The carriage was ready.
Evelyn adjusted her gloves as she stepped outside, the morning air crisp against her skin. The footman opened the carriage door, revealing Clara already seated inside, hands neatly folded in her lap. Her maid's expression was as composed as ever, but Evelyn knew Clara well enough to sense the quiet concern beneath her calm exterior.
"I trust you have everything prepared?" Evelyn asked as she climbed into the carriage.
Clara nodded. "Yes, my lady."
The door shut behind her, and the carriage lurched forward. Evelyn exhaled slowly, watching the city pass through the window. The streets were already bustling—vendors setting up their stalls, noblewomen in fine carriages heading toward morning calls. It was a world that had once felt familiar, but standing in Eleanor's place, it felt foreign.
Clara shifted slightly. "Will Lord Nathaniel not accompany us?"
Evelyn's fingers tightened briefly over her skirts. "No. This meeting is best handled privately."
Clara studied her for a moment before inclining her head. "Alright, my lady."
The footman pulled the reigns and the carriage began to move
The steady rhythm of the carriage wheels against the cobbled streets did little to calm Evelyn's thoughts. Sir Bastian's summons had been unexpected, and she hated unexpected things. They were cracks in the careful facade she had built—risks she could not afford.
The rest of the ride passed in relative silence, save for the occasional sounds of the city beyond the carriage walls. As they neared their destination, Evelyn's grip on her gloves tightened. Whatever awaited her, she would not falter.
When the carriage finally rolled to a stop, the footman stepped forward to open the door. Evelyn smoothed the fabric of her gown, casting one last glance at Clara before stepping down onto the stone pavement.
Her breath hitched for the briefest moment as she took in the sight before her—Countess Whitmore's Manor.
Eleanor's manor.
The grand estate loomed before her, its imposing stone facade untouched by time, the tall windows gleaming in the pale morning light. It was a house of prestige, elegance, and history, yet as Evelyn stood at its threshold, it felt like stepping into a ghost's shadow.
This was where Eleanor had once ruled, where she had entertained nobles, whispered secrets behind gilded doors, and moved through society with effortless grace. And now, Evelyn was meant to do the same.
She exhaled slowly, gathering herself before ascending the stone steps. Clara followed a step behind, steady but silent.
The doors opened before she could knock, revealing a familiar figure waiting just beyond the threshold.
Sir Bastian.
His sharp eyes swept over her in quiet assessment. He was a man who rarely betrayed emotion, yet today, something in his stance was different—tense, expectant.
"My lady," he greeted with a shallow bow. "Welcome home."
The words sent a strange chill down Evelyn's spine, but she masked it with a small, unreadable smile. It is all an act, and Sir Bastian expects me to play my role accordingly.
Home.
She stepped past him into the grand foyer, which stretched before her, bathed in the soft glow of morning light filtering through the high-arched windows. The polished marble floors gleamed, chandeliers above casting intricate patterns against the walls. Every detail remained as she remembered—no, as Eleanor would have remembered.
Evelyn's steps were measured, careful. The weight of the manor pressed down on her, whispering of a life that had once belonged to someone else. A life she was expected to wear like a well-tailored gown.
Behind her, Clara followed in silence, a quiet reassurance. Sir Bastian walked ahead, his posture as precise as ever, leading them through the halls without a word.
As they reached the drawing room, he finally spoke.
"You've done well thus far, my lady," he said evenly. "But now, we must speak plainly."
Evelyn glanced at Clara before turning back to him. "I would like to speak privately with Sir Bastian."
Clara hesitated only a fraction before nodding. "Of course, my lady."
With a slight curtsy, she stepped back, retreating toward the door. The quiet click of it closing behind her left Evelyn alone with Sir Bastian.
For a moment, neither spoke. The room was steeped in an unsettling stillness, broken only by the faint crackling of the hearth.
Evelyn turned to face him fully and sighed. "Speak plainly, then," she said, her voice composed. "What is it that couldn't be said in a letter? Sir bastian."
