CHAPTER 117: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN

Twenty minutes later, Ines walked into the dining room.

She was dressed in a modest, high-necked gown of pale yellow muslin. Her hair was neatly pinned up, not a strand out of place. She looked fresh, innocent, and perfectly respectable.

Rowan was sitting at the head of the table. The remains of his breakfast—a half-eaten scone and a boiled egg—sat on a plate to his side. He was holding the morning newspaper wide open, creating a wall of newsprint between him and the world.

"Good morning, Rowan," Ines said, taking her seat.

Rowan lowered the paper. He looked at her over the top of the pages. His eyes were critical, searching. He was looking for signs. Signs of rebellion. Signs of sadness. Signs of secrets.

"Good morning, Ines," he said.

He folded the paper and placed it on the table. He picked up his teacup.

"I trust you slept well?" he asked.

"Very well, thank you," Ines lied smoothly. She reached for the toast rack.

Rowan watched her butter a piece of bread. He cleared his throat.

"I have sent a letter to Carcel," Rowan announced.

Ines’s hand froze for a fraction of a second before she continued spreading the butter. "Oh?"

"Yes," Rowan said. "He should be arriving in a few hours. For tea."

Ines felt a flutter in her stomach. He was coming. Here. In the daylight.

"That is nice," she said calmly.

Rowan leaned forward. His face became stern. He was no longer just making conversation; he was issuing orders.

"Remember the rules, Ines," he said.

Ines looked at him. "Rules?"

"In the garden," Rowan listed, ticking them off on his fingers. "Open air. Where anyone can see you. Or in the drawing room with the doors open."

He paused, giving her a hard look.

"And no doing anything inappropriate," he added. "No whispering in corners. No touching. No disappearing."

Ines nodded slowly. She took a small bite of her toast. It tasted like dry sawdust, but she chewed and swallowed.

"I’ve heard you, Rowan," she said obediently.

She kept her face neutral. She didn’t let the memories of the previous night—of the desk, the sofa, the things they had done that were very inappropriate—show in her eyes.

"I won’t do anything that would tarnish my reputation further," she promised. "I know what is at stake. I know the wedding depends on it. I will be a perfect lady."

Rowan studied her for a long moment. He seemed to be looking for a crack in her armor. Finding none, he nodded, satisfied.

"That’s good," he said. "I just want you to be safe, Ines. And I want this wedding to happen without... incident."

He picked up his paper again, signalling the end of the conversation.

Ines continued to eat her breakfast in silence. Inside, her mind was racing. Carcel is coming. In a few hours.She wondered if he would look tired. She wondered if he would smile at her with that secret, knowing look. She wondered if he would be wearing the blue coat she liked.

A few minutes later, the door to the dining room opened again.

Edith entered. She carried a small silver tray. On the tray sat a single, folded letter.

Rowan glanced up from his paper but lost interest when he saw it wasn’t for him.

Edith walked to Ines’s side.

"My Lady," Edith said softly. "A letter has arrived for you."

Ines wiped her mouth with her napkin. "Oh? Who is it from?"

"It is from Miss Gladys, My Lady," Edith replied.

Ines smiled. Gladys. Her partner. Her friend. Probably sending a note about the next lesson, or perhaps a new idea for a plot twist involving a Duke and a gardener.

"Thank you, Edith," Ines said.

She took the letter from the tray. The paper felt heavy and expensive. It was sealed with Gladys’s simple wax seal—a small owl.

Ines broke the seal. She unfolded the paper.

She expected a long, chatty letter. She expected news about the printer, or perhaps a joke about the Queen reading their book.

Instead, she saw the back of the page and it was almost empty.

There was no greeting. No date. No signature.

There was just one single line, scrawled in the center of the page in Gladys’s usually neat, but now shaky and hurried, handwriting.

Ines read the words.

There’s trouble, Ines.

Her smile vanished. The blood drained from her face, leaving her pale and cold. Her heart gave a painful, terrified thud against her ribs.

She stared at the words. The ink looked stark and black against the white paper.

Trouble.

Gladys never used that word lightly. Gladys was the sensible one. Gladys was the one who fixed problems, who smoothed things over with the printers, who handled the money and the secrets.

If Gladys said there was trouble... it wasn’t a small thing. It wasn’t a delay in printing or a spelling error.

It was real trouble.

Ines’s mind began to race, spinning through a hundred terrible possibilities.

Did someone find out?

Did the printer talk? Did someone follow Gladys? Did they find the original manuscripts with my handwriting?

Does Rowan know?

She looked up quickly at her brother. He was still reading his paper, calmly sipping his tea, completely unaware that his sister’s world might be about to collapse.

She looked at the letter again. Her hand started to tremble.

There’s trouble.

It could mean anything. It could mean exposure. It could mean scandal. It could mean the end of Arthur Pendleton. It could mean the end of her reputation—the reputation Rowan was so desperate to save for the wedding.

Ines folded the letter quickly, hiding the full details at the front page. She slid it into the pocket of her dress, her fingers brushing against the silk.

She looked at Edith. The maid was still standing there, waiting to take the tray away. Edith’s eyes were wide, asking a silent question. What is it?

Ines gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Not now.

She turned back to her breakfast, but she couldn’t eat. She felt sick.

The sunlight streaming into the room suddenly felt too bright. The walls felt like they were closing in on her, sucking out all the air in the room.