Chapter 2 - The Woman in the Photograph
Eleanor spent the next morning convincing herself that the photograph had to be fabricated.
People lied.
Photographs could be manipulated.
Memories could be distorted.
The note could have been written by someone who knew she was vulnerable.
Yet the little girl in the picture had Adrian's eyes.
There was no denying it.
Eleanor carried the photograph into June's bakery kitchen.
June was kneading dough, humming under her breath.
She looked at Eleanor's face and immediately stopped.
“What happened?”
“Do you believe photographs?”
June wiped flour from her hands.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who is holding the camera.”
Eleanor gave a shaky laugh.
“I've been given this.”
June examined the photograph.
“Do you recognize them?”
“No.”
“That man looks familiar.”
Eleanor looked up.
“Why?”
“I've seen him in newspapers.”
Eleanor almost admitted everything.
Instead, she said, “He's someone I used to know.”
June looked at her for a long moment.
“You don't have to tell me.”
That kindness nearly broke her.
Eleanor went upstairs and packed a bag.
She had promised herself she would stay away from Blackthorne Hall.
Now she realized distance was not enough.
She needed answers.
She took the train to London.
From there, she went to a tiny hotel where nobody knew the Blackthorne name.
She spent the afternoon researching old newspaper archives.
The woman in the photograph was named Clara Bennett.
The article beside the image was dated eighteen years earlier.
Clara had been the daughter of a former estate manager.
She had died in a car accident less than a year after giving birth to a child.
The father was unidentified.
The child had been placed temporarily with relatives.
No follow-up article existed.
Eleanor stared at the screen.
Adrian would have been nineteen.
A teenager.
Not married.
Not even close.
The timeline was wrong.
The photograph had been taken later, when Adrian was twenty-six.
Clara's death was fifteen years before Eleanor met him.
Eleanor frowned.
Then she noticed something else.
The child mentioned in the article had a different surname.
Bennett.
Not Blackthorne.
She closed the laptop.
Maybe the mysterious photograph was not proof of a secret family.
Maybe it was proof of something else.
She called the number written on the hotel card.
A journalist named Thomas Greene answered.
“I have a question about the Blackthorne estate.”
There was silence.
“What kind of question?”
“Old property records.”
“You should speak with the Blackthorne solicitors.”
“I don't want to.”
Thomas laughed softly.
“Then you already know more than you are saying.”
They agreed to meet at a quiet coffee shop.
Thomas listened without interrupting.
When Eleanor showed him the photograph, his expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“I can't say.”
“This woman is Clara Bennett.”
“I know.”
Thomas looked at Eleanor.
“Did you know Adrian Blackthorne before he became Duke?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know something.”
“What?”
“Clara wasn't his lover.”
Eleanor's heartbeat changed.
“What was she?”
Thomas hesitated.
“His older sister.”
Eleanor stared at him.
“What?”
“Not by blood. By circumstance.”
Thomas opened his bag and removed several copies of old documents.
Adrian's mother had died when he was young.
His father had become increasingly distant.
Clara had been the daughter of a housekeeper who had worked at Blackthorne Hall.
She had grown up around Adrian and his younger cousin Henry.
When Adrian's father died, Clara became responsible for helping care for the young household staff.
She had a little girl.
But the child in the photograph was not hers.
It was Henry's daughter.
Eleanor slowly lowered the picture.
“So why was Adrian holding her?”
“Because Henry disappeared.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Disappeared?”
Thomas nodded.
“Henry Blackthorne vanished twenty years ago.”
Eleanor remembered hearing the name.
Adrian's cousin had been something of a family disgrace.
“He was presumed dead?”
“No body was ever found.”
“Then why didn't Adrian tell me?”
“That is the question.”
Thomas slid another document toward her.
It was a property transfer.
A company Eleanor had never heard of had acquired several villages surrounding Blackthorne land.
The legal owner was hidden behind three layers of shell companies.
