Chapter 40

The carriage rocked through the rain-slicked streets of London, its wheels cutting through puddles like a knife through silk. Rain painted the city in shades of grey. Gaslamps glimmered faintly through the fog, like distant, mournful eyes. Inside, Alistair preferred the unlit gloom.

He sat, his gloved hand resting against the cold windowpane. His reflection stared back, a stark outline in the condensation: sharp cheekbones, the dark collar of his coat like a shadow, and eyes that refused to waver.

He was seething. More than that, he was unsettled. It was a feeling he despised—inefficient, imprecise, like a dull blade hacking when he preferred the clean cut of control. Evelyn's visit had chipped away at his composure, not from fear, but from the sheer absurdity of it all.

Lady Henswick's Fever Draft. A phantom remedy. It existed in no reputable apothecary, no indexed medical text, no pharmacopeia he had ever encountered. He had searched records himself years ago when Marian, his late wife, had first whispered its name, back when her eyes had begun to dart into corners and she started locking her dressing room door.

Yet, Evelyn spoke of it as if it were real, as if its mere presence could keep Julia balanced on the edge of sanity. As if it were something so dangerous it had to be hidden, even from him.

And Evelyn, self-righteous and unyielding, wrapped in her layers of duty and disdain, had refused to give it to him. She wouldn't even tell him where to find it. It made no sense. Not unless…

His jaw tightened. The carriage swayed as it turned onto Upper Tavistock Street.

Not unless Evelyn didn't want Julia to get better.

The thought struck him, cold and sharp, like a sudden intake of frigid air. For a moment, he dismissed it. Evelyn, despite her sharp tongue and thorny demeanor, clearly cared deeply for Julia. She protected her. But protection could twist into something ugly—obsession, dependency, a desire for control.

Was that it? Did Evelyn wish to keep Julia reliant on her? To keep her close, unlike Marian, who had somehow slipped beyond her reach? No. There was more to Evelyn than simple possessiveness. And Julia, poor Julia, was caught in the middle of it all.

He recalled Julia's face from their last argument—pale, yet fiercely defiant. Her hands had trembled, blood had stained her nose, and her breath came in quick, ragged gasps. Yet, she had stared him down as if she could command a storm.

She was slipping. He saw it in the way she carried herself, in the dazed look in her eyes after her episodes. The quiet that followed. And he felt, if he were truly honest with himself, that he was losing her to something he couldn't name, couldn't grasp.

He wouldn't allow it.

He sat forward abruptly, rapping on the carriage roof.

The driver's voice filtered through the partition. "Yes, my lord?"

"Take me to the offices of Corbin, Lyle & Trent," Alistair commanded, his voice even and calm. "Now."

A slight pause. "The Harrow solicitors, sir?"

"Yes," Alistair replied, his tone chillingly smooth. "The ones who have been handling their estate since the time of Cromwell."

Another beat of silence, longer this time. Then the whip cracked, and the horses surged forward, hooves clattering through the waterlogged street, carrying him towards his answers.

---

Ten minutes later, Alistair stepped into the vestibule of a narrow Georgian townhouse in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Rain still clung to his coat, and the faint scent of wet wool and damp stone followed him as he passed under the gaslight sconces, entering the paneled hall.

The office had a distinct smell of lemon oil, old paper, and dust. A fire crackled gently in the hearth. A clerk, a man with wire spectacles, rose from behind a tall desk.

"Lord Blackwood," the clerk began, blinking rapidly. "We weren't expecting—"

"I am aware," Alistair cut in, his voice cool and unwavering. "Is Mr. Lyle in?"

"I believe he's with a client, but I can—"

"Tell him it concerns the Harrow estate," Alistair stated, his gaze fixed on the clerk. "And Miss Julia Harrow."

The name had the desired effect. The clerk nodded stiffly and vanished through an inner door. Alistair moved to the hearth, watching the flames dance, a silent inferno of his own growing frustration. He flexed his fingers, then let his arms fall, resting at his sides. He had not come here on a whim. He had questions, and he wanted answers Evelyn could not cloak in riddles or sentimental whispers.

A few moments later, Mr. Lyle emerged. He was a short, precise man with neatly combed white hair and a peculiar habit of blinking whenever he was being evasive.

"Lord Blackwood," Mr. Lyle said, smoothing his cravat, his eyes flickering. "Please, do come in."

They settled into a private chamber, illuminated by the firelight and lined with towering shelves of law books that smelled of ancient binding glue and generations of Harrow misfortune. The rain tapped against the windows, a relentless rhythm like a code waiting to be deciphered.

"I won't take up much of your time," Alistair began, his voice low and steady. "I am here for records. Specifically, any health and inheritance matters related to Miss Julia Harrow. And anything pertaining to Marian Blackwood, born Harrow."

Mr. Lyle's mouth twitched, a tell-tale sign of his discomfort. "I would need to consult with Lady Evelyn. These are highly personal—".

"I have power of attorney," Alistair interrupted, producing the folded parchment with a crisp, decisive snap. He laid it on the polished table. "Signed by Marian, before her death. Julia is under my protection, as was arranged. I am invoking that right now."

Lyle looked visibly uncomfortable, which brought a faint sense of satisfaction to Alistair. The solicitor opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a thin folder tied with a green ribbon. "The file on Miss Harrow is limited," he stated slowly. "She is not a primary heir—"

"But she is a Harrow," Alistair interjected, his gaze piercing. "And that means you keep more than you share."

Lyle hesitated, his fingers fumbling with the ribbon. He untied it, then began to leaf through several neatly typed pages, his lips moving silently as he scanned them. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he said, his voice hesitant. "Except…"

"Except?" Alistair pressed, his voice taut with anticipation.

"There was a clause—an older one—from Miss Harrow's mother's side," Lyle explained, frowning at the document. "Something about a trust set aside in the event of… mental distress."

Alistair's gaze sharpened, his focus absolute. "Go on."

"It's archaic, but it is still active," Lyle continued, his discomfort growing. "If Julia were to be declared unstable, or unfit for marriage due to hereditary affliction, the funds would pass—entirely—to Evelyn Harrow, for the purpose of lifelong guardianship."

Alistair leaned back in his chair, the aged leather creaking softly under his weight. There it was. The motive. The leverage. A clear path to keep Julia tethered, not just emotionally, but financially. Evelyn would gain everything if Julia's condition worsened.

"She knows this," Alistair stated, not a question but a cold, hard fact.

"Lady Evelyn is a sharp woman, my lord," Lyle responded carefully, his eyes still flickering. "She knows the shape of every contract she has ever signed."

Of course she does. Alistair rose slowly from his chair, the firelight casting his shadow across the room like a creeping stain. "Mr. Lyle, I require full copies of all documents pertaining to this clause, including any amendments or associated trusts. I expect them delivered to Blackwood Hall by noon tomorrow."

Mr. Lyle looked up, a flicker of protest in his eyes. "Lord Blackwood, I must insist that we consult with Miss Harrow first. These are her personal affairs, and she is currently at Blackwood Hall, cataloguing your late wife's art collection. We require her express permission to release these documents."

Alistair's smile was thin, edged with a chilling amusement. "Miss Harrow is currently residing at Blackwood Hall, as you rightly stated, cataloguing Marian's art collection. Her well-being is my paramount concern. Any delay in addressing this matter directly impacts her health and stability." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "I have her best interests at heart, Mr. Lyle, and the authority to act on her behalf. Do you truly wish to impede the recovery of the woman under my protection?"

The solicitor's face paled. "No, my lord. Of course not. We will prepare the documents immediately."

"Excellent," Alistair said smoothly. "I expect prompt delivery." He turned, his cloak billowing behind him like spilled ink, leaving the uncomfortable solicitor in the quiet, dusty chamber.

---

Back in the carriage, the rain continued its relentless drumming, but within Alistair, the anger had curdled into a cold, precise strategy. He had seen Evelyn now, truly seen her—the faint tremble when he had spoken Ormonde's name, the way she had recoiled from her own reflection as if expecting to find someone else staring back. And now he understood her deep-seated game: she would rather Julia suffer, would rather see her declared unstable, than relinquish her financial hold.

Julia, naive and trusting, believed Evelyn was her shield. She didn't see that a shield could blunt a blade just long enough for it to slip between the ribs.

He clenched his gloved hands in his lap, then slowly, deliberately, drew Marian's letter from his coat pocket once more. The paper was soft, warped by time and by what he now knew were the tears of a woman increasingly desperate. He unfolded it carefully.

The final line stared back at him, stark and accusing:

I think Alistair knows. I think he wants me to go mad.

He read it again, then a third time. And a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

"She was wrong," he murmured, his voice a low, private sound against the rattling of the carriage. "I don't want her mad."

He looked out the window, past the streaks of rain distorting the passing city.

"I want her compliant."