Page 39 of Redemption for the Baron

Bridget forced herself to suppress a shiver. They weren’t just retracing Alastair’s final steps. They were stepping into the unknown, into something far more dangerous than they had anticipated. They would return to the clearing in the woods, to the place where Alastair had drawn his last breath. And perhaps, this time, the dark would not let them walk away empty-handed. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Chapter Twelve

As they leftthe manor and followed the familiar wooded path, the gentle rustle of leaves and quiet crunch of underbrush slowly replaced the hum of estate life. In the subdued light of the late afternoon, Grenville and Bridget exchanged a brief, knowing glance. They would find the answers and give Alastair justice.

As they stepped into the clearing, a young footman straightened from where he had been leaning against a tree. His face was pale but composed, and he quickly adjusted his coat as they drew closer.

“All’s been calm here, Captain,” the footman said, addressing Grenville with a faint bow. “No visitors, no animals. Just as Lord Barrington ordered.” He hesitated, glancing toward the body. “It’s been a grim watch, my lord, but no one’s disturbed the site.”

Grenville nodded curtly, his tone clipped. “You’ve done well. Lord Barrington and Mr. Townsend will be here shortly. Stay close and make certain no one bothers us.”

The footman took a step back, the tight line of his shoulders easing slightly, though his gaze lingered on the covered body. “Thank you, sir,” he murmured, his voice betraying his exhaustion and unease. “Didn’t want to leave him alone.”

Grenville gave a curt nod, his gaze flicking toward the shrouded form on the ground. “You did right in staying as long as you could,” he said, his voice steady. “But he’s not alone. Not now.”

The footman exhaled, some of the tension in his stance releasing at Grenville’s reassurance.

Grenville stood with his arms crossed and his expression dark. He barely noticed Bridget pacing until her voice broke the silence.

“I spoke with Marjory,” she said softly, stopping a few steps away.

Grenville turned, his sharp gaze meeting hers. “What did she say?”

“Alastair was supposed to meet someone,” Bridget continued, moving closer. “She thought it might be Barrington. He had been secretive, and she saw someone, a rider, through the trees just before she rode ahead.”

Grenville frowned, processing her words. “Did she say who it was?”

“No,” Bridget admitted. “She couldn’t see clearly. But she mentioned Alastair seemed… determined. Like he’d already made up his mind about something.”

Grenville exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping the clearing. “If he was meeting someone, why here? Why not at the house? Whatever it was, he didn’t want anyone else to overhear or know about it.”

Bridget followed his gaze to the spot where Mark’s body lay. Her stomach churned at the memory. “We assumed he had nothing with him. But what if we were wrong? What if there was something we overlooked, something the killer never found?”

Grenville gave a grim nod. “Then we look again.”

They crouched near the disturbed ground, and Grenville carefully pulled down the blanket covering Mark’s body. The sight made Bridget avert her eyes for a moment, but she steeled herself, determined to help.

The sound of hoofbeats cut through the silence, the rhythm steady and purposeful. Grenville rose instinctively, turning toward the approaching riders.

Barrington and Townsend emerged from the trees, their expressions taut. Barrington swung off his horse, his sharp gaze sweeping the clearing before settling on Alastair’s body.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low.

Grenville motioned to Bridget, who was still crouching near the body. “We were just about to examine him further.”

Barrington nodded, stepping forward, scanning the ground with a practiced eye. Townsend, meanwhile, dismounted more slowly, his gaze lingering on the surrounding trees as if assessing the space for hidden dangers.

“No signs of a struggle?” Townsend observed. “He didn’t have time to fight back.”

Grenville shook his head. “Whoever did this was swift and precise.”

Bridget’s breath caught as she leaned in. There was something, something wrong. A smudge of dirt, a shadow? No… not just dirt. It was deliberate. Her pulse quickened. “Captain.” Her voice broke through, low and urgent.

Grenville followed her gaze, his expression tensing as he noticed the same thing. He reached for his handkerchief before carefully tilting Mark’s head. A sliver of parchment protruded between the man’s lips.

His breath caught as he drew it free. “What the hell is this?”

Barrington, now kneeling on Alastair’s other side, also leaned in, his eyes sharp. “There’s a symbol drawn on the parchment. Faint, but deliberate.”

---