A sharp rap at the door interrupted, drawing both their gazes toward the footman standing just beyond the threshold. The young man bowed respectfully, a sealed letter resting on a silver tray in his gloved hands.
"A message for His Grace," the footman announced, his voice carefully measured.
Nathaniel held Evelyn's gaze a moment longer before leaning back in his chair, extending his hand. The footman stepped forward, placing the letter into his waiting palm before retreating with silent efficiency.
Evelyn took the opportunity to lift her tea once more, hiding behind the porcelain rim as Nathaniel broke the seal. She watched from beneath her lashes, noting the slight tension in his jaw as his eyes flicked across the parchment.
Whatever was written there was not routine.
Nathaniel's fingers tightened around the edges of the letter, the barest flicker of something—annoyance? Concern?—crossing his otherwise unreadable expression.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
He folded the letter and set it aside. Only then did he return his attention to her.
"An urgent matter?" Evelyn inquired smoothly, tilting her head as though merely indulging in idle conversation.
Nathaniel regarded her, unreadable as ever, before offering a faint smile—one that did not quite reach his eyes.
"Nothing that need concern you, Duchess," he said, his tone light, but there was an unmistakable finality in it.
He rose from his seat, smoothing his sleeves as he did. "Enjoy your breakfast."
Evelyn watched as he strode toward the door, He did not rush.
And as the doors closed behind him, leaving her alone in the vast dining hall, Evelyn set down her cup.
' I wonder what the letter was about.'
And she needed to know what.
Evelyn waited until the door had fully shut behind Nathaniel before turning her attention to the footman. He stood by the door, hands clasped behind his back, his expression carefully neutral. But she had learned long ago that even the most disciplined servants could be coaxed into sharing a sliver of information—if approached correctly.
She let out a soft sigh, setting down her teacup with a delicate clink. "That letter seemed rather serious," she mused aloud, more to herself than to him. Then, as if just realizing his presence, she turned to him with a thoughtful tilt of her head.
"You must know who sent it."
The footman's posture remained rigid. "I could not say, Your Grace."
She hummed, studying him. "Could not, or will not?"
His lips parted slightly, as if about to protest, but he quickly caught himself, bowing his head in practiced submission.
Evelyn sighed again, this time with exaggerated weariness. "It is terribly frustrating, you know," she confessed, tapping her fingers lightly against the table. "To be a duchess in name, yet know nothing of my own husband's affairs."
The footman said nothing, but she noticed the slight flicker of unease in his gaze.
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. "Surely you must have some idea? After all, a letter such as that does not simply appear in His Grace's hands without someone delivering it."
Still, he hesitated.
Evelyn tilted her head, feigning mild exasperation. "Am I so untrustworthy that even the footmen will not indulge me?"
His name—spoken in that soft, coaxing manner—seemed to weaken his resolve. He swallowed, shifting on his feet.
"It was brought by a man, Your Grace," he admitted at last, voice barely above a whisper. "A courier dressed in gray. He refused to give his name, but he carried himself… not like a servant, nor a common messenger."
Evelyn narrowed her eyes. "Then how?"
Harrison hesitated again, but she gave him a pointed look, urging him on.
"At first, I thought him a soldier. But there was something else—something practiced about the way he moved." His voice dropped further, wary. "If I may be so bold, Your Grace… he reminded me of a man who does not wish to be seen, even when standing in plain sight."
Evelyn stilled.
A spy.
Her mind raced, but she forced herself to maintain a composed expression. She gave a light laugh, waving a hand as if brushing off the notion. "How terribly dramatic, Harrison. You do have an active imagination."
The footman straightened at once, as if realizing he had spoken too freely. "Of course, Your Grace. My apologies."
Evelyn smiled, dismissing him with a graceful nod.
But as soon as he stepped away, her expression sobered.
Nathaniel receiving secret messages from a man who moved like a ghost?
'I need to find out more.' she thought
Evelyn sat curled in the window seat of her chambers, the golden light of the setting sun casting a soft glow over the open journal in her lap. Eleanor's journal.
She had read it countless times before, to know more about Eleanor. And yet, no matter how many times she had scoured its pages, nothing had ever stood out as unusual. It had always been the writings of a proper duchess, detailing household affairs, social obligations, and the occasional personal musing.
