CHAPTER 204: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND FOUR

The morning air held a damp chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Delia stood on the front step of her grandfather’s modest house, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest. Before her, a young woman with a worried face was wringing her hands in the apron of her work dress. She was Nora, the girl hired to cook and clean for Baron Edgar.

"My grandfather is missing?" Delia asked, her voice quiet but sharp with disbelief. The words felt foreign and impossible.

Nora nodded, her eyes wide with concern. "Yes, Your Grace. I don’t know what to think." She gestured down the quiet, respectable street. "The neighbors, the Cobbs, they said he went out late last night. They saw him leaving in a fine, dark carriage. They thought he was visiting you." Her voice trembled slightly. "I came this morning at the usual time to do my normal duties, and the house was empty. His bed wasn’t slept in. I also couldn’t find him."

Delia’s mind raced, seizing on the detail. A fine, dark carriage. Her grandfather rarely went out at night, and never without sending her a message first. This was wrong. All of it was wrong.

"Thank you, Nora," Delia said, her voice now steady, the initial shock already hardening into a cold anger. "Please, keep the house in order. I will look into this."

She turned and walked back to her own carriage, her movements stiff and controlled. As the carriage door closed and the vehicle began to move, the world outside became a blur. Delia stared unseeingly at the passing buildings. Only one person came to her mind. One person who was ruthless enough, desperate enough, and cruel enough to orchestrate something like this. Augusta.

At home, in his sunlit study, Eric was deeply focused on his responsibilities. Aiden stood respectfully before his desk, which was covered in large, leather-bound ledgers. The seal of Royal Colors Dye, a stylized ship, was a heavy weight on Eric’s desk.

"This is the manifest for the new batch of indigo dye to be shipped to the northern mills," Aiden explained, tapping a finger on a long column of figures. "It’s a larger order than usual. They are expanding their production."

Eric scanned the document, his eyes moving quickly over the numbers. "The quality is consistent?" he asked, picking up the heavy metal seal.

"Perfectly, Your Grace," Aiden confirmed. "I oversaw the final mixing myself. And this second ledger is the confirmation for the crimson dye requested for the royal tapestry commission. It needs your signature and your official seal. Without them, the funds cannot be released, and we cannot begin the procurement process for the cochineal."

Aiden brought another ledger in front of Eric. "The new batch of Royal Purple for the Willingham contract will be ready for shipment by next Tuesday, Your Grace," Aiden said, his tone professional and efficient. "I will have the manifests prepared for your final seal."

As they were having this conversation, a quiet movement at the door caught Eric’s eye. He noticed Delia was home. She was standing just outside his study, the door slightly ajar, her hand resting on the frame. She wasn’t looking in, just standing there, a silent, troubled statue.

Aiden noticed the shift in his master’s attention. He saw the way Eric’s professional focus softened instantly into something else, something much more personal. He discreetly gathered his papers. "I will leave these with you, Your Grace," he said, placing the ledgers neatly on the corner of the desk. He then excused himself, bowed his head, and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

But Delia pushed it fully open before it could latch. She stepped into the room, her face pale, the worry in her eyes as plain as a signature on a page. Eric knew immediately. There was trouble.

Across town, Augusta and Anne stepped out of the grand stone entrance of the Ellington Textiles building. The afternoon had been a success. They had met with the factory managers and overseen the start of a new production run, their authority now firmly established. Augusta felt a sense of triumph. Everything was going according to her plan.

Prescott rushed forward to open the carriage door for them. As he did, a man’s voice, low and familiar, cut through the air.

"Augusta."

The name, spoken with such casual intimacy, made Augusta freeze. Her hand, which had been reaching for the carriage, stopped mid-air. She and Anne looked toward the source of the voice. A man was standing there, just a few feet away, watching them. He was not dressed like a nobleman. His clothes were worn but clean, and he had the hard, weathered look of a man who had seen too much of the world.

Augusta recognized him instantly. A wave of ice-cold fear gripped her, so powerful it almost stole her breath. Her face, moments before flushed with success, turned deathly pale. Her first, instinctual reaction was to pull Anne behind her, shielding her daughter with her own body as if from a physical threat.

Anne, confused by her mother’s sudden, violent reaction, peeked around her. "Who is he, Mama?" she whispered.

"Someone I used to know," Augusta gave a rushed, breathless reply, her eyes locked on the man.

Anne looked at the man again. He was smiling, but it was not a friendly smile. It was a smile that held secrets, a smile that knew things.

Augusta commanded, her voice now a harsh, strained whisper. "Mr. Prescott, take Anne home. Now."

Prescott, seeing the Baroness’s distress, stepped forward. He had hoped to get some information about this mysterious man who could so thoroughly rattle his formidable employer. "I should stay with you, Baroness," he said, his voice firm.

Augusta’s voice was sharp, hardened by a terror she was desperately trying to control. "Go," she commanded, not looking at him.

He bowed his head, knowing better than to argue when she used that tone. He opened the carriage door wider for Anne, gesturing for her to enter. Anne gave the stranger one last, curious look before climbing inside. Prescott looked at the man, too, trying to commit his face to memory, before he instructed the driver to take them home. He entered the carriage himself, and with a flick of the reins, they left.

The man watched the carriage disappear down the street, his smile never wavering. He then turned his full attention back to the woman who stood frozen before him. He took a slow step closer, the sound of his worn boot on the pavement loud in the sudden quiet.

He looked Augusta up and down, his eyes filled with a dark amusement.

"Your Freddie is back, Augusta."