The clock in the hall struck eleven as Eleanor paced her chamber, the crumpled note from Julian burning a hole in her thoughts. Midnight. The east wing attic. Bring your courage. The audacity of him, summoning her like some clandestine lover—or a conspirator. She didn't trust him, not an inch, but the pull of his challenge was a hook she couldn't shake. What truth did he mean to reveal? And why the attic, of all places?
She dressed quickly, forsaking her nightgown for a practical skirt and blouse, a shawl draped over her shoulders against the chill. Her hair she left loose, a cascade of auburn waves that spilled down her back—let him see her unpolished, unguarded. If this was a game, she'd play it on her terms.
The manor was a tomb at this hour, its corridors silent save for the creak of floorboards beneath her boots. She carried a single candle, its flame flickering as she climbed the narrow stairs to the east wing. The air grew colder, heavier, the scent of dust and old wood thickening with each step. The attic door loomed ahead, its warped frame ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning her forward.
She paused, her hand on the latch, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. "Julian?" she called, her voice low but firm.
A rustle answered her, then his voice, deep and steady. "In here."
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, the candlelight casting jagged shadows across the attic's slanted ceiling. Trunks and crates cluttered the space, their surfaces draped in cobwebs, relics of a grander past. Julian stood near the far wall, a lantern at his feet, its glow illuminating a small table strewn with papers. He'd shed his waistcoat, his shirt open at the collar, and the sight of him—so disheveled, so human—caught her off guard.
"You're late," he said, glancing at her with that infuriating half-smile.
"And you're presumptuous," she retorted, setting her candle on a crate. "What's this about? Another tale of your smuggling days?"
"Not quite." He gestured to the table. "Come see for yourself."
She approached warily, her eyes narrowing as she took in the papers—maps, letters, a ledger with faded ink. One map showed Ashwood's coast, marked with Xs and cryptic notations. Another bore a seal she didn't recognize, cracked wax clinging to the edges. "What am I looking at?" she demanded.
"The truth I promised," he said, tapping the ledger. "This belonged to your father. I found it in a trunk marked with his initials. He wasn't just a gambler, Eleanor—he was neck-deep in the smuggling trade."
Her stomach dropped, a cold fist closing around her heart. "That's a lie."
"Is it?" He slid the ledger toward her. "Read it. Dates, shipments, payments. Brandy from Calais, silk from Lisbon. He ran a network out of this harbor, right under the navy's nose. My guess is he lost it all at the tables, not in some noble ruin."
She snatched the ledger, her hands trembling as she flipped through the pages. The handwriting was her father's—slanted, precise, unmistakable. Entries stretched back a decade: March 1805—200 casks, £500 profit. July 1806—silk seized, £200 loss. Her throat tightened, memories of her father flashing through her mind—his warm laugh, his reckless charm. She'd known he was flawed, but this?
"You're wrong," she said, slamming the ledger shut. "He was a gentleman, not a criminal."
"He was both," Julian replied, his tone even but unrelenting. "Gentlemen don't always play by the rules, Eleanor. I should know—I've been one and broken them."
She glared at him, fury warring with doubt. "And what's your angle? You dig up my father's sins to guilt me into your bed? To make me grateful for your coin?"
He stepped closer, his eyes darkening. "I dug this up because you deserve to know. Your uncle's kept it buried—probably to protect the family name, or his own hide. But I'm not here to guilt you. I'm here to show you the stakes."
"The stakes?" She laughed bitterly, shoving the ledger back at him. "You mean your stakes. You want this harbor for your own schemes, and now you've got dirt to leverage."
"If I wanted leverage, I'd have shown this to Reginald," he said, catching her wrist as she turned to leave. His grip was firm, warm, and it stopped her cold. "I brought you here because you're not a pawn, damn it. You're a player. And players need the full board."
She yanked her arm free, her skin tingling where he'd touched her. "Don't pretend this is noble. You're still the profiteer who'd chain me to your ambitions."
"And you're still the heiress who'd rather burn this place down than admit she's cornered," he shot back, his voice rising. "Look around you, Eleanor. This manor's rotting—your father's debts, your uncle's incompetence. I'm not the villain here. I'm the one offering a way out."
"A way out?" She stepped into his space, her chest heaving. "You mean a leash. A ring on my finger and a fortune to gag me with."
He didn't back down, his breath mingling with hers in the dim light. "You think I want you gagged? I want you fighting, spitting fire like you are now. I want you at my side, not under my thumb."
The words hit her like a wave, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. His eyes burned into hers, fierce and unguarded, and she saw something there—hunger, yes, but also a flicker of respect. It threw her off balance, made her want to shove him away and pull him closer all at once.
"You don't know me," she whispered, her voice trembling with the effort to hold her ground.
"I'm learning," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips, then back up. "And I like what I see."
The air between them thickened, charged with a heat she couldn't name. She could feel the pull of him, the gravity of his presence, and it terrified her. She stepped back, breaking the spell, her hands clenched at her sides. "Keep your flattery," she said, her voice steadier now. "And keep your truths. I'll decide what to do with them."
He nodded, a shadow crossing his face. "Fair enough. But take this." He pressed the ledger into her hands. "It's yours, not mine."
She clutched it to her chest, the weight of it grounding her. "Why show me this now?"
"Because you asked for my past," he said simply. "I figured I'd give you yours, too."
He turned to the lantern, lifting it as if to leave, but she stopped him. "Wait."
He glanced back, one brow raised. "Yes?"
"What's in it for you?" she asked, her voice softer now. "Really. No games."
He hesitated, then set the lantern down, facing her fully. "A partner," he said at last. "Not just a wife. Someone who can stand the storm with me. I've sailed alone too long, Eleanor. I'm tired of it."
The admission hung there, stark and vulnerable, and she didn't know what to say. She wanted to scoff, to call it a ploy, but the weariness in his voice—the truth of it—stayed her tongue.
"Good night, Julian," she said finally, turning for the door.
"Good night," he replied, and she felt his eyes on her as she slipped into the shadows.
Back in her chamber, she locked the door and sank onto her bed, the ledger heavy in her lap. Her father, a smuggler. Julian, a man who'd clawed his way from the same muck. And her, caught between them, a legacy of secrets unraveling at her feet.
She didn't sleep that night. The candle burned to a stub, and as dawn crept through the curtains, she made a vow: she'd confront Reginald, unearth the full truth, and face Julian on equal ground. Four days left. The game was far from over.