Chapter 8 - Footsteps in the Snow
The sound of shattering glass from the ground-floor pantry was sharp enough to wake the dead.
Eleanor bolted upright in her bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. The room was pitch black, save for the faint blue glow of moonlight reflecting off the ice-encrusted windowpanes. Beside her, Adrien was already moving with the swift, lethal precision of a man trained in self-preservation.
In less than three seconds, Adrien rolled out of bed, grabbed the heavy brass poker leaning against the hearth, and pulled a heavy wool dressing gown over his linen shirt.
“Stay here, Eleanor,” Adrien ordered in a fierce, controlled whisper.
“Like hell I will,” she whispered back, throwing off the bedcovers and reaching for the heavy silver candlestick on her bedside table.
Adrien didn't argue. He knew better now than to underestimate her grit.
They crept out into the dark, freezing corridor. The storm outside had died down to a low, sinister rumble, leaving the manor in a breathless, unnatural silence. From the nursery down the hall, they could hear muffled whimpers; Julian was already up, guarding the door to protect his brothers and sisters.
Adrien held up a hand, motioning for Eleanor to stay back as they reached the grand staircase.
Down in the cavernous main foyer, the front door remained securely bolted, but the side scullery window—hidden behind the kitchens—was shattered. Shards of glass glittered white across the dark stone floor.
Footsteps. Heavy, wet boots crunching on broken glass and melting snow.
Two figures, shrouded in dark, heavy winter cloaks, moved silently through the shadows of the dining hall, carrying heavy canvas sacks.
Poachers? Common thieves taking advantage of the isolated storm?
Or something far more dangerous?
Adrien’s jaw tightened. These weren't starving vagrants looking for bread. They were moving with purpose toward the Duke’s private study—straight toward the wall safe where the estate’s remaining bearer bonds and emergency gold reserves were kept.
Someone inside the estate had given them the combination. Or worse, someone had told them the Ashford family was vulnerable.
Adrien gripped the brass poker tighter, his knuckles turning white. He glanced back at Eleanor, giving her a sharp, silent nod.
Before the thieves could reach the heavy oak doors of the study, Adrien descended the grand staircase with terrifying speed, his boots slamming against the wooden steps like thunder.
“Halt!” Adrien’s voice boomed through the manor, deep, commanding, and absolute. “Drop what you’re carrying, or I swear to God I will beat you within an inch of your lives!”
The two intruders spun around in shock. One of them dropped his canvas sack, the metallic clink of silverware and heavy candlesticks ringing out in the dark. But the second figure—taller, broader, and wearing a heavy fur-lined hood—did not run.
Instead, a cold, harsh laugh echoed through the foyer.
“Well, well, well,” the taller intruder sneered, stepping into the dim moonlight filtering through the high clerestory windows. He slowly pulled back his hood, revealing a scarred, cruel face that Adrien recognized instantly.
Barrington.
A disgraced former associate from the London railway syndicate—a man Adrien had legally ruined three years ago when the investments collapsed.
“You thought you could hide out in this freezing tomb forever, Ashford?” Barrington hissed, his hand sliding slowly beneath his heavy cloak. A dull, metallic gleam flashed in the moonlight.
A pistol.
Adrien froze, his eyes locking onto the barrel of the gun. The brass poker in his hand suddenly felt entirely useless against lead and powder at ten paces.
“You’re trespassing, Barrington,” Adrien said, his voice deadly calm, buying precious seconds. “And you’ll never make it off these grounds alive. The sheriff—99 “The sheriff is buried under six feet of snow twenty miles away,” Barrington snarled, raising the weapon straight toward Adrien’s chest. “And when I’m finished with you, this whole manor is going up in flames. It’ll look like an unfortunate winter accident.”
Barrington’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Adrien braced himself, calculating the impossible distance, preparing to lunge forward regardless of the odds to protect his home.
But before Barrington could fire, a sharp, piercing sound cut through the dark.
Clang!
A heavy silver tray struck Barrington square in the side of his head, knocking his aim violently askew just as the pistol roared.
Bang!
The gunshot exploded through the foyer, shattering a priceless stained-glass window high above, sending a shower of colored glass cascading down like rain.
Barrington staggered, cursing loudly as he clutched his bleeding ear. He whirled around to find Eleanor standing at the top of the grand staircase, her eyes blazing with absolute fury, her hand cocked back ready to throw a heavy brass candlestick if he dared raise the gun again.
“Get away from my husband!” Eleanor screamed.
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It was the exact moment of distraction Adrien needed.
With savage, pent-up fury, Adrien leaped across the gap, swinging the heavy brass poker with all the crushing force of a man defending his entire world.
