Page 81 of Redemption for the Baron

Blackwood’s head snapped up. The fury in his eyes was raw. “That they did.”

“And what will you do with that knowledge?” Grenville asked quietly.

Blackwood glanced at the parchment one more time. Then his voice turned cold. “I suppose that depends.”

“On?” Barrington asked.

Blackwood’s fists unclenched. “On whether or not they come calling again. And if they do… I’ll be ready.”

Grenville studied him. There was no bluster, no dramatics, just certainty.

Townsend asked. “And if they don’t?”

Blackwood shrugged. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate and be on my way.”

He turned for the door. “Just don’t mistake absence for inaction,” he said over his shoulder. “The shadows have long memories. But should you ever need another blade against the Order… If you’re willing to look in the shadows.”

Grenville let out a breath. If the Order ever sought Blackwood again… they’d regret it.

As Blackwood exited, a tense silence lingered. The others remained frozen, caught between the shock of what had unfolded and what had yet to come.

Lady Carlisle shifted uneasily, dabbing at her brow with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Lord Davenport muttered something about brandy and made for the drinks cabinet, while Miss Gray stood very still, eyes fixed on the parchment. Miss Hathaway whispered a prayer, fingers clenched tight.

Grenville remained still, the names echoing in his mind. The Order was wounded, but far from finished, and so were they.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The morning airwas warm, the drawing room bristled with quiet tension, a stillness that felt out of place. Conversations were hushed, the usual chatter replaced with quiet speculation. Though sunlight streamed through the tall windows, it did little to dispel the tension that had settled over the house. What had begun as a weekend of sport and leisure had turned into something far more unsettling.

Lady Carlisle smoothed her skirts, glancing nervously at Miss Hathaway. “I suppose we should have expected some sort of explanation,” she murmured.

Miss Hathaway sighed, her fingers twisting the edge of her handkerchief. “But do we truly want to hear it?”

Davenport, who stood near the window, let out a quiet breath. “It’s better to know the truth than continue pretending nothing happened.”

Barrington stood near the mantel, his expression solemn but composed. At his side, Townsend and Grenville flanked him, their presence reinforcing the gravity of the moment. Bridget stood nearby, her hands clasped before her, her gaze looking over the faces of everyone assembled. Marjory sat stiffly, her fingers tangled together in her lap, eyes downcast but listening.

Scofield was notably absent. His discreet presence had become a fixture over the past few days.

The hush deepened as Barrington cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

“As you are all aware, we have been investigating the tragic death of Mark Alastair,” he began. “I regret that this weekend, meant to be one of sport and leisure, has been marred by something far more sinister. But now, we have answers that we can share with you.”

A heavy silence followed, expectant and uneasy.

Barrington continued, his voice steady. “Mark Alastair did not suffer a fatal accident.” Barrington paused, letting the words settle. “He was murdered, and the culprit was among us. Lady Evelina Worthington,” he paused, allowing the name to settle over the room, “was responsible for his death.”

Gasps rippled through the gathering. Miss Hathaway pressed a hand to her mouth, while Lady Carlisle’s fingers tightened around her handkerchief.

“God’s teeth,” Davenport muttered under his breath.

Blackwood remained expressionless, his arms crossed as he absorbed the statement.

“Evelina?” Marjory’s voice cracked. “But she was my friend… why would she do this?” Her voice wavered, caught between shock and disbelief.

Townsend stepped forward, his gaze sharp. “Lady Worthington was a member of the Order of Shadows, a clandestine organization that seeks to manipulate those in power for their own ends. Mark Alastair, through his research into his family’s library, stumbled upon a book containing their secrets. When he refused to give them what he had found, he became a liability.”

Barrington’s expression hardened. “She used her bodkin, a seemingly innocuous embroidery tool, coated with poison to end his life. And she did so without hesitation.”

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