But the signature on the authorization was familiar.
Sir Malcolm Reed.
Eleanor stared.
Thomas leaned forward.
“I think the property fraud started before Adrian inherited the estate.”
“Why would Malcolm do that?”
“Money.”
“That's not enough.”
“No.”
Thomas lowered his voice.
“Power.”
That evening Eleanor returned to her hotel.
There was another envelope waiting for her.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
This time there was only a note.
You are asking the right questions.
But you're asking the wrong people.
Do not trust Thomas Greene.
Eleanor immediately looked toward the window.
The curtains were moving.
She froze.
She had locked the window.
She stepped closer.
Nothing.
Then she saw the reflection.
A man stood in the hallway behind her.
Eleanor spun around.
The room was empty.
The door was still locked.
She rushed to it.
The corridor was deserted.
Her breathing became shallow.
Whoever had been watching her knew exactly where she was.
Across London, Adrian sat alone in his study.
He had not slept in three days.
Sir Malcolm had returned to Blackthorne Hall that afternoon.
“You must stop this search,” Malcolm warned.
Adrian looked at him.
“My wife is missing.”
“And dragging her back into danger won't save her.”
Adrian stood.
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I have protected this family longer than you understand.”
“You've been lying to me.”
Malcolm stiffened.
“I've told you what was necessary.”
Adrian threw his father's letter onto the desk.
Malcolm read it.
The color drained from his face.
“You found that.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After Eleanor disappeared.”
For the first time, Malcolm looked frightened.
Adrian noticed.
He had spent his whole life believing Malcolm was incapable of fear.
“Who was Henry working for?” Adrian asked.
Malcolm said nothing.
“Who were the trustees?”
Still nothing.
“Where is Henry?”
Malcolm finally looked toward the door.
Adrian turned.
No one stood there.
But he had the sudden, terrible sensation that someone else was listening.
That night, Eleanor returned to Blackthorne Hall secretly.
She entered through a side gate during a storm.
The grounds looked exactly as she remembered them.
The ancient fountain.
The dead rose garden.
The stone arch where Adrian had kissed her in the rain after their wedding.
She hated that her heart still hurt when she saw it.
She entered the house using an old key.
The servants were asleep.
Eleanor went straight to Adrian's study.
The desk was unlocked.
Inside she found ledgers, letters, and a list of names.
The final name was underlined twice.
Victoria Ashcombe.
Eleanor's heart sank.
Maybe everything had been a lie after all.
She heard footsteps.
She slipped behind a curtain.
The study door opened.
Victoria entered.
She crossed the room and opened the same drawer Eleanor had once seen Adrian lock.
Then she removed a tiny metal key.
She whispered to herself, “He was right.”
Eleanor stopped breathing.
Victoria walked toward the wall.
Pressed the key into a nearly invisible slot.
A hidden panel opened.
Behind it was a small chamber.
Eleanor waited until Victoria disappeared inside.
Then she followed.
The chamber contained boxes.
One carried Adrian's name.
Another carried Henry's.
A third was marked with a word that made Eleanor's blood run cold.
Bennett.
She opened it.
Inside was a birth certificate.
Clara Bennett.
Father of child: Unknown.
Mother: Unknown.
But beneath it lay another document.
Father: Henry Blackthorne.
Child: Rose Blackthorne.
Eleanor stared.
Rose.
The girl from the photograph.
Her husband's missing cousin had a daughter.
A living daughter.
And suddenly Eleanor understood why someone wanted her gone.
She heard footsteps behind her.
Victoria stood in the doorway.
Their eyes met.
Neither woman spoke.
Finally Victoria whispered, “You were never supposed to find this.”
Eleanor held up the birth certificate.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Victoria closed her eyes.
“Because if Adrian told you, they would know you knew.”
“Who is they?”
Victoria looked toward the corridor.
May you like
Then she said the words Eleanor would remember for the rest of her life.
“The people who killed Henry.”