But tonight, something felt different.
Perhaps it was her conversation with the footman. Or the letter Nathaniel had received. Or perhaps it was simply that unsettling feeling in her gut, the one that whispered she had missed something all along.
So she read again.
Page after page of Eleanor's graceful, flowing script. Notes about the estate. Mentions of her meetings with the housekeeper. Idle complaints about the dreadful weather.
And then—
A line she had read before, but never truly noticed.
"I saw him again today. He did not speak, only watched. I wonder if he suspects?"
Evelyn frowned.
Who? Who had Eleanor seen? And what did she mean by 'suspects'?
She turned another page, heart pounding now.
"It is nearly done. I only need to ensure the papers are in the right hands before it is too late."
The right hands?
Evelyn's fingers tightened around the leather binding. She had read these words before, but had dismissed them as the idle concerns of a noblewoman tending to business matters. But now… now she wasn't so sure.
She flipped through the final entries, skimming for more clues. And then, on one of the last pages—
"Nathaniel came to me tonight. He looked at me as if he already knew. Perhaps he does. Perhaps it is time to stop pretending."
The ink on this line was slightly smudged, as if Eleanor had hesitated.
Evelyn's breath hitched.
Nathaniel had known something. And Eleanor had stopped pretending.
Was this… was this the moment before she died?
A chill crept down Evelyn's spine.
Eleanor had been hiding something. Planning something. And Nathaniel had found out.
Evelyn swallowed hard, closing the journal with trembling hands.
She needed to know more.
And there was only one place that might hold the answers she sought.
Nathaniel's study.
Later That Evening
Evelyn spent the remainder of the day as she always did—reading, taking a walk through the gardens, and idly sketching in the parlor while the servants bustled around her. But no matter what she did, her mind kept circling back to that letter. The spy. Nathaniel's expression.
It gnawed at her.
She forced herself to act as if nothing was amiss, keeping her voice light and her manner relaxed, even as she discreetly observed the household's routine. She learned that Nathaniel had locked himself in his study for hours after receiving the letter, emerging only once to give instructions to his steward in a voice too quiet for her to hear.
Dinner was uneventful. Nathaniel spoke little, but that was not unusual. Evelyn matched his silence, offering nothing beyond polite conversation. He left the table earlier than usual, murmuring something about unfinished work before retreating once more.
And that was precisely what she had been waiting for.
Now, as the halls grew quiet and the last of the servants retired for the evening, Evelyn slipped from her chambers, the candle in her hand flickering as she moved. She walked with purpose, yet her steps were careful, measured.
Nathaniel's study was on the second floor, at the end of the long corridor lined with portraits of his ancestors. The door was locked, as expected.
But Evelyn had been raised in a world where locked doors meant little.
She withdrew a thin, delicate hairpin from her sleeve. With practiced ease, she knelt before the keyhole, the candle's glow barely illuminating the brass lock. She worked quickly, the soft click of metal barely audible over the quiet crackle of the candle flame.
A breath.
Then—
Click.
The lock turned.
Evelyn exhaled slowly, glancing over her shoulder before slipping inside, shutting the door behind her.
The study smelled of parchment and ink, of aged wood and faint traces of Nathaniel's cologne. The heavy mahogany desk was covered in neatly stacked papers, a single lamp left burning beside an unfinished report. But it was the letter she sought.
Her eyes scanned the surface, fingers carefully shifting through the documents. Military reports. Correspondences. Nothing out of place—until she found it.
A folded parchment, its wax seal broken.
Evelyn hesitated only a moment before unfolding it, her eyes quickly adjusting to the slanted, precise handwriting.
"The first step is complete. Now we wait."
There was no signature. No indication of the sender. But Evelyn's fingers tightened around the edges of the paper as unease curled in her stomach.
The first step?
She glanced toward the drawer of the desk. Nathaniel always kept his most important documents there. She reached for the handle, testing it—locked.
But before she could retrieve her pin once more, the quiet click of the door latch sent a jolt of alarm through her.
Evelyn barely had time to react before the study door swung open.
And there stood Nathaniel.
The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across his face, his unreadable gaze locking onto hers.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, in a voice dangerously soft, he asked,
"Looking for something, Duchess?"