Page 65 of The Beautiful Ones

“You returned,” Adrian said from the darkness.

“It is where I live.”

“For the moment.”

A pale light gathered near the gallery windows. Adrian stood within it, coatless in a white linen shirt and dark trousers. He looked less like a guest wandering after midnight than a figure winter had shaped for itself and sent into the house.

He approached without disturbing a single floorboard.

“You helped me escape,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the letter should survive the men it names.”

My hand rose involuntarily toward my bodice before I remembered the paper was hidden upstairs.

Adrian noticed.

“Keep it,” he said. “Nathaniel was entitled to that much.”

“Were you his friend?”

Something unreadable passed through his black eyes.

“He believed we were.”

It was not an answer, and he knew it.

“Judge Dewey and Reuben George intend to leave before dawn,” I said. “Will you stop them?”

“No.”

“Their names are in the ledger. They helped murder him.”

“They are leaving the Lebon house.” His voice remained calm. “Tonight, one roof answers for what was buried beneath it.”

“And the others?”

“Other houses have doors of their own.”

The words were softly spoken, yet they seemed to travel beyond the corridor, beyond Virginia, toward two homes whose sleeping occupants still believed themselves safe.

Adrian reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a folded parchment tied with dark blue silk.

“Your remaining term of service,” he said. “Monsieur Lebon sold it to Nicholas before luncheon. He believed he was transferring an obedient servant into a wealthier household.”

I stared at him.

“He sold me without telling me.”

“Men seldom consult property.”

The cruelty of the sentence belonged to Monsieur Lebon, not Adrian. That did not make the parchment in his hand less dangerous.

“Nicholas transferred the contract to me,” he continued. “I have written your release across the back and witnessed it beneath the seal. Take it and your service ends tonight.”