Maids did.
So Eleanor went to Blackthorn Hall.
She polished cabinets containing correspondence.
Dusted desks.
Emptied wastepaper baskets.
Learned which doors creaked and which locks were weak.
She found no proof.
Only fragments.
An old estate ledger missing seventeen pages.
Payments to men whose names she could not trace.
A locked cabinet in Lord Edmund’s former study.
And Adrian.
Adrian had inherited Blackthorn five years earlier after his father’s sudden death.
He had charm when he wished.
Ladies found him handsome.
Politicians found him useful.
Bankers respected his credit.
Servants feared his temper.
Eleanor watched.
Waited.
And said almost nothing.
Until the ring fell.
Adrian extended his hand again.
“Give it to me.”
Eleanor slipped the ring into her apron pocket.
“No.”
His eyes flashed.
“You are no longer employed here.”
“That may be the first honest thing you have said today.”
“Fenwick!”
Mrs.
Fenwick jumped.
“Sir?”
“Send for Constable Reeves.”
Nobody moved.
Adrian turned.
“Did you hear me?”
Mrs.
Fenwick looked at Eleanor.
Then at the master.
Before she could answer, another voice entered from the doorway.
“Perhaps we should first establish why you are carrying a dead man’s property.”
Everyone turned.
Dr.
Samuel Vale stood beneath the arch.
He had been invited to dinner because Adrian’s aunt suffered from a weak heart.
Tall, silver-haired, usually mild, he now regarded Adrian without warmth.
Adrian forced a laugh.
“This is absurd.
Ward was a thief.
He may have stolen the ring from my father.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“My father owned it before he ever worked here.”
“You expect anyone to believe that?”
“I expect one person to.”
Adrian stared.
Eleanor turned toward Mrs.
Fenwick.
“Where is Lady Beatrice?”
Adrian’s face changed.
Barely.
But Eleanor noticed.
His elderly aunt lived in the east wing.
Beatrice Blackwood was Lord Edmund’s younger sister.
Nearly eighty.
Partially blind.
And the only living adult who had known Nathaniel before the scandal.
Mrs.
Fenwick hesitated.
“In her rooms.”
“I would like to speak with her.”
Adrian moved toward the door.
“No.”
There it was.
Too fast.
Too frightened.
Eleanor looked at him.
“Why?”
“She is ill.”
Dr.
Vale said, “I saw her twenty minutes ago.
She is perfectly lucid.”
Adrian turned sharply.
“This is my house.”
Dr.
Vale’s reply was calm.
“Then perhaps you should behave as though you deserve it.”
A dangerous silence followed.
Eleanor walked toward the stairs.
Adrian caught her arm.
She turned.
He released it almost immediately.
Not from courtesy.
Because thirty-two people were watching.
“Ward.”
Eleanor looked at him.
His voice dropped.
“If you go upstairs, you will regret it.”
She thought of nineteen years of shame.
Her mother dying with questions unanswered.
Children at school whispering thief.
Employers declining references after recognizing her surname.
She smiled without humor.
“Mr.
Blackwood, regret and I are already very well acquainted.”
Then she went upstairs.
Lady Beatrice sat beside the window wrapped in plum-colored wool.
Her milky blue eyes lifted when Eleanor entered.
Dr.
Vale followed.
So did Mrs.
Fenwick.
Adrian remained outside the room, perhaps because three footmen had suddenly discovered reasons to stand in the corridor.
Eleanor approached.
“Lady Beatrice?”
“Yes?”
“My name is not Eleanor Ward.”
The old woman frowned.
Eleanor corrected herself.
