“And if he does not go?”
“He went,” Celeste said. “Silas confirmed it.”
Clara’s fingers went numb around the towels.
Another man spoke. “The car?”
“Handled.”
“And the house?”
“Clean by midnight,” Matteo said. “A grieving widow. A violent rival. A city already afraid of war. People will believe what they are told.”
Clara backed away from the door so slowly the floorboards did not creak.
Her heart beat against her ribs.
Adrian Voss was being murdered tonight.
A good person would have been horrified.
Clara was horrified by something worse.
She was relieved.
For eleven months, she had dreamed of leaving Blackthorne House and never hearing Adrian Voss’s name again. She had dreamed of a world without his guards in the driveway, without whispers in the kitchen, without blood on a cuff hidden in the laundry. If he died, maybe the house would loosen its grip. Maybe Celeste would sell it. Maybe Clara could disappear before anyone remembered the quiet maid with the careful hands.
She told herself that.
She almost believed it.
Then Celeste spoke again.
“The children must not be left uncertain.”
Clara froze.
Matteo’s voice hardened. “They are at school.”
“And they are Vosses,” Celeste said. “Elian is nineteen. Old enough for men to rally around. Mira is sixteen, and people love a grieving daughter. Sentiment creates complications.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting,” Celeste replied, “that no one inherits a throne from Adrian except me.”
The room went quiet.
Clara stepped back, cold all over.
She had seen Elian only twice, a tall, serious young man who spoke to the gardeners by name. Mira came home on holidays and left books everywhere, apologizing to servants when she was in their way. They were not innocent of their father’s world, not entirely, but they were still young enough to believe locked gates meant safety.
Celeste was going to kill them too.
Something changed inside Clara then.
Fear did not disappear. It sharpened.
She turned and hurried toward the servants’ stairs, not running because running made noise. Her mind raced faster than her feet.
Call the police.
No.
The police in this district arrived when the Voss family allowed them to arrive.
Warn someone.
Who?
Every guard in the house might belong to Matteo tonight.
Leave.
Yes. Leave, and live.
She reached the back hall and stopped.
Through the rain-streaked glass of the side entrance, headlights cut across the driveway.
A black car rolled toward the house.
Not the armored sedan.
A smaller car. Dark. Unmarked. Moving fast.
Clara knew before it stopped.
Adrian Voss had come home too soon.
The front doors opened before any servant could reach them.
Adrian entered alone.
He wore a charcoal coat darkened by rain. His black hair was wet at the temples. There was a thin cut along his jaw, fresh enough that one drop of blood still clung there. He took off his gloves slowly, looking around the foyer as if the house had spoken to him in a language no one else understood.
Clara stood half-hidden beside the hall archway, unable to move.
Adrian’s eyes found her.
They were gray, calm, and terribly awake.
“Where is everyone?” he asked.
Clara opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
His gaze narrowed. “Miss Bell.”
He knew her name. Of course he knew her name. He knew the names of men buried under false headstones. Why would a maid be different?
“Where is my wife?”
Clara swallowed. “In the east wing, sir.”
His expression did not change, but something in the air did.
“The east wing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who is with her?”
Clara’s throat tightened.
This was the moment. She could lie. She could say she did not know. She could let him walk to his death and never again fear his footsteps in the hallway.
Adrian stepped closer. “You heard something.”
It was not a question.
Clara backed up without meaning to.
He stopped.
For the first time since she had met him, Adrian Voss seemed to understand that someone was terrified of him not because he intended to hurt them in that moment, but because his entire life had taught them to expect it.
His voice lowered. “Tell me.”
Clara looked at the east corridor.
Then at him.
“They are going to kill you,” she whispered.
The words seemed too small for the room.
Adrian did not flinch. “Who?”
“Mrs. Voss. Mr. Greer. Others. I heard them.” Her breath shook. “They thought you were in the city. They said the car was handled. They said the house would be clean by midnight.”
Rain hammered the roof.
Adrian’s face became still in a way that frightened Clara more than anger would have.
“My children?”
Clara closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, he already knew.
Something moved across his face then, too fast to name. Not rage. Not surprise. Pain, perhaps, before he buried it.
“How many men?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”