Page 36 of Redemption for the Baron

“Keep her talking,” he murmured, passing the reins into Bridget’s hands. “Don’t let her slip under.”

Bridget tightened her grip around Marjory. “I won’t.”

Once Grenville and Blackwood mounted their own horses, the group turned toward the house, moving swiftly but carefully through the dense wood.

Side by side, they made their way back to the manor house. Grenville cast a glance at Bridget, half-expecting her to challenge him, to press for more answers. But she didn’t. Instead, her expression matched his own, focused and determined.

As they pressed on, Grenville felt a shift, not just in the investigation but in something deeper, in her. Bridget rode with composure, sharp and ready, her eyes always forward. He had expected resistance or questions. Instead, she met the moment with determination. And for the first time, he didn’t just tolerate her presence, he counted on it.

He didn’t trust easily. But she’d earned it, not with words, but with how she moved through fire. And in this, perhaps, they were more alike than he’d dared admit.

Chapter Eleven

Even before theyreached Alastair Court, the air had grown heavy. The manor stood silent against the grey sky, its windows dark, its walls steeped in the hush that follows a blow. Hooves struck the damp earth in a solemn rhythm, but no one spoke. The cheerfulness of the weekend had died with Alastair, and they rode toward something colder than grief—uncertainty, as he relayed the update: the icehouse was being prepared. The words settled over them like a shroud. No one argued or questioned it. Death had a way of silencing even the most obstinate.

Barrington gave the footman quiet instructions before turning toward Blackwood. They exchanged a brief look before mounting up and making their way toward the manor without exchanging a word.

Grenville glanced over. Bridget hadn’t dismounted. She sat rigid in the saddle, her fingers curled tightly around the reins. Her mind refused to be still. Every detail of the past hour replayed in relentless succession. Alastair’s unnatural stillness, the way his hand had frozen in its final grasp, the lifelessness that had settled into his once expressive features. And the parchment. The slip of paper now hidden inside her pocket, an unspoken whisper demanding her attention. The sensation of it, thin, fragile, yet heavy with meaning, sent an unsettling prickle up her spine.

She had yet to examine it. Every time she even thought of unfolding it, another pair of eyes lingered too long, and another question was asked. No. Not here. Not yet.

Grenville rode beside her, his silence a shield, his expression carefully schooled. But Bridget knew better. She recognized the way his jaw set when his thoughts ran ahead of him, when his mind was already pulling apart the puzzle piece by piece. He was calculating, assessing, and already forming the next step. It was an odd comfort, knowing she wasn’t alone in this unraveling mystery.

Marjory remained quiet, cradled between Bridget’s arms, her posture stiff with shock. Her hands clutched at the saddle, knuckles pale against the leather. She had not spoken since they left the clearing. The grief on her face was raw, unguarded. Every so often, her breath hitched, as though she were swallowing back a sob, unwilling to break before so many watchful eyes. The wind tugged at her riding cloak, but she hardly seemed to notice. She only stared ahead, unseeing, as if the weight of the world had settled upon her and she did not yet know how to carry it.

The others also bore the weight of the moment. The ease of camaraderie that had existed only hours before was now fractured, replaced with unease. Lord Davenport, who had insisted on accompanying them back, wore his emotions more plainly than the others. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“It’s an outrage,” Davenport muttered at last, the first to break the tense quiet. His voice carried an edge of anger, whether at the situation itself or at the disruption of his weekend. “A damnable thing to happen here, of all places.”

“Here?” Bridget asked sharply, her head snapping toward him. “As opposed to anywhere else?”

Davenport’s jaw clenched. “I simply meant that Alastair was a well-respected man. Who would wish him harm?”

No one answered immediately. The question hung between them, thick and suffocating.

“Not a stranger,” Barrington finally said, his tone measured, his gaze fixed ahead. “Not with how quickly it happened. Not with where it happened.”

Davenport frowned, turning toward him. “What are you suggesting?”

Grenville’s fingers flexed around the reins, his voice even. “That whoever did this knew the estate.”

A sharp glance passed between some of the guests. That suggestion unsettled them far more than the idea of a passing thief. A stranger was easy to fear, easy to blame, but the notion that Alastair’s murderer had walked among them? That was something else entirely.

The weight of it settled into their bones as the estate loomed before them, its tall windows glowing against the encroaching night. The laughter and music from the evening before had vanished, replaced by a silence that carried only one certainty.

No one in Alastair Court would sleep soundly tonight.

When they reached the manor, they found Barrington waiting for them at the entrance. He turned to Marjory, who stood rigid with the footman, her eyes shadowed with grief. “You should rest.”

“I will do no such thing.” Her voice was hoarse but steady as they walked into the entranceway. “Mark is, was, my husband. I will not be sent away like some fragile thing.”

Bridget stepped closer, her fingers briefly squeezing Marjory’s hand. There were no words for a loss like this, no comfort that could be offered when the wound was so fresh.

“Then you should at least sit,” Barrington amended, gesturing toward the drawing room.

Marjory did not resist, though her steps were mechanical as she crossed the threshold. Bridget followed, her mind still whirling.

Blackwood entered the hall, his gaze sharp, as if he had already heard whispers of what had transpired. “Word is already spreading among the staff.”

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