The carriage ride back was the polar opposite of their journey out. The silence remained, but it was no longer a wall of mutual resentment; it was a pressurized space filled with shared knowledge and adrenaline.
The discovery that Lord Montclair—a trusted Minister and an ally of Elenora's late father—was likely the orchestrator of the entire conspiracy was a heavy weight.
Darius sat opposite Elenora, the lantern now extinguished as the sun fully rose. He had placed the Elmsworth Deed, the coded locket, and the ledger into a tightly bound satchel, which never left his grasp.
"He played us all," Elenora finally murmured, her voice hollow. She stared out at the passing landscape, which offered no comfort.
"He played your father, Duchess," Darius corrected, his voice flat. "He knew the ledger existed, and he knew your father's panic would lead him to hide the final evidence in a place that only a Warwick would know. He simply never expected the 'Winter Garden' clue to be found."
"And the attack?" Elenora turned to him, her eyes sharp. "Did Montclair anticipate we would follow the clue, or did someone else inform him?"
Darius leaned forward, his gray eyes piercing. "That's the critical question. Either he placed a man to watch the depot for years—highly improbable—or someone inside Warwick House knew we were coming here."
The implication hung heavy between them: someone within their current trusted circle—a servant, a secretary, or even an unmentioned family member—was Montclair's spy.
* * *
Darius spent the next hour reviewing every detail of the evidence, while Elenora remained focused on the Weeping Angel monument.
"The mausoleum is on the grounds, but it's rarely visited," Elenora confirmed. "It's dark and private. The statue is a massive marble work, the size of a man. The Weeping Angel is always facing east, toward the rising sun."
"We go directly to the mausoleum upon our arrival," Darius stated. "No stops. I will contact my most trusted man in the City Guard from the nearest road stop. He will secure the area, but only from the outside. No one is to know what we are searching for."
His plan was logical, ruthless, and efficient. It was everything Elenora expected of him, yet she felt a flicker of doubt—not in his competence, but in her own judgment.
"You are trusting your Guard captain with the location of the mausoleum," Elenora challenged softly. "What if your trusted man is the leak?"
Darius met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "It's a necessary risk. We need a perimeter. But you raise a fair point, Duchess. From this moment on, we trust no one who is not physically in this carriage."
He shifted the satchel, its weight heavy with their future. "We will enter Warwick House through the service entrance, go to the mausoleum, find the evidence, and then we will destroy Montclair."
* * *
The tension in the carriage became almost palpable as they neared the edge of London. The proximity was forcing them to drop their guards, and the shared threat was breeding an unwanted intimacy.
Elenora remembered the feel of Darius's body slamming into hers when he protected her from the sword, and the terrifying competence in his eyes when he aimed the pistol. He was a ruthless operator, yes, but he had shielded her without hesitation.
Darius, noticing her silence, reached out a hand to steady her as the carriage hit a particularly rough rut. His touch was brief, firm, and instantly withdrawn, yet it sent a jolt through her.
He trusts me with his life, and I trust him with mine, she thought, but we still don't trust the marriage.
"When we find the evidence," Elenora asked, her voice low, "and Montclair is finished, does our contract still stand?"
Darius looked away, his jaw tight. "The marriage was necessary to save your House and give me the authority to act against your enemies. If those enemies are eliminated, the authority remains."
"That is not an answer, Minister," Elenora pressed. "Will you then claim your marital rights? Your debt has been paid."
Darius turned back to her, his storm-gray eyes flashing with suppressed emotion—anger, desire, or perhaps both.
"Let's get out of the tomb first, Duchess," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Then we'll discuss the terms of our survival."
The carriage slowed, the rough road smoothing out into the well-maintained asphalt leading toward the Warwick Estate. They were home, but the most dangerous part of their journey was only just beginning.