Chapter Three: The Brother Who Buried Him

Edmund Ashford entered the drawing room as though he still owned every shadow inside it.

At fifty, he remained handsome in the cold, polished way society admired. His silver hair was perfectly combed. His dark suit carried no trace of snow.

His eyes settled on Thomas.

Then on the cello.

For the first time in Eleanor’s memory, Edmund lost control of his expression.

“Where did you find that?”

Thomas moved closer to Eleanor.

“In the street,” she replied.

Edmund’s gaze sharpened. “That instrument belongs to this family.”

“So might the boy.”

Silence filled the room.

Edmund studied Thomas’s face.

The blood drained from his own.

“That is impossible.”

“James wrote otherwise.”

Eleanor placed the faded photograph on the table.

Edmund did not touch it.

Instead, he walked toward the fire.

“Grief has made you vulnerable, Eleanor. People exploit wealthy widows every day.”

“James’s handwriting is on the back.”

“Handwriting can be forged.”

“The hidden chamber cannot.”

Edmund turned too quickly.

Eleanor saw the mistake register in his eyes.

“I never said where I found the letter.”

He recovered almost immediately.

“You said James wrote it. I assumed you found something among his belongings.”

“You knew about the chamber.”

Edmund’s expression hardened.

“Send the boy away.”

“No.”

“You do not know what you are inviting into this house.”

“I know two armed men tried to take the cello from him.”

Edmund glanced toward the windows.

“What did they look like?”

His concern sounded convincing, but Thomas suddenly stepped forward.

“The shorter one wore a silver ring shaped like a raven.”

Edmund’s left hand moved instinctively behind his back.

Too late.

Eleanor had seen the same raven engraved on his cuff link.

Thomas saw it too.

“That’s the mark,” the boy whispered.

Edmund looked down at his sleeve.

When he raised his eyes again, his mask was gone.

“You should have left the child in the street.”

Eleanor’s pulse pounded.

“You ordered Clara’s murder.”

“I ordered nothing.”

“But you know who did.”

Edmund crossed the room and lowered his voice.

“James destroyed this family long before he disappeared. He played at serving the Crown while hiding behind music and romance. He gathered evidence he could never understand.”

“Evidence against you?”

Edmund smiled faintly.

“Against men far more powerful than either of us.”

He reached for Thomas.

The boy swung the cello case into his knees.

Edmund staggered.

Eleanor seized the fireplace poker.

“Don’t move.”

Edmund stared at her with stunned contempt.

“You would threaten your own family for a gutter child?”

Eleanor raised the poker.

“For James’s child.”

A gunshot shattered the window.

Glass exploded across the carpet.

Mrs. Whitmore screamed from the hallway.

Edmund threw himself behind a chair.

Eleanor pulled Thomas to the floor.

A second bullet struck the mantel.

Outside, a dark figure moved between the trees.

“They followed us,” Thomas gasped.

“No,” Eleanor said, watching Edmund’s face.

He looked frightened.

Genuinely frightened.

“They followed him.”

Edmund crawled toward the door.

“Listen to me. The men after that boy do not work for me anymore.”

“Anymore?”

Another shot tore through the room.

Edmund reached the corridor.

Before disappearing, he looked back.

“If you want to live, burn the cello.”

Then he fled Ashford Hall.

Thomas turned toward Eleanor.

“What did your husband mean when he said the proof was hidden where music couldn’t be separated from blood?”

Eleanor looked at the cello.

James had once told her that every great instrument possessed two voices.

The one the audience heard.

And the one hidden inside the wood.

She knelt beside the cello and examined the royal crest.

At its center, a tiny ruby formed the heart of the crown.

Thomas pressed it.

The crest opened.

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