A Brazen Duty (#2 BRAZEN series-part of the GOLDEN universe) ✔

•T H I R T Y - T H R E E•

♪ Seems like now it's impossible to work this out
I'm so committed to an old ghost town ♪
{Halsey—Ashley}

Time swept by as Harriet spent her days pacing in her office, eager for Jacob to return with Sir Newton in custody. She barely met with her new advisors—who were all aware of the issue—and bit at her nails so much she'd started wearing thicker gloves to stop herself. Maids and butlers were used to the steady clack-clacking of her heels and her half-uttered sentences that they learned to interpret based on the time of day.

Stress swirled in her veins and kept her awake at night. How had she let Sir Newton slip from her? Why hadn't she trusted her instinct that something was off about him, right from the start? If she'd spoken up, if she'd asked Jacob to look into the matter sooner, she wouldn't be so racked with worry. She wouldn't be so frightened of every person she came into contact with. If Sir Newton had been excluded from her father's paperwork to cover up his actual role... who else had escaped punishment? Who else still operated for Sir Thatcher without her knowing? Were any more of his associates lurking among her staff?

She was supposed to search for culprits at court, and assumed she'd have a better chance to do so at the wedding... but as the date approached, and she had no news from Jacob, her panic only swelled and spiraled out of control. She took all her meals in her office, drank in her office, paced in her office, slept in her office. The sofa in there was, to some extent, comfortable enough for her to lie down—but nightmares always woke her before she rested.

These nightmares were of the chef slicing her in half, or of mercenaries dripping poison into her tea, or of the gardener hacking her to bits with his gardening tools. She'd been so sure the manor was safe, that she'd eliminated all threats—but Sir Newton's more-or-less confirmed treason reanimated all the fears she'd stuffed deep within.

On January twenty-third, and not a day too soon, Jacob returned—without Sir Newton.

Shame flared to life on Harriet's cheeks when he burst into her office as she slumped at her desk, her legs too frazzled to pace any longer. She'd been about to slip some brandy into her morning tea, but refrained when her most trusted counselor arrived with news.

"He must have received word from someone that the truth was out," he said, holding himself up by grasping one of the chairs in Harriet's study. He was exhausted, she could tell; his gear was wrinkled and ruffled, his eyes droopy and dreary, his posture slouching more than usual. Days and days he'd been gone, and she'd missed him more than she anticipated she would. "His things in his quarters here were packed; I checked before I took off last week. And the room he sometimes occupied in town was deserted. No one has seen him, but the guards at the entrance of Limesdale pointed me in the right direction."

"And which direction was that?"

"Apparently..." Jacob fanned himself, sweat gathering on his forehead, "France."