Page 86 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Chapter Forty

When the West Wing meeting finally adjourned, Eliza felt Hartleigh’s walls shifting around her, restless, uneasy, listening.

Mrs. Greaves found her just beyond the West Wing corridor, her steps measured, her expression careful.

“My lady,” she said quietly, “I thought you should see this.”

She produced a crumpled paper, smoothed once against her apron before offering it.

Eliza recognized the hand at once. The Thornhaven mark. The date. The acknowledgment, signed and witnessed.

“Where was this found?”

“In the waste basket beside Mr. Ashwood’s desk,” Mrs. Greaves said.

Eliza folded the paper neatly and slipped it into her sleeve.

“Thank you,” she said.

Mrs. Greaves inclined her head and withdrew.

Eliza moved along the corridor without quite deciding to, her step quiet, her awareness sharpened by what she now carried. She stopped at the east-facing window overlooking the stables.

The house seemed to pause with her.

From here she could see the riding path, the orchard rise in distance, the stone wall that marked the edge of the grounds. Everything was still. Too still.

Ashwood had left the receiving room twenty minutes ago. His scrutiny still clung to her like damp air.

She had held her composure. She had chosen her words carefully. She had held the line.

But Thomas had not returned.

Her heartbeat kept time against her ribs with every passing moment. She told herself that he was safe underground with Sammy. She told herself the house would not betray its own.

Still, the silence stretched.

At last, finally, movement.

A figure slipping from the line of trees near the old stone wall. Broad shouldered. Steady. Familiar even reduced to a silhouette.

Thomas.

Relief hit her so sharply she had to brace her hand against the window frame. The tension she had carried since morning loosened so suddenly it left her briefly unsteady. He moved with care, cloak drawn close, keeping to the shadows until he reached the stable archway. Then he vanished inside.

Eliza waited as long as propriety required. Ten seconds. Perhaps twelve.

Then she turned from the window and continued down the corridor as though merely thinking. The house made it easy. A curtain did not stir. A floorboard remained silent beneath her steps.

At the stable entrance, she paused only long enough to confirm she was unobserved. Then she slipped inside.

The stables were dim, warm with the scent of hay and oiled leather. Thomas stood near his horse’s stall, his cloak thrown back, his hair damp and unruly, his hands moving slow, habitual strokes as he rubbed the horse down.

He looked up the moment she crossed the threshold.

“Eliza.”

Her name was a breath. A recognition.