Marco laughed as she took the steps down and exited the carriage house door.
Back in the rectory, she found Gabby, Grayson, and their mother at the dining room table. They sat in complete silence, the steaming cups of tea before them untouched. Ingrid walked in hesitantly and gripped the back of a chair. She didn’t want to sit and shook her head at the footman as he approached.
“He is going to take us back to London,” their mother said, her hushed voice steady. She lifted her eyes to Grayson, whose rumpled state made sense, considering he’d recently been wrapped in spider webbing. “Not you. You he will leave here, to manage the gallery. My gallery.”
She didn’t say it possessively. It wasn’t a bitter statement, but one of extreme sadness and disappointment. Ingrid and her siblings had done this to their mother, Ingrid knew. They had been careless and selfish, and everything she had wanted for so long, had been able to experience, even just briefly, was going to be taken away from her.
“We won’t go,” Gabby said. “If we all refuse to leave, he can’t make us.”
“Oh, my dear girl, that is all very idealistic,” Lady Brickton said, slowly pushing her chair back and standing. She still wore her dressing gown and a white lace-trimmed sleeping hat. “But your father holds the winning hand here. It is his title we bear, his holdings that support us, his connections we require. If you haven’t realized that yet, now is the time to start.”
Mama left the room, her steps quick and efficient. She was going to start packing. Ingrid knew it without having to ask.
“How could you leave?” Ingrid asked Grayson.
“You could have at least had the decency not to get caught,” Gabby added.
Grayson stood abruptly, knocking back his chair. “As if the two of you haven’t left this place in the middle of the night before. I just had the misfortune of being seen by a maid. Funny,” he said with a cutting glare at Gabby. “She didn’t witness Nolan Quinn climbing up to your window.”
Gabby scowled at Grayson, and Ingrid was about to chastise her but bit her tongue. Luc had come to her window before. He’d come into her room and kissed her. And, well … he hadn’t been wearing much in the way of clothing. She sincerely hoped Nolan’s visit had been more decent.
“Well, good. Once you’re here all by yourself, you can sack her,” Gabby said.
“He will not,” Ingrid said, tempering her sister’s ire. “She probably thought she was doing her job.”
“Snitching on Grayson is her job?” Gabby cried.
The footman by the swinging doors that led down to the kitchens stepped forward.
“If my lord and ladies would permit?” he said, his head bowed.
Grayson rubbed his temple. “Yes?”
The footman straightened. “I wish to vouch for the maid in question, my lord. She did not witness your departure, but was told by another servant that you had left and that you had seemed rather distressed. The other servant bade her to inform Lord Brickton at once, my lord.”
Grayson lowered his hand. “Which servant was this?”
Ingrid let go of the chair as understanding hit her. “Dimitrie.”
The footman, looking surprised, bowed again. “Why, yes, my lady.”
Gabby surged from her seat. “Why would he do that? He’s our—”
She stopped to clear her throat. Grayson thanked and dismissed the footman, who seemed entirely too grateful to leave.
“He’s our nothing,” Ingrid said, voice low. Her brother and sister squinted in confusion.
“Our nothing?” Grayson repeated.
“He lied. He’s not our—” Ingrid paused and looked to the kitchen doors. “Protector.”
Now wasn’t the time to share the big news about who exactly was.
Gabby tossed up her hands, her dressing gown looking like a half-inflated lace balloon. “Then what is he doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Ingrid answered. “Luc doesn’t know, either. But it’s clear Dimitrie wanted Papa to know Grayson had left.”
Grayson withdrew to the mirrored sideboard. Ingrid watched his reflection. Like her, he seemed to feel not anger but the need to understand. To piece it all together. He met Ingrid’s gaze in the mirror.
“If this isn’t his territory, what is?” he asked.
Ingrid went for logic. “It has to be close. If he has humans to protect somewhere, he couldn’t keep himself far from them for very long.”
“Unless he doesn’t have permanent human charges,” Grayson said.
The rectory doorbell cranked its grating blare. The three of them held still an alarmed second before dashing into the foyer. Without waiting for Gustav, Grayson threw open the door. A bleary-eyed messenger boy stood on the front step. He held out an envelope and yawned.
“What is this?” Grayson asked.
“Some people refer to them as letters,” the boy said, his English as proficient as his sarcasm.
Grayson grabbed the note from the boy’s gloved hand and slammed the door without tossing him so much as a sou.