Sir Bastian studied her for a moment, his calculating gaze flickering over her features as if searching for something. Then, he exhaled, his posture shifting just slightly, the smallest concession to the gravity of the conversation.
"There has been movement," he said finally. "Whispers among the nobles. Lord Nathaniel is at the center of it."
Evelyn's fingers curled against the folds of her gown, but her face remained impassive. "What kind of whispers?"
"They suspect the truth."
The words sent a chill down her spine, but Evelyn did not let it show. Instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression unreadable. "And what, exactly, do they suspect?"
Sir Bastian's lips pressed into a thin line. "That the woman married to Lord Nathaniel is not Eleanor Whitmore at all."
A silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.
Evelyn exhaled slowly, a measured breath meant to steady the flicker of unease curling in her chest. "That is a dangerous accusation," she said at last.
"Which is why it must be handled carefully," Sir Bastian replied.
Evelyn's gaze did not waver, though her mind was already racing through the implications. The nobles were suspicious—perhaps not entirely certain, but close enough to pose a threat. A single misstep could unravel everything.
She walked toward the fireplace, the warmth barely touching the chill that settled over her. "How many know of these whispers?"
"Enough." Sir Bastian's voice was grave. "It has not reached the ears of the court yet, but it is only a matter of time. The wrong person hears it, and it will no longer be mere whispers."
Evelyn traced a gloved finger along the edge of the mantel, her thoughts sharpening. "Do we know who started them?"
Sir Bastian hesitated briefly, his expression unreadable. 'I have a hunch, but I'm not sure yet.' he thought.
"The person is a tricky one," he admitted. "I couldn't trace the source."
Evelyn turned to face him fully, her jaw tightening. "What do we do now?"
"Just keep acting like Eleanor," Bastian said, his voice low and firm. "And do me a favor—get closer to Lord Nathaniel. Solidify your name as his wife… by becoming pregnant."
Evelyn's fingers stilled against the mantel. The flickering firelight cast long shadows across the room, but none felt as heavy as Bastian's words.
She turned slowly, her expression carefully composed. "You think that will be enough?"
Bastian met her gaze, unflinching. "It will leave no room for doubt. A child would tie you to Nathaniel irrevocably. Even if suspicions linger, no one will dare challenge your place."
Evelyn inhaled deeply, steadying herself. The idea was not unexpected—political marriages thrived on securing heirs—but the implications were suffocating. She had spent years maneuvering carefully, ensuring her control over her own fate. Now, Bastian was asking her to take the final step, to seal herself in a role that could never be undone.
She moved to the window, staring out at the darkened gardens. "And if Nathaniel resists?"
A humorless chuckle escaped Bastian. "Then make him believe he wants this. You're clever enough for that."
Evelyn's lips pressed into a thin line. She had no illusions about the game she was playing, but this move was irreversible.
Still, she had come too far to falter now.
She turned back to Bastian, her voice as steady as ever. "Very well. I'll handle it."
Bastian studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Good. Because if we fail, it won't just be whispers we'll have to fear."
Evelyn held Sir Bastian's gaze a moment longer before turning away, her thoughts already shifting toward the challenge ahead.
A child.
The weight of it pressed against her ribs like an iron vice. It was not merely the act itself that unsettled her—it was the finality. A child would tether her to Nathaniel in ways no clever words or calculated moves ever could. It would make this deception permanent.
But there was no room for hesitation.
Evelyn smoothed her hands over the bodice of her gown, schooling her expression into something unreadable. "I will do what needs to be done," she said at last, her voice as calm as ever.
Sir Bastian inclined his head. "Good."
A knock at the door interrupted them.
Evelyn turned as Clara stepped inside, her sharp gaze flickering between them. "My lady, Lord Nathaniel has arrived."
A chill settled over the room.
Evelyn's fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her skirts before she forced them to relax. "He's here?"
Clara nodded. "He's waiting in the foyer."
Sir Bastian's expression did not change, but Evelyn caught the faintest shift in his stance—attentive, watchful.
"I suppose I shouldn't keep my husband waiting," she murmured.