Page 68 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Eliza lifted her chin, anchoring herself in that composed way she had.

“Safe travels, Thomas.”

He touched the brim of his cap and urged the horse forward. He didn’t look back. He knew if he did, something inside him would resist leaving at all.

Eliza watched until he passed beneath the archway and disappeared down the road.

Then she stood where she was, a moment longer than necessary, though she couldn’t have said why.

*

Inside the house, the corridor felt colder than it had moments before. A draft brushed the back of her neck as she walked, though the windows were tightly shut. One lamp flickered. Another dimmed, as if reconsidering its resolve.

She paused, her fingers resting lightly on the banister.

It wasn’t fear. It was awareness.

Hartleigh shifted around her the way old houses do with creaks, sighs, faint strains of wood adjusting against stone. But today the movements felt attentive. As though the house had drawn itself closer, listening.

She exhaled softly and continued toward the morning room. Her steps fell quietly on the runner. The floorboards beneath offered less resistance than they had earlier, yielding with a familiarity she did not question.

Mr. Carter rounded the corner too quickly and nearly collided with her.

“Oh, my apologies, my lady,” he stammered, bowing.

“It’s quite all right,” she said, though she studied him a heartbeat longer. He looked unsettled, glancing back toward the main hall as though something had unnerved him.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

He hesitated. “A letter arrived, my lady. For you.”

“For me?” Her brows lifted slightly.

“Yes, my lady. I was instructed to deliver it at once.”

“By whom?”

He swallowed. “Mr. Ashwood.”

Of course.

“Very well,” she said calmly. “Bring it here.”

The footman hurried off, his relief obvious.

Eliza entered the morning room. The fire burned low, shadows pooling more deeply in the corners than the hour warranted. She crossed to the writing desk, her fingertips brushing the polished surface.

A faint creak sounded above her. Perhaps a settling beam. Perhaps something else.

Before she could dwell on it, the footman returned with the letter, holding it out with both hands.

Eliza accepted it.

The wax seal was unfamiliar.

The handwriting was elegant.

And her name, Lady Eliza Somerton Thornhaven, was written with deliberate care.