady. Watchful. Unobtrusive.

The carriage rocked to a stop.

A woman stepped down carefully, one hand guiding a small boy whose boots barely touched the stone before he pressed close to her side. Her traveling cloak was worn at the hem, but she held herself with a quiet resolve that suggested she would not falter in front of strangers.

“Your Grace?” she asked, softly, as though uncertain she had the right to speak the name aloud.

“Yes,” Eleanor said. “I am Eleanor, Duchess of Hartleigh.”

The woman curtsied too quickly, nerves betraying her. “I am Margaret Lane. This is my son, Edmund.”

The boy tightened his grip on her hand.

“I request the courtesy of a brief audience regarding my son,” Margaret added. “We’ve come directly from the mail coach.”

“You are welcome at Hartleigh,” Eleanor said. “Please, come inside.”