Chapter 51: Letter to Paris

The morning sun spilled gently through the tall windows of the manor's breakfast hall, illuminating the long table laid with fresh bread, buttered eggs, seasonal fruits, and delicate pastries. The silverware gleamed, and the scent of brewed tea and spiced sausage drifted warmly through the air. But despite the inviting atmosphere, the mood at the table was far from harmonious.

Emilio sat stiffly in his chair, his jaw clenched and eyes dull with restrained fury. A thin bruise was barely visible on his cheekbone from where Rosalind had struck him the night before. He hadn't spoken a word since entering the room. Beside him, Lady Rosalind wore her usual mask of elegance; composed, serene but her gaze was icy, fixed on her teacup more than anyone present. A coiled viper beneath silken gloves.

Nathaniel was at the head of the table, calm and unreadable. He sipped his tea, occasionally glancing over the morning reports, giving nothing away.

Juliana, perched with ladylike poise on the opposite side, yawned softly, breaking the silence with her usual charm. "We should ride later. The weather's far too lovely to waste indoors."

Before anyone could respond, footsteps approached and Evelyn walked in.

Conversation paused.

She moved with the grace of someone fully aware of being watched. Her gown was soft dove gray, cinched neatly at the waist, the fabric catching the light as she walked. But it was the delicate green stone gleaming at her throat that drew every eye. The emerald pendant, cradled in fine silverwork, caught the morning sun and seemed to glow with a light of its own. Her skin, luminous and warm from her bath, gave her an almost ethereal air. Her cheeks were lightly flushed, lips faintly pink.

Nathaniel looked up and paused, his gaze lingering longer than he intended.

Juliana, ever the first to speak, leaned forward with a teasing smirk. "My, my… someone's glowing this morning. That necklace is gorgeous. And you, my dear Evelyn, look like springtime embodied."

Evelyn smiled, her fingers brushing the gem unconsciously. "Thank you. It was a gift… from the Duke."

Juliana's brows lifted slightly, but she grinned. "Oh really?! How generous."

"Indeed," Evelyn said softly, sneaking a glance in Nathaniel's direction.

He said nothing, but there was a glimmer of acknowledgment in his eyes brief, fleeting, but there.

Across the table, Emilio scoffed under his breath, pushing his plate away.

Rosalind's lips curved into a polite smile, but her eyes betrayed none of the warmth it implied. She sipped her tea, watching Evelyn with unreadable calculation.

Lady Rosalind's Chambers - Later That Morning

The air in her chambers was scented with crushed violets and beeswax. The curtains were drawn, the room warm. Lady Rosalind sat at her writing desk, a tall quill in hand and a thick sheet of parchment before her. Her movements were smooth, precise. She didn't rush, didn't falter.

Her eyes, however, gleamed with cold intent.

She wrote in fluid, looping French words of warning, of urgency. A name was mentioned. A situation explained. And a request: "Do not delay. Send now."

Once finished, she sprinkled sand over the ink, rolled the parchment with care, and tied it with a slender black ribbon. She rose and walked to the tall wardrobe in the corner. Opening it, she reached behind a row of fur-lined cloaks and retrieved a hidden brass bell.

Moments later, a trusted maid entered; older, silent, and handpicked by Rosalind herself.

"See that this is delivered discreetly," Rosalind said, pressing the scroll into her hand. "It must reach Paris without interruption."

The maid nodded once, and with practiced efficiency, vanished.

Alone again, Rosalind moved to her mirror and looked at her reflection.

"She may have won this morning," she whispered, "but the board is mine."

And with a final, composed breath, she smiled.

London Docks - Late Afternoon

The sky hung heavy with a thick canopy of clouds, casting a muted gray over the bustling docks of London. Seagulls circled overhead, their shrill cries blending with the groan of wooden masts and the shouts of dockhands unloading cargo. The air smelled of salt, tar, and wet wood.

Among the noise and clamor, a tall figure stood still.

Boots polished despite the grime of the port. A deep navy coat brushed by the breeze, tailored to fit broad shoulders and a commanding frame. His hair, dark and windswept from the voyage, fell slightly over his brow. A traveling satchel was slung over one shoulder, a silver signet ring glinting on his gloved hand.

He watched the movement around him with a narrowed gaze, not overwhelmed by the chaos but detached from it like a man who had returned home to find it changed in his absence, yet entirely predictable.

Julian Hartmoor had returned.

Three years had passed since he last set foot in England. Years spent chasing fortune and storming through empires, crossing oceans and deserts alike. Now, back in the city where his name had once stirred whispers, he carried not just memories but purpose.

He moved through the crowd with practiced grace, not needing to push; people parted instinctively, sensing his presence. A private carriage waited at the end of the dock, polished black and emblazoned with no crest discretion rather than grandeur.

A man in his fifties approached him, all gray and weathered, his steps clipped and precise.

"Mr. Hartmoor," the man greeted with a slight bow. "Welcome home. Your townhouse in Mayfair is ready. Shall I take your trunk ahead?"

Julian nodded once. "See that it's unpacked. I'll follow shortly."

The man left swiftly with the trunk, and Julian turned one last time to the sea.

His eyes lingered on the ship that had brought him across the Atlantic. Its white sails were already being furled, sailors shouting as they scurried across the rigging. That chapter was closed now.

He inhaled deeply. The air was different here. Thicker. Full of smoke, schemes, and memories.

"England," he muttered to himself, his voice deep, roughened by years abroad. "Let's see what you've become."

As he stepped into the carriage and the door shut behind him, the horses moved forward, carrying him into the heart of London; toward old ties, buried secrets, and the lives that had carried on without him.

What they didn't know, what they couldn't possibly suspect, was this:

Julian Hartmoor hadn't returned just to visit. He had returned to reclaim what was his.