A chilling draft snaked through the room, raising goosebumps on Julia's arms. Marian's wedding dress, stark white against the gloom of the wardrobe, seemed to glow with a faint, malevolent light. Why was it here? Why Marian's cataloguing notes, meticulously labelled with her own name? It was as if Blackwood Hall, and Alistair, were weaving a new, suffocating tapestry around her, one stitched with Marian's forgotten threads.
A weary sigh escaped her lips. She was tired of the endless riddles, the unspoken threats, the chilling sense of being watched. She needed answers. And for once, she wouldn't allow herself to be dismissed.
She turned and stalked towards the door, her heart hammering with a new, fierce resolve. "Mr. Finch!" she called out, her voice clear and strong, echoing through the silent halls. "Agnes!"
She stepped out into the corridor, her gaze sweeping the empty space. No one. Where were they? The silence of the house pressed in, thick and suffocating.
Just as she reached the bottom of the grand staircase, a door opened. Not the study door, which she had so recently pressed her ear against, but a smaller one adjacent to it. A man emerged, tall and well-dressed, carrying a dark leather briefcase. He moved with a brisk, purposeful stride, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Julia, distracted by her own churning thoughts, walked directly into him. There was a soft thud, a rustle of cloth.
"Oh!" Julia gasped, stumbling back, her cheeks flushing. "I do apologize, sir! I wasn't looking where I was going."
The man steadied her with a gentle hand on her arm. His eyes, a warm, reassuring hazel, were filled with genuine concern. He was younger than she expected, perhaps in his late thirties, with a pleasant, open face.
"No, no, Miss," he said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. "The fault is entirely mine. I was preoccupied. Are you quite alright?"
"Yes, thank you," Julia replied, straightening her dress. "Quite. Just a little… preoccupied myself."
He smiled, a gentle, kind expression that softened the stern lines of Blackwood Hall. "You seem a little pale. Are you certain you're well?" His gaze lingered on her, a subtle warmth in his eyes. "I haven't seen you about the house before. Are you a relative of Lord Blackwood's?"
"I am Julia Harrow," she stated, her voice calm. "Lady Marian's cousin."
A flicker of recognition crossed his face, a sudden spark of understanding. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Julia Harrow. Ah, yes. The subject of Clause D."
Julia froze. The words hung in the air, a bell tolling in a forgotten crypt. Her mouth went dry. Clause D. He had said it. Out loud. Her hands clenched again, her nails biting into her palms. The headache behind her eyes sharpened into a searing knife.
"The… the subject of what?" Julia managed to articulate, her voice barely a whisper. She stared at him, her mind a blank. Explain.
The man looked confused, his pleasant smile faltering. "You… you don't know?"
"Know about what?" Julia pressed, her voice gaining a desperate urgency. "What are you talking about? Explain yourself, sir!"
He opened his mouth to speak, a hesitant breath escaping his lips. But before he could utter another word, the study door swung open with a soft creak.
Alistair stood there, his face a mask of polite irritation, his blue eyes cold and sharp. "Mr. Price! I thought you were leaving?"
The man, Harlan Price, turned, a flush rising on his cheeks. "My Lord Blackwood! Yes, I was, but I just happened to quite literally bump into Miss Julia Harrow." A hint of surprise still lingered in his gaze as he looked at Julia.
Alistair's smile was thin, edged with something that was far from pleasant. "Indeed. What an unfortunate incident. I do hope Miss Harrow hasn't… delayed you unduly."
Harlan Price turned back to Julia, a flicker of genuine bewilderment in his eyes. He seemed about to express his surprise at her ignorance regarding Clause D. "My Lord, Miss Harrow appears quite unaware of-"
"It is getting quite late, Mr. Price," Alistair interrupted smoothly, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "And it is a long journey back to London. The weather, too, seems poised to turn. I believe you should be on your way."
Harlan Price opened his mouth to agree, a polite nod beginning to form.
"Wait!" Julia cried, stepping forward, her voice ringing with a newfound authority. "Mr. Price mentioned me. He called me the 'subject of Clause D.' I do not know what he means. I wish to know. Now." Her gaze was fixed on Harlan Price, bypassing Alistair entirely.
Alistair's charming façade evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard glare. "Julia, we have discussed this. It is not your concern. Mr. Price has business to attend to."
"It is my concern, Alistair!" Julia retorted, her voice rising. "My name was mentioned. He is here, now, in this house. He can simply tell me. It would take but a moment of his time." She looked back at Harlan Price, her eyes pleading. "Please, sir. Just tell me what Clause D refers to."
Alistair stepped forward, placing himself almost imperceptibly between Julia and Harlan Price. His voice was firm, laced with an undeniable command. "Mr. Price has a long journey ahead. I have already informed you, Julia, that I will explain everything in due course. Why are you pressing this matter?" His eyes, fixed on hers, were a silent warning, a promise of consequences. "I repeat myself, in case you did not hear me the first time. Mr. Price, if you would." He gestured towards the main hall, a clear dismissal.
Harlan Price looked from Alistair's stern face to Julia's pleading eyes. A flicker of sympathy, then resignation, crossed his features. "It is a shame we could not be better acquainted, Miss Harrow." He took her hand, his touch warm and fleeting, and brought it to his lips in a brief, polite kiss. "Farewell."
Julia felt Alistair's eyes narrow, his gaze fixed on the hand Harlan Price was kissing. His jaw tightened, a muscle throbbing beneath his skin. He rubbed his forehead, as if trying to quell a sudden, violent headache. His eyes, molten with a rage she didn't quite understand, met hers for a fleeting second before he turned sharply, leading Harlan Price away, their footsteps receding into the gloom of the hall.
Julia stood alone in the silence, the echo of Harlan Price's words, "the subject of Clause D," ringing in her ears. Her anger at Alistair's controlling behavior, his casual dismissal of her questions, burned hot and fierce. He had deliberately kept her from the truth.
Her gaze fell upon the study door. Alistair, in his haste, had left it ajar.
A sliver of opportunity. A whispered invitation.
Without conscious thought, Julia slipped into the study. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and Alistair's expensive cologne. His large mahogany desk dominated the room, cluttered with documents. Her eyes immediately found a stack of papers, bound with a green ribbon, clearly marked: Harrow Properties.
Harrow Properties. Her family's estate. What could Alistair possibly have to do with her family's holdings? A cold suspicion began to solidify in her mind. This was not about Marian's wealth alone. This was about her. About Clause D.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the papers. She pulled them free, her eyes scanning the elegant script, searching for answers.
"Miss Julia!"
The voice, sharp and sudden, made her jump. The papers slipped from her grasp, fluttering to the floor like startled birds.
Finch stood in the doorway, his severe face unreadable, his eyes fixed on her. "What are you doing in Lord Blackwood's study?" His voice was cold, accusing.
Julia straightened, her back rigid. Her anger, still simmering from Alistair's dismissal, flared. "I saw papers related to my family's properties. I wished to examine them." She wouldn't apologize for seeking the truth.
Finch stepped into the room, his presence radiating disapproval. "Miss, you are going too far. This is Lord Blackwood's private study. It is most improper for you to enter without permission. To snoop, if you will."
"Improper?" Julia retorted, her voice rising. "Perhaps you can explain what Marian's wedding dress and her private cataloguing notes are doing in my room, Mr. Finch? That, I believe, is far more improper!"
Finch fell silent. His eyes flickered, a momentary tremor in his usual composure. He seemed to search for words.
"Well?" Julia pressed, stepping closer, her chin raised. "Speak up, Mr. Finch! You are so quick to scold me for entering a room. Now, answer me!"
He cleared his throat. "The wedding dress, Miss, was taken for… for cleaning. At Lord Blackwood's instruction. It must have been placed in your room by mistake, a simple oversight by the maids." He paused, his gaze avoiding hers. "As for the notes-"
"A mistake?" Julia cut him off, her voice laced with disbelief. "Do you truly expect me to believe such a convenient falsehood, Mr. Finch? A mistake? And the notes? Do they, too, belong to some errant maid's laundry pile?" Her voice was low, dangerous. "That is a lie, Mr. Finch. A poorly constructed lie."
"What is the matter here, Finch?"
Alistair's voice, cold and sharp, sliced through the air. He stood in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the scene: Julia, standing defiant amidst scattered papers, Finch, rigid and uncomfortable. His gaze finally settled on Julia, piercing and unwavering.
"Julia," Alistair said, his voice dangerously soft, "what are you doing in my study?"