Page 34 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Gabriel let the brandy swirl in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight with deliberate care. The study was quiet but for the steady crackle of the hearth, the air was thick with the scent of polished wood and smoldering embers. Across from him, James sat with his usual measured ease, though his posture indicated the severity of their conversation before it had even began. Gabriel looked up slowly at his friend.
“These were not accidents,” he said, tilting the glass slightly before taking a slow sip. “The saddle strap was cut cleanly. No frayed edges. No wear. A single stroke through the leather. Intentional.”
James sighed, rolling the stem of his own glass between his fingers.
“And the irrigation channels?” he asked.
Gabriel exhaled sharply; the memory still fresh.
“The damage was too precise,” he said. “It was not mere erosion or careless tampering. Whoever did it know where to strike and targeted damage right before the crucial growing period. Maximum disruption with minimal effort.”
James nodded; his expression grim.
“I agree,” he said gravely. “The timing is too neat to be coincidence. Charles has intensified his probing in London. Whatever he is looking for, he is not finding it fast enough. And now, Mountwood suffers these seemingly calculated attacks. I am certain that he is somehow behind this.”
Gabriel leaned back, stretching his legs out slightly, though his grip on the glass remained firm. The thought had been gnawing at him since the moment he had seen the sliced leather, since the irrigation channels had turned to ruin beneath his hands. He had spent too many years reading the aftermath of war to mistake careless damage for deliberate sabotage.
“Who else would hold such a grudge?” he asked. “And more than that, who would possess the means to carry it out?”
Gabriel turned the glass in his hand again, watching the slow whirl of brandy against the sides.
“And yet, my hands are tied,” he said. “I have no substantial proof that could be used to expose him directly.”
James frowned, setting down his glass with a quiet thud against the mahogany surface.
"Indeed, you have hit upon the truth of the matter," he said. “And that is precisely the problem. We either need proof, or we must anticipate his next move before he makes it to try to catch him or get proof.”
Gabriel allowed the silence to stretch between them, the fire cracking softly in the distance. He did not care for waiting games, but they were caught in one all the same. Evidence would be slow to gather. Until then, they would need foresight and caution.
“I concur,” he said, feeling defeated.
***
Sleep would not come. Genevieve lay motionless beneath the coverlet, her eyes fixed on the ceiling’s soft glow, where faint candlelight flickered against the plaster in muted waves. The air was filled with the hush of deep night, still and weightless, yet something within her stirred too urgently to ignore. She had never been one to chase restless thoughts, yet tonight, they refused to be quieted.
With careful precision, she slipped from her bed and stepped into her slippers, the cool floor sending a shiver along her spine. She did not light a lamp. There was no need. The corridors were familiar now, their turns and thresholds committed to memory. She moved with extreme caution, ever mindful of the slumbering household, which required her watchful step. A single step too loud, and she might wake someone. The thought unsettled her far more than the dark.
The moment she stepped into the open air, the tension loosened. The gardens stretched before her, bathed in silver light, the wind carrying the scent of earth and distant woodsmoke. The path to the glass houses lay undisturbed, the stones warm from the lingering heat of the day, though the night air cooled her skin. She had meant only to walk idly and relax in the pleasant breeze.
Yet her feet carried her forward, past the manicured hedges and through the shadowed alcove beyond the west wing, where the glass houses stood waiting. The restoration had begun, piece by piece, each effort adding another touch of renewal to the forgotten spaces. Some were still choked by time and neglect, but others had begun to breathe again. She hesitated at the threshold, lifting the latch with slow deliberation. The door yielded with a soft creak.
The scent of damp earth greeted her, mingling with the faint trace of cut leaves and wood polish. The interior was cooler than the garden, the air almost completely quiet. She stepped forward, pressing her fingers lightly against the nearest workbench, tracing the grain of aged wood beneath her palm. Then, there was movement.
She stilled at once, her breath catching as she tried to see who was in there with her. Another step forward gave her the lighting and angle to see clearly. Gabriel, she realized with a thrill.
He stood among newly arranged plants, his presence unexpected yet strangely unsurprising. She approached slowly, only using the shuffle of some dead leaves to announce her entry. His gaze met hers without hesitation, his expression unreadable but not unwelcoming.
“You could not sleep,” he said. There was no accusation, just mild concern.
She shook her head.
“It seems that you could not, either,” she said softly.
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the leaves shifting beneath the moon’s glow. The soft lighting played on Gabriel’s features, light and shadow, stark and softened. His scars, often sharpened beneath daylight’s scrutiny, appeared gentler here, their edges muted by silver light.
She turned toward the workbench, her fingers brushing over a familiar journal resting atop the polished surface. She reached for it at the same time he did, and their hands met. Yet neither of them pulled away. Heat spread through her fingers, along her veins in a slow, traitorous wave. The contact was light, barely more than the brush of skin, yet it carried more weight than it should have. She inhaled, but it did nothing to cool the warmth gathering beneath her ribs. Gabriel’s fingers curled, not to take the journal, but as though he wrestled with the restraint and desire for distance, he had shown Genevieve since their arrival at Mountwood.
That restraint shattered the moment he noticed the quickened rhythm of her breath. His hand closed over hers, firm but unhurried